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Khloe didn't stop running until she arrived at the elevator. Tears made the down button she was pressing frantically swim before her eyes. Her heart thumped in her chest as she dared a glimpse back over her left shoulder, praying the boogieman wouldn't be chasing after her and grateful when the hall wasempty.
She rushed inside the small lift the second it arrived, pressing L for lobby over and over until the doors slid closed. With each floor she descended, awareness of the gravity of what had happened grew in the pit of her empty stomach. This was no crazy email threat or innocent message from an avid fan on her Facebook profile. Someone, presumably a man, had been stalking her. Photographing her. That man had been in her apartment. Her home. Herbedroom.
Only when the doors opened on the first floor did she realize she had no idea where she was going or how she would get there. Hell, she didn't even have onshoes.
Patrick, the doorman, stood behind the front reception desk. He looked up, smiling at first, until he realized something was very wrong. Her logical brain knew Patrick was safe, but in that moment, her body reacted to a large man rushing towards her by shrinking back until she slammed into the now closed elevator doors, screaming at the top of her lungs. She saw his mouth moving as he got near, but a loud ringing in her ears blocked out his voice. White spots blurred her vision as she began to feel lightheaded. In a last ditch effort to protect herself, Khloe swatted his hands away from her as he reached out, not recognizing he was only trying to stop her from falling as she felt herselfteetering.
The last thing she remembered before feeling his arms wrapping around her to break her fall was wishing it were Ryder there catching herinstead.
Chapter 3
Twenty-six security cameras.Twelve armed Bratva soldiers. Four Volkovs. Two lockeddoors.
When Ryder added up all of the obstacles that stood between him and escape, he had to face reality. Rescuing the Marshall family was a suicide mission... for him andthem.
He sat idly by, trying to look interested and not horrified by Artel's lecherous action plan. The naked servant girl kneeling in the corner had been summoned by Viktor to distribute fat cigars and fingers of liqueur to the seated men as if they were about to enjoy an after-dinner entertainment. As Ryder lit his cigar, he glanced to his left to find Alexi looking as uncomfortable as he secretlyfelt.
Mrs. Marshall fought like a madwoman to get to her daughters, but her bravery only earned her a backhand so hard that she collapsed to the floor in a dazed heap. Her face, already puffy and sporting multiple bruises, attested to the fact this blow had not been the first. She was bleeding from her nose hard enough that streaks of bright red dripped down her chin and onto her ripped dress. The young girls cowered, clinging to each other while Artel's henchmen easily lifted them, throwing each of them to the floor near their mother where they scrambled into herarms.
The scene was surreal. The only sound in the room were the whimpers of the women and children along with the click of the camera as a Bratva goon took dozens of photos of the unfortunate family now huddled on thefloor.
Only now did Ryder recognize a white curtain had been pulled across a drapery rod. It conveniently hid the distinctive carved mahogany paneled walls. Anger flared hot as he realized they did this sort of despicable thing often enough that they'd permanently installed camouflage to disguise their sickest ofcrimes.
The gunman turned photographer stopped snapping shots to force their faces up so the camera could accurately capture their terror. Each tear that fell turned Ryder's stomach more than the one before until he felt like he was about to throw up his lobster dinner. He'd been party to a lot of fucked up shit in his deep undercover career, nearing his ethical limit more times than he wanted to remember. He'd dreaded the day he'd come face to face with the limit to hisimmorality.
With a calm certainty, he knew that day wastoday.
As the minutes ticked forward, Artel's and the guards' behavior grew increasingly aggressive towards the innocent family––slapping the youngest girl who refused to stop sobbing and ripping the mother's bodice to expose her blood-stained bra. It helped Ryder press forward with his decidedplan.
He forced a practiced ruthlessness into his voice as he spoke. "If you don't mind my asking,Pakhan,how much do you plan to ransom them for? I'm sure they are worth a greatdeal."
Viktor didn't take his eyes off the spectacle playing out in front of him as he answered. "No ransom. The bastard doesn't deserve thecourtesy."
Based on Artel's earlier comments, Ryder wasn't surprised by the information, yet he suspected the American businessman wouldn't see anything about the abduction and terrorization of his family before they were murdered as acourtesy.
"Of course, sir. But surely it's too dangerous to hold such valuable assets here at yourhome."
Finally, the elder Volkov glanced his way. "I'm glad you're on our side, Nicolai. It is also why I've chosen to trust you with our most valuabletask."
"I'm honored to be of service to the family," he replied with trained sincerity. "How may I be ofassistance?"
He'd asked Viktor, but it was Artel standing behind him who answered hisquestion.
"You've been chosen to deliver our very strong message to ChipMarshall."
He already suspected the answer to the question he was about to ask. "Do you have the message prepared? Where would you like me to deliverit?"
In his gut he knew the communication wouldn't be words. More likely, the planned message would be disposing of the oil tycoon's family in some seedy neighborhood in Moscow where a vagrant would stumble upon them and maybe call thepolice.
Viktor took a puff of his cigar, luxuriating in his power, ignoring the question still hanging in the air. Only when the photographer pulled a vinyl tarp from a duffle bag near the door and spread it across the priceless antique carpet did Ryder have confirmation for hissuspicions.
Artel puffed on his tobacco, on his feet, pacing like a dangerous animal about to pounce on his prey as his henchmen prepared the scene. Despite her fear, Mrs. Marshall had noticed the tarp, too. Like a protective mama bear, she'd moved her young daughters behind her, shielding them as best as she could. One by one, she frantically scanned the dangerous men in the room, desperate to find someone who would help her. Ryder held his steely gaze as their eyes met, giving her no reason to hope for hishelp.
When Artel pulled a heavy Glock from his shoulder holster, Ryder made his move. Pushing to his feet slowly, he deliberately kept his hands in the open, setting his half-smoked cigar into the heavy hand-blown glass ashtray before approaching ViktorVolkov.
Father and son tore their attention away from the doomed family to look atRyder.
He spoke with confidence. "I would be honored if you'd allow me to prepare the message for theAmerican."
