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Who the hell is this “he” the blond keeps talking about? And why does he matter so much?
I’m sorely tempted to think it’s my father. But if it were, I doubt the guy would be running for the hills. He seemed too eager for the chance to have my father in his clutches. If they had him outnumbered and me as a bargaining chip, I don’t doubt they would stand and fight—try to strike a deal at the very least.
“No,” the scarred man growls, his good eye blazing with conviction as he cuts down my thought. “We’re leaving. Bring the girl. She’s coming with us,” he commands, ending the discussion.
Like hell I am.
The blond messenger who unwittingly stalled my torture session jumps into action. Crossing the room, he stoops in front of me to quickly cut the ropes tying my legs to the chair.
As soon as they’re free, I lash out at him, lifting one foot to clobber him in the stomach with as much force as I can muster. His butt hits the floor, catching him off guard with my attempt to fight back. He glares up at me with open hostility.
“You little…” He growls as he shoves off the ground and moves behind me to cut my arms free. Then he hauls me out of the chair, wrenching my arms behind me in one vicious motion.
I cry out, my body bending forward instinctually to avoid having my shoulders dislocated from their sockets.
“Come on. Move,” the blond snaps, shoving me toward the door.
The sudden shift in energy—leaving behind the calm, relaxed confidence that no one would find us or come to my aid, even if they heard me—makes my head spin and my heart race. Whoever it is that’s here has these guys running with their tails between their legs.
And I’m not about to miss my opportunity to let this “he” know they’re holding me prisoner. Because I can tell from their discussion that whoever this man is, he’s someone the men—or at least the man in charge—really wants to avoid fighting. I don’t even know if he’s a friend or someone who will kill me just as quickly as these men.
But one thing’s for sure.
He can’t be worse than the people holding me captive now.
So, as the blond-haired brute hauls me through the doorway into the grungy, mold-contaminated hall, I fight past the searing pain that blazes down my throat and scream bloody murder.
“Help!” I shriek, kicking and screaming as I fight against my captor with all my strength. “Someone, help me!” Jerking against his hold, I spin us both around, forcing us to go in the opposite direction he’s dragging me.
“Shut her up!” their leader rasps hoarsely from behind me.
That only makes me scream louder. My voice cracks as I release another desperate plea. Then it’s cut short as the blond gives my arm a forceful jerk. Releasing the other, he turns my body to face him.
Before I see it coming, he backhands me with enough force to send me reeling.
My ears ring, and my head spins as stars explode across my vision. I can almost feel my brain rattling against my skull, but he hits me with enough power that it slingshots me back from him. As his grasp on my wrist falters, I wrench free.
“Get back here, you little…”
I don’t stick around long enough to know what kind of “little” I am.
My palms hit the dilapidated wood floor for a split second before I’m pushing off it, my feet scrambling to find purchase as I sprint harder than I ever have in my life.
I have no clue where I’m going. And I don’t care.
Away is all I want.
My pulse roars in my ears, and air rips past my throbbing throat as I hit the corner of the hall and turn, following it down another long corridor. Doors line either side—likely old rooms in some kind of ancient apartment building.
And when my eyes land on the outdated, lifeless emergency sign that indicates stairs, I race toward it like my life depends on it.
12
MISHKA
For the first time, I don’t care how much blood I spilled to get the answers I needed. In a few short hours, we’ve interrogated countless men, leaving a gory trail in our wake. But time is of the essence, and finding Alina is my priority—the only thing that matters.
Before it’s too late.
