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He’d get to her first. I just knew it.
This game of cat and mouse was making me feel unraveled. I was becoming someone else now.
Someone dangerous.
49
Kat
The blare of horns was so close, so close I could glance over my shoulder and see the steady flow of traffic. So close I could see others hunched behind their steering wheels, their gazes fixed on the road ahead. And yet they may as well have been a million miles away.
“Walk,” my captor warned, pressing against my side as he drove his fingers into my arm, bruising me even more.
So close and yet futile.
Thecrackof the gunshot,and the sight of all that blood slowly spilling along the asphalt were the things that kept me from trying to run. I didn’t have to look into my abductor’s eyes to know they’d shoot me. They’d shoot me and they’d run. How many women were killed just like that in Paris? How many were nothing more than fleeting reports on the evening news? I knew in my heart, one wrong move and that’d be me. Not even my name could save me.
I’d been separated from the other women, pushed toward a dark blue van while the others were ordered toward a waiting truck. The woman who'd sat next to me looked over her shoulder and back at me. There was real fear in her eyes as she found mine, palpable, beast-like fear. But then I was torn away and hauled into the van before we sped away.
I sat in the van, legs crossed, hands still clasped in front of me, surrounded by three men in the back and two in the front, one of them the young guy from the plane. The plastic binds cut deep when I moved, leaving a trail of blood to slide down the meat of my palm and along my thumb. But even with all that…it could be worse.
I could be dead.
I reminded myself of that as I stumbled toward some derelict building. The place was dirty and forgotten, splattered with vibrant colors of graffiti. I knew we were somewhere in the projects outside Paris. Somewhere that two men crowding around a woman as they ushered her forward wasn’t cause for intervention. I lifted my head as they pushed me toward a looming eight-foot brick fence and through a gate.
Hinges howled before it was locked behind me. The building was big, four stories. It looked like it was once an apartment building, no doubt marked for demolition. But that could’ve been years go. Now it was overrun with weeds and spray paint.
“Up,” the male at my back commanded.
I climbed, steadied by his hand around my arm. My bare feet were numb from the cold, so much colder here than the island. The railings were rusted and, as I scanned the levels above, I found some parts where the steel barrier had fallen away completely, probably into the thick, weed-choked garden below.
It could’ve been lovely, could’ve been filled with families and young couples with happy dogs that adored the cobbled courtyard and green parks in the distance. But instead, it was filled with hell. Hell that waited for me as I was driven up to the first floor, then further. My thighs ached, my feet stung. The agony from my captor’s fists radiated around to the small of my back.
I felt every stare as I walked. Movement came from the corner of my eye as three more men stood at the railing, watching me.
“Over there,” the male at my back ordered, his English thick with his French accent.
I looked at the men waiting for me outside an open doorway. They were massive, dressed in combat gear, their gazes cold and unflinching, mercenaries to the core. They looked even bigger than Logan, more lethal, too.
I swallowed hard and stepped through the open door, coming into some old apartment barely furnished, with three wooden chairs and a small TV on a stand. I glimpsed a kitchen through the empty space that was meant for a family room, and further along the hall it looked like the open doors of two bedrooms. I sucked in a breath, listening to heavy footsteps following me inside. “What are you going to do with me now?”
There was no answer, just that weighted feeling of their stares, until the young guy from the plane stepped close. “Bathroom down the hall. Go,” he gently shoved me forward.
I glanced at the others watching me and hurried forward.Jesus…Jesus…Jesus…I scanned the open doors, found a glimpse of ugly green tiles, and rushed to step inside the bathroom and close the door. Voices drifted in, words heavy in French were spoken in a rush. I leaned against the doorway and closed my eyes.
This was bad…really bad.
My mind raced, desperate to find a way out of this and as always, my thoughts drifted to Lazarus. My senses tilted. The room swayed. Desperation moved through me like a summer squall, fast, terrifying…consuming.Blue eyes pierced the void. My body thrummed with the ache for him, to feel his hands on my body and hear that husky growl in my ear. I’d never wanted another to hold me as much as I did now.
A sob wedged into the back of my throat, pulsing and aching, desperate to get out.
But the heavy thud of approaching footsteps wrenched me free. I stumbled backwards, scanned the room, and settled on the filthy toilet. The bowl was black, the seat shattered, the edges sharp. Revulsion moved through me as my bladder unleashed a pang of pain. My stomach clenched at the thought of usingthat.As the pang of pain turned into agony, I knew I had no choice.
“Hey!”A hardthudcame on the other side of the door.
“Just a minute!” I snapped, and swallowed my revulsion, turning my back to the filthy sight and, with my bound hands, I pushed my pants low.
I hovered, thighs trembling, and focused on my body and not the man armed with a gun on the other side of the door. Fire ripped through me, the sting making me clench my teeth as a tiny dribble spilled free. There wasn’t enough. Two days of a couple of bottles of water and a piece of fruit. My body was shutting down.
