Page 86 of Lock ’N’ Load

Sweat dripped into her eyes as she grabbed Poofy from where he sat cowering in the corner. She stuck one leg out the window, preparing to slide down the angled roof, when an arm went around her waist, hauling her back inside.

For Poofy’s safety, she dropped the cat to the floor, twisting and kicking backward, struggling to get free. “Let me go, you son of a bitch!”

The man laughed as he held her a foot above the floor, kicking and screaming. His hand clamped over her mouth, then a second man slammed the window shut, cutting her off from the outside world. Shit, shit, shit! If ever there was a time and a place for that word, it was now.

Bastards. She might be tiny, but if they thought they could kill her without a fight, they were sorely mistaken.

The hand over her mouth was large and smelled vaguely like borscht. She twisted her head back and forth to loosen his hold so she could bite down on his fingers.

“Don’t move,” the second thug said in heavily accented English, shoving the barrel of a gun against her forehead.

She sucked in a breath and froze. The barrel was long, with a thick cylinder on the end. A silencer. They could kill her, and no one would even hear the shot.

So why haven’t they? Her heart lurched at the realization they’d probably already killed Angie and Donald.

“What are you waiting for?” With Thug One’s hand still covering her mouth, the words came out muffled. She kicked backward and was rewarded with a mild Russian oath as her foot contacted his shin and his hand slipped from her face. “Just kill me and be done with it.”

Even Thug Two’s chuckle had a Russian accent to it. “Perhaps I will. Perhaps I won’t. Behave and maybe the boss lets you live. Maybe not.”

Is there really a chance they’d let her live after all this? She doubted it, but if it could buy her enough time for the FBI to find her, she’d play along.

The stairs creaked as they led her down into the living room. She cried out at the sight of Angie and Donald on the floor. Angie didn’t move, but Donald groaned as he caught sight of her.

Thug One aimed his gun at Donald’s head and pulled the trigger. The agent’s body jerked, and Trista couldn’t stop the scream that escaped her lips.

Oh my God! They’re both dead.

She froze. The scene before her was totally surreal. Though she could see the agents’ lifeless bodies right there in front of her, the shock was so great she almost couldn’t believe it. Two people died trying to protect me, and now they’re gone.

Unable to stop herself, she began sobbing. Thug Two pointed another gun at her, and she cringed, expected to hear the shot, feel the bullet penetrate her flesh. It never came.

A gun pressed into her back. “Keep quiet.”

With one last look at the dead agents, she compliantly followed them outside, hearing the door click shut behind them.

Poofy.

Turning, she glanced up to the top window, worrying and praying that her cat would be all right.

The night was dark as ink, the autumn air cool as they shoved her into the back seat of a dark sedan and slammed the door shut. The car’s interior lights hadn’t come on, and she assumed they’d removed the bulbs.

The car started and pulled from the curb. She heard a tiny click, then threw up her hands as a bright light blinded her.

“Hello, Ms. Gold.” Instinctively, she pushed herself to the far end of the seat until her back contacted the door. The interior of the car was so dark she hadn’t realized anyone else was inside. “We’ve never met before. Not in person, anyway. Although I understand you’ve been following me for quite some time.”

A frisson of terror crept up her spine. This was the man who now held her life in his hands.

Alexy Lukashin—the rezidentura.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Matt sat in the dark living room staring at the TV, much as he’d done every night for the past two weeks since he’d watched Trista being escorted out of his life.

Yawning, he glanced at the green dial of the watch on his wrist. It was well after midnight and still, he couldn’t sleep. Unfortunately, his friends were all working the night shift that week, so he was totally alone. Except for Sheba.

He’d gone back to work, volunteering for every double shift on the roster, anything to keep his mind occupied. Trista—his little pixie—had dug deep under his skin, burrowing into his heart until she was all he could think about. But he couldn’t burden her with being around someone who was so fucked up. He’d undoubtedly make her miserable, and she’d wind up leaving him anyway. It’s better this way. Or so he kept telling himself.

Sheba lifted her head from his lap, her amber-gold eyes locking onto his, a supremely mournful expression on her face, one that mirrored the sadness deep in his soul. When he scratched her under the chin, she dipped her muzzle to lick his hand, as if telling him she knew exactly what he was going through.