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He’d orchestrated his escape with military-like precision. He’s had this planned for weeks. Months, even. He knew exactly where to go, when, and how. All he needed was one little piece of the puzzle for it all to fall into place—me.
How did he find out who my father is? My heartbeat accelerates when I think about the venomous sound of his voice, dripping with hatred and fury. He hates my father—most inmates do. It’s why I assumed a pseudonym when I came here to work.
My eyes water as shame fills me. I thought so highly of the value of my work, so highly of my plan… but I underestimated the danger I was in.
I feared him when he was chained. What might he do to me now?
God.
I’ll have to be careful. I’ll have to play my cards just right.
We’re cruising along at a rapid speed, I can tell that even from where I am. He’s talking on the phone in rapid, furious Russian. I don’t know any Russian, but a few words are clear.
Petrov.
Yama.
Valencia.
Petrov I’ve heard of. The name’s familiar from the research I’ve done on Constantine. Head of the New York Bratva, he’s known for running illegal gambling and fighting. I’m not sure where or how, but I know it’s how he and his Bratva group earn the majority of their money. Constantine is Bratva, so he’ll have something to do with Petrov sooner or later.
My mind starts to grow fuzzy, and my mouth dry. I startle when a harsh kick bangs right beside my head.
“You alive in there?”
I recognize Constantine’s familiar growl and mentally flip him off. I’m conserving energy, and I kind of like the idea of him thinking I’m dead. I reason that if I don’t answer right away, he might assume I’m dead and let me the hell out of here sooner rather than later.
So I don’t respond.
He curses under his breath in Russian, and I feel us cruising to a slower speed.
“If I open this and find you’re fucking with me…” his voice diminishes off into a string of Russian curses.
What? What will you do, kidnap me?
Asshole.
In my head, I know that it’s probably wisest to play along with him. Not to goad him on. I’ll play nice, but only so I can get my way. I want out of this fucking tight space now.
I hear voices. I close my eyes, concentrating. If these voices are police… if we’ve gotten pulled over… I’ll have to use what little energy I have left and scream my ass off.
My heart sinks when I hear guttural Russian. Constantine sounds almost… friendly.
Great.
We start moving again. There’s a crick in my neck and my wrists hurt from the restraints.
“Take the tunnel.” He’s talking to his driver.
For a minute, I’m almost glad I’m locked where I am, because tunnels almost freak me out worse than tight spaces. I imagine myself in another place. Anywhere but here.
We come to a quick stop, and my head smacks against the wall.
Voices again. Harsh, angry, then a bark of laughter that makes my pulse spike. We’re clunking along, probably still in the tunnel. There aren’t that many tunnels in Desolation. I go through what I know.
There are a few tunnels in New York and a few bridges as well. If he’s only using the tunnel as a decoy to avoid being followed, using the tunnel’s darkness to hide him, he may have gone right back out on the other side.
We could be anywhere in the State right about now, and time goes by so slowly when I can barely breathe.
Finally, finally, we cruise to a stop. Voices again, some more banging. I can hear Constantine’s voice above them all.
I’m listening as hard as I can but can’t make out anything between the muffled sounds and the thick Russian accents. I startle when the panel above me grates open. I blink in the blinding overhead light.
“Get out.” Constantine reaches for me even as he commands me. I stifle a whimper. His meaty fists clasp around my forearm, hauling me out as I’m already getting out. He yanks me out of the truck and onto the ground. My feet hit the ground, wobbly, and I feel as if I’m going to fall. He yanks a knife out of his boot, slashes at the bonds at my knees and ankles, then catches me when I stumble.
I want to curse him out, but I’m still gagged. Looks like he doesn’t plan on changing that anytime soon. Still, I draw in a deep breath to quell my nerves. It feels good to breathe fresh air again, but I haven’t calmed down. I feel like I’ve gone straight from the frying pan into the fire.
My eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the lighting, so at first, I don’t notice the other men there until one of them speaks. I look up and stifle a gasp of shock.
