I grab the knife from under my pillow on the cot then inch toward the door. My footsteps are silent on the cold concrete floor, but my heart hammers so loudly I wonder if they can hear it from the front of the pub. I force myself to breathe slowly, creeping closer for a look.
The knife’s nothing fancy, but it was one of several I found in the pub kitchen that I figured Tom wouldn’t notice was missing nor care very much that it was.
Through the crack in the door, a shadow moves in the hallway. One of them passes under the faint glow of the emergency exit sign, his silhouette familiar—broad shoulders, thick neck, and skin so pale it’s almost translucent in the dark.
One of Fedorov’s soldiers.
They really have come looking for me.
My stomach drops as the reality of the situation sinks in. I was stupid to think I could hide in a place as obvious as an Irish pub. Stupid to think Fedorov would ever let me go that easily…
He always comes to collect. That’s the onething I know for certain about the man who’s controlled my life for nearly a decade.
The soldier in the hall mutters in Russian to the others he’s here with. They laugh and answer him with more cruel Russian words that set my nerves on edge.
In the years I’ve been held captive by the Bratva, I’ve learned a few words here and there. But I never truly understand them when they’re like this—when they’re talking fast among themselves.
From what I can tell, there’s three of them. All huge and burly.
Against only one of me armed with a dull knife I stole from my boss’s kitchen.
Great odds.
The heavy footsteps stop right outside the stockroom door, and I hold my breath as the seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity.
Then the door flies open.
The first man rushes at me like a bullet train, his meaty hands reaching for my throat. I scream as I slash at him with the knife. The blade slices into his flesh.
He howls in pain, clutching his arm where blood seeps through his fingers.
“Suka!” he spits at me.
But I’ve already shoved past him, desperate for an exit.
I might be small, but Iampretty fast.
It was something that always frustrated Eva when we were girls and would play tag at the park. She could never catch me, no matter how hard she tried.
I make it out into the hall, unfortunately with the Russian soldier I’ve stabbed only half a step behind me. I can’t go right to make it to the kitchen or back exit, which only leaves me with the restroom or the main floor.
The same pubrestroom with only a tiny square window even a cat would probably struggle to fit through.
Shit!
I scramble down the hall toward the main floor, hoping and praying I’ll somehow be able to stab my way out of this confrontation.
The hope’s short-lived—the soldier behind me locks his thick arms around my waist and rips me off my feet.
“Argh!” I scream as he slams me against the wall.
But his equilibrium’s so off we both crash into the wall and knock over a stack of liquor crates nearby. Bottles shatter on impact, spraying glass and alcohol over the floor.
I twist free of his grip and stumble out onto the main bar floor.
…where the other two are waiting for me.
Right. Because I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
