Page 106 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

I struggled instinctively, my scream trapped in my throat by that rough-gloved hand.

The door slammed shut. The van shot forward.

I was pinned to the back seat, my knee slamming into a hard metal armrest. Pain brought tears to my eyes.

Two men in the back seat—one holding my shoulders, the other rifling through my bag. The driver up front was on the phone.

"Got her. The woman had no one with her. Must've slipped her security."

He paused. "Right. Bringing her now."

My mind went strangely cold in that instant.

I stopped struggling. I knew that the more I fought back, the harder they would hold me down, and the more injuries I would suffer. I simply curled up, trying to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible, while desperately forcing myself to memorize that street in my mind—the trash can at the corner, the distance between the streetlights, the delivery truck that had been unloading just moments ago. I saw the license plate, but it was blocked the next second.

I didn't know where they were taking me, but I knew one thing: I couldn't panic.

The vehicle weaved through the city for what felt like forever. I could feel it taking one turn after another, stopping and moving again, as if they were deliberately trying to take a winding route. I remained hidden in the darkness, pressed against a toolbox, my arm against its icy metal surface. My fingers gripped the blanket beneath me until my knuckles tightened.

Then I felt something small and hard pressing into my elbow from beneath the seat. I carefully worked it free with my fingertips, inch by inch. When no one was watching, I flipped it over and glanced at it—a tiny, inconspicuous black disc, with a delicate metallic ring embedded around its edge.

A tracker. Someone had planted a tracker on me.

The thought split through the darkness in my mind like a beam of light. My hand trembled slightly, but I didn't let it make a sound. I quietly tucked the tracker back into the seat crevice, wedging it firmly between fabric and springs.

The van kept moving. I slowly steadied my breathing, hiding my face in the corner.

I'd done what I could.

Now I could only wait. Wait for him to come. Wait for him to find me. Wait for him to tell me what he left unsaid.

Ivan, you'd better hurry.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ivan

The light in the conference room was cold.

Fluorescent tubes hung overhead, bleaching the documents on the table white, stripping color from every face until only outlines remained.

I was listening to someone report on routing issues with the West Coast shipment, my finger resting on the edge of a file, fingertip pressing the folded corner of a page, gaze fixed on the last line of numbers. My phone buzzed once in my jacket pocket.

I didn't move. Kept listening.

It buzzed again. Then a third time.

I raised my hand, signaling the report to pause, and pulled out my phone. Dmitri's name flashed on the screen—three missed calls, all from him.

I stared at those three records for two seconds, swiped, and called back.

When he picked up, Dmitri didn't start with his usual "Boss." His first words cut straight through—

"Anna's been taken."

The conference room was quiet. So quiet I could hear the faint hum from the AC vents.

I pulled the phone from my ear, checked the screen, and confirmed the caller ID was correct. Then I pressed it back to my ear, my voice steadier than I expected. "Talk."