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Something that didn’t make her want to scream.
But all she could think about was Lyon. Their early weeks together had been fraught with hatred and the kind of blinding passion she’d never experienced with a man. Their push and pull had only made her want him more.
His stubbornness and ambition were a mirror to her own, but slowly, they’d come to a place of affection. More than that. She’d fallen in love with him. Then, her father had been murdered and she’d been overcome with guilt. In her grief, she’d fled the city, leading Lyon to believe she’d never loved him.
She’d thought she was doing the right thing, but it had only perpetuated Lyon’s distrust, and when he’d had her brought back to Chicago, it had taken weeks and more than a little humiliation to break through his hardened exterior a second time.
She’d finally done it, and she’d been more optimistic than ever when Lyon’s traitorous mother had appeared, and then Vadim’s men at the wedding that was supposed to be an affirmation of their love.
A shrill ring cut through her thoughts, and she spun to look at Alek, who was already reaching for his phone.
“Yeah?”
She could hardly bear the ensuing silence.
“You’re sure?” he said into the phone.
“Come back to HQ.” He slipped the phone in his pocket and looked at her. “He’s not at the hospital.”
“And the tunnels?” she asked.
“Nothing yet,” Alek said.
She exhaled. “So he’s there.”
He has to be, she thought.
Alek said nothing.
10
Lyon held the screw in his fist, trying not to make it obvious he was holding something while he ate the lukewarm deli sandwich. His stomach turned, but he forced himself to eat.
He felt like he could murder the three men who watched him with nothing but the fuel of his rage, but he’d been surviving on one meal a day for weeks (months?). He couldn’t leave anything to chance. He needed to be honest with himself if he was going to get out of here, and the truth was, he was weaker than when he’d arrived. He had no idea where they were keeping him, had no clues beyond this room. There were likely more guards beyond the steel door, and he might have to run once he escaped, possibly for a long time if they were holding him outside of the city.
He needed all the strength, all the fuel he could get.
The guards — Chuckles, Psycho, and the Mountain who came when they untied Lyon’s hands to eat — made jokes in Russian. Lyon caught snippets while he listened for cues about their next move.
The urge had been overwhelming to drive the screw into Psycho’s face when he’d handed Lyon the sandwich, but thatwould have been foolish. His feet were still bound. Even if he hit the man’s carotid artery, the other two guards would be on him in seconds.
He needed his feet to fight the remaining two men.
To escape.
He finished the sandwich and watched as the stone-faced man he called Chuckles came toward him. His movements were unhurried.
The guards had gotten lazy.
It happened to the best of them, which is why Lyon rotated his men in these situations. It was human nature to let one’s guard down when one felt safe, and what could be safer than being in a room with a man whose hands and feet were bound? A man who was beaten and cowed? Who’d so far made no attempt at escape?
Chuckles was right next to him, his balding forehead glistening, the stench of his sweat causing the sandwich to sour in Lyon’s stomach. He forced himself to breathe and handed Chuckles the sandwich wrapper.
He tossed it aside, muttering something in Russian Lyon couldn’t make out. Then he withdrew wire-cutters from his pocket.
Lyon’s heart pounded. They were taking him to the bathroom.
Chuckles crouched to cut the zip ties from around his ankles. It was almost time.
