Page 3 of Marked By the Mob

They drag me through a side entrance and down a narrow hallway.

My boots scrape against polished concrete. Somewhere ahead, I hear music.

Laughter.

The low murmur of conversation in multiple languages.

One of my captors grabs my chin and forces my head up. “You fight when you go out there, we hurt you. You stay quiet, maybe you live long enough to regret tonight.”

I jerk my face away from his grip. “Go to hell.”

He backhands me hard enough that my ears ring. Blood fills my mouth and I spit it at his feet.

Before he can hit me again, someone calls out in Russian.

My captors exchange glances, then one of them pulls a syringe from his jacket pocket. I try to twist away, but there’s nowhere to go. The needle pierces my upper arm and within seconds the world starts to tilt.

My thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind. I try to hold onto something, anything, but it’s like trying to catch smoke. Langford’s face swims through my mind. He’ll realize something went wrong. He’ll come looking for me. He has to.

The last thing I remember before darkness swallows me completely is being dragged forward, toward the lights, toward the stage, toward whatever nightmare waits on the other side of those curtains.

I wake to the sound of chains.

The metallic clink echoes in my skull as consciousness drags me back to the surface. Everything hurts. My wrists. My face. My ribs. I try to move and realize I can’t. Heavy shackles circle my wrists and ankles, connected by short lengths of chain that rattle when I shift.

Bright lights blind me. I squint against the glare and slowly become aware of my surroundings. I’m kneeling on a raised platform. A stage. The floor beneath me is polished wood, and beyond the lights I can make out the shapes of people sitting in darkness.

An audience. My heart slams against my ribs as reality crashes down on me. I’m at the bride auction, but not as an agent. I’m the merchandise.

A voice booms through speakers somewhere above me, speaking in Russian first then switching to English. “Our next offering is particularly special, gentlemen. Twenty-six years old. American…”

I try to stand, but the chains are too short. I’m forced to stay on my knees, displayed like an animal. Rage burns through the lingering fog of whatever they drugged me with. I scan the audience, trying to see faces, trying to memorize anyone I can identify for when I get out of here.

Because Iwillget out of here. I will accept nothing less. And when I do, every single person in this room is going to pay.

The auctioneer continues speaking, listing details about me like I’m a car being sold at auction. Then he offers me up to the audience.

“Bidding starts at five hundred thousand dollars.”

2

RURIK

The warehouse reeks of expensive cigars and desperation. I stand near the back of the room with Artur on my left and Eduard on my right, watching the stage with carefully controlled disgust.

The auction has been running for two hours now, and every woman brought out so far looks terrified, their eyes wide as they look around.

None of them are what we’re looking for, but then again we had to be desperate to come to the bride auction to try and findher. The one woman who would fit perfectly into our families.

“This is a waste of time,” Artur mutters beside me, his dark eyes scanning the crowd of buyers with barely concealed contempt. “We should leave.”

Eduard shifts his weight, arms crossed over his chest. “Give it another hour. Our contact said there was someone different coming tonight.”

I say nothing. My jaw is tight as I watch another terrified woman being led off the stage after being sold to a Baltic trafficker I recognize. The man is known for his cruelty.

The woman will not survive a year in his possession.

We shouldn’t be here. None of us should. But the three of us have spent years preparing for this moment, searching for one specific woman. She needs to be strong.