Page 72 of The Stalking King

“Rachael and Mikey are innocent.”

“So am I,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

“I wish my brother had kept you on those damn cameras and away from us,” he says. “Maksim had no weaknesses before you, nothing for Conrad to target. He had Rachael and Mikey for weeks, but he couldn’t make me do a damn thing except help that kid steal the phone.”

“Maksim would’ve helped you,” I say. “If you’d gone to him and explained, he would’ve figured out a way.”

“Vale sent me pictures, daily, of Rachael and Mikey with a gun to their heads. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“Not this,” I say. “Anything but this.”

He groans as if in physical pain. I grind my teeth, thinking about a patient who came in last year. She’d been kept in sickening conditions by a psychopath with a penchant for pain. I’ll always remember something she said to me, her voice hoarse, her eyes hazy as if she wished she were somewhere else.

“I shouldn’t have assumed it would get better. The second he took me, I should’ve done something. Even if it might’ve got me killed. It doesn’t get better when they move you to another location.”

My heart is thundering in my chest, beating into my throat, trying to close it with nerves.

“Why didn’t he use you to get the second phone?” I ask.

Nikolai grinds his teeth. “I don’t know where it is. Only Maksim does. We always agreed on that. Before you, Maksim was a cold-blooded bastard. He had some heart, sure, but nothing would make him squeal. They could’ve done anything to him. Not anymore.”

“Are they going to hurt me?” I ask.

“Stop talking,” he grunts.

“Are they going to torture me?”

“Just stop.”

“That’s not a no.”

“They’re going to use you to make Maksim play ball. Once he does, this will all be over.”

“But you can’t promise they won’t hurt me. And you can’t promise I’ll make it out alive.”

He groans, torn.

“You strike me as a good man forced to do a bad thing,” I say. “Can you really go through with this?”

“Enough,” he snaps. “This is happening. I’ve gone too far already.”

I lean against the window, my arms folded, breathing slowly, thinking of that patient with the haunted eyes. I have to do something. I have to take a chance.

He hasn’t restrained me… yet.

When they tie my hands, I’ll wish I used them when I could.

Another quick breath, just like I do at work when I know it’s going to be a tough shift, then I leap at him. He roars as I dive for his eyes. The wheel turns, the car tips, and suddenly we’re spinning. The car smashes into a tree, and everything goes dark.

“Sloppy driving for a Volkov,” a man grunts when I peel my eyes open, a sharp pain in my side. I’m horizontal, staring at the road. Beside me – above me, rather – Nikolai leans heavily against his seatbelt, his eyes closed, blood covering his face.

A man kneels, peering into the car, a twisted smile on his face.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he says. “Did this clever bastard even know we were following? Or is he that stupid?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. I don’t feel seriously injured, but I think I might have cracked a rib. My hip is pulsing too, severely bruised at the very least. In the grand scheme of things, I’m lucky.

“Let me help you,” he murmurs.