Page 11 of Marked By the Mob

Their voices are low, speaking Russian I can’t quite make out through the thick door.

Next, I check the windows.

The glass is reinforced, probably bulletproof. I test the locks anyway, searching for weaknesses.

Nothing.

The frames are solid, the mechanisms are designed to prevent exactly what I’m trying to do.

I move through the room methodically, cataloging everything. The furniture is heavy, expensive, and bolted to the floor in some cases.

The bathroom has no windows, just a ventilation fan that’s too small to crawl through.

The closet is stocked with clothes in various sizes, which means they planned this. They knew they were bringing someone back from that auction.

The thought makes my stomach twist. How long have they been planning this? How long have they been looking for someone like me?

How many others are there?

Although during my brief escape attempt I didn’t see any other women being held against their will. Not that I would, of course.

I return to the door and study the lock mechanism. It’s electronic and controlled from the outside. No keyhole I can pick. No manual override I can access from this side. Whoever designed this room knew what they were doing.

Fine. If I can’t pick the lock, I’ll test the response time.

I grab the door handle, twist it hard, then slam my shoulder against the wood. The impact sends a jolt of pain through my arm, but I do it again. And again. On the fourth hit, an alarm blares through the room, loud enough to make my ears ring.

Perfect.

I step back and count. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The lock disengages with a sharp click. The door swings open, and two guards fill the doorway, weapons drawn. They’re both large, well-trained, and clearly annoyed.

“Problem?” one of them asks in heavily accented English.

I cross my arms and lean against the wall, forcing myself to look calm even though my heart is racing. “Just wondering if you would come to my rescue if I need it.”

The guard’s expression doesn’t change. “Get back from the door.”

“Or what?” I challenge. “You’ll shoot me? Pretty sure your bosses wouldn’t appreciate that after spending ten million dollars to get me here.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t raise his weapon. Point proven. They won’t hurt me. At least not seriously. Not without permission from their boss.

I use the moment to study the hallway beyond them. Wide corridor with marble floors. There are cameras positioned at both ends, angled to cover the entire space, and a service door about twenty feet to the left, probably leading to a stairwell. Another door directly across from mine is closed.

“Back. Now,” the second guard says, stepping forward.

I hold my ground for another three seconds, memorizing every detail I can see. Then I step back into the room, and they slam the door shut. The lock engages immediately.

I smile despite everything. Five seconds. That’s how long it takes them to respond to an alarm. And they’re cautious about using force. Both are useful pieces of information.

I move to the bed and sit on the edge, my mind racing. Someone inside the Bureau betrayed me. That’s the only explanation for what happened at the warehouse. The operation was classified. Only a handful of people knew the location and timing.

Victor Langford approved the sting personally. But I trust him, not just because he’s the deputy assistant director of the FBI. He’s been my mentor since I was sixteen, since my parents were murdered, and he was the lead investigator who actually gave a damn about a scared kid asking too many questions. He encouraged me to join the FBI. He supported my career. He’s the closest thing to family I have.

I shake my head and move on to real suspects. Supervisory Special Agent Daniel Hayes coordinated logistics. He opposed the plan from the start, arguing it was too risky and too fast, despite the months of surveillance I’d put into it. But maybe he was right. Or maybe he was trying to stop it for other reasons.

Special Agent Marcus Cole handled digital surveillance and communications. He’s brilliant with tech but nervous under pressure and was always looking for approval. Always worried about making mistakes. Could someone have gotten to him? Threatened him? Paid him?