Page 2 of Marked By the Mob

Bone crunches.

Blood sprays hot across the back of my neck. Someone curses in Russian.

I break free for half a second and lunge for my gun, but a boot comes down on my wrist before I can reach it.

Pain explodes up my arm. I roll, kicking out, and catch someone in the knee. He goes down hard. I scramble to my feet and run, but there are too many of them.

Hands grab my jacket, my hair, and my arms. I fight like my life depends on it, because it does. My training kicks in automatically. Strike the throat. Go for the eyes. Use their weight against them.

I manage to break another man’s nose before they finally drag me to the ground.

My cheek slams against cold metal. Someone pins my arms.

Zip ties bite into my wrists, tight enough to cut off circulation.

“Where’s my backup?” I spit blood onto the grating. “Where the hell is my team?”

“Not coming,” one of them says in accented English. He crouches beside me, and I get my first clear look at his face. Scarred. Cold. The kind of man who has done terrible things and never lost sleep over it. “You were sold, Agent Moore. Someone wanted you here tonight.”

The words hit me harder than any of the blows I just took. Sold. Someone inside the Bureau betrayed me.

That’s the only explanation that fits.

My mind races through the list of people who knew about tonight’s operation. Deputy Assistant Director Victor Langford approved the sting personally.

Supervisory Special Agent Daniel Hayes coordinated logistics. Special Agent Marcus Cole handled the digital surveillance and comms.

A handful of tactical team members knew the location and timing. Was it one of them or someone else?

They haul me to my feet and drag me toward a service exit I didn’t even know existed.

I try to memorize the route, counting turns and doorways, but everything blurs together.

Outside, a black van waits with its engine running. They shove me inside and slam the doors.

The interior is dark except for a single overhead light. Two more men sit on the bench across from me, watching with the kind of detached interest you’d give a package being delivered.

I test the zip ties, but they’re industrial strength. My wrists are already going numb.

“Who paid you?” I demand. “Who set this up?”

Neither man answers.

The van lurches forward. I brace myself against the wall and try to think. I have to escape.

If I don’t find a way out of this fucked up situation, then…I don’t even want to go down that road.

Krystal. I’m the only one still looking for her. If something happens to me, then she’s lost forever.

The drive feels like it lasts hours, though it’s probably only twenty minutes. When the van finally stops, they pull me out into what looks like the loading dock of another warehouse.

This one is cleaner, more organized.

Expensive.

I catch glimpses of well-dressed men moving through the shadows, the kind who wear tailored suits and Rolex watches while they buy and sell human beings.

Dammit, the other location was a setup too.