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Erik wipes his blade on the dead man’s clothes, a satisfied smile on his face. “On to the next one.”
I kick in the smaller door, the lock splintering under the force. Inside, a young man is slumped against the wall, as thin as a stick, eyes glazed with terror and pain. His face is familiar, but it’s changed, twisted into a living corpse.
It’s him. It’s Nilo Williams.
My heart aches for Sophia. But thank fuck he is alive.
Erik steps in beside me, his eyes widening. “Shit, that’s him? He’s a fucking mess.”
“Yeah,” I agree, my voice rough. “Aleks is probably going to get rid of him.”
Nilo looks up, his eyes meeting mine, something like recognition flickering in their depths. “Help me,” he rasps, the sound hardly audible.
“You’re safe now, kid,” I say, but my words sound hollow even to me. “We’re getting you out of here.”
Erik’s already on the radio.
“D, we have him.” He grins in delight. “Time to burn this hellhole down.”
Chapter 56
Wren
THE MINUTE my brain pulls me from the dark, I know something’s off. There’s a rank stench in the air, like a mix of sweat and stale beer. Beneath me is a mattress that’s as thin as a pancake and twice as lumpy. Not the stinking tile floor I was on.
Fucking hell, where am I?
Nilo!
I hope that scrappy little shit is okay. My last memory is of two Russian gorillas closing in, hands itching to choke me out. I hope Nilo ran. But I doubt it; he was high as fuck.
Right now, I’ve got my own shitstorm to weather. Testing my bonds, I find my wrists and ankles tied tight. I’m spread out, my bare skin kissed by the chill of the room.
Goddammit, not again.
My mind starts replaying past nightmares, but I push them down, force myself to stay in the here and now.
Duct tape smothers any cries for help, reducing me to desperate, muffled whimpers. I tried to break free earlier, but all I got for my troubles was a swift kick to the ribs. It’s hard to tell how long it’s been – too long, that’s for sure.
Where the hell did these bastards dump me?
As soon as I get free, I’m gonna paint the walls with their brains. I should be out there, finding Sophia. She’s got herself in a deep shit.
I stay quiet and listen. The chatter from outside is my only clue to reality. A voice rumbles through the night, deep and full of sick joy. It’s a brute, laughing like he just hit the jackpot.
“Ivankov Bratva’s gonna fuckin’ drop like a stack of bullshit cards,” he sneers, spewing out words coated in harsh Russian accents. His grating cough follows, each sound hitting my eardrums like a punch.
Ivankov Bratva. No clue who the hell they are, but the name keeps gnawing at the edges of my mind.
A memory flashes by. Granddad, rocking in his old armchair, spouting off in Russian. He was a mean drunk, but he never forgot his mother tongue. Even when I was a little girl, curled up in a corner, trying to be invisible, I’d hear him. The Russian lullabies he sang when he was sober, the slurred curses when he wasn’t.
I guess you can say I’m half Russian, a quarter American, and a quarter walking disaster. I remember how Granddad once told me, right before he passed out on the kitchen floor, that knowing your roots can save your life. I never knew what he meant until now.
Another voice chimes in, smoother but laced with a malice that sets my nerves on edge. “Those Ivankov pricks won’t know what hit ‘em come Saturday.”
What the hell’s going down on Saturday?
Urgh! I can’t be bothered right now. Gotta think.
