Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Do it right,” he said. The hand that was gripping the blade shook, pressing it deeper into my neck, still not breaking skin, but the back and forth was irritating.
I reached out to the computer, and this time I typed in a different username.
GoFuckYourself123.
And another random set of letters for the password.
Maybe Mateo wasn’t as dumb as I thought he was.
Maybe he realized he needed me, and all I needed to do was buy time.
Eventually, he’d give up. Maybe only for a couple hours, maybe a couple days, leaving me down here to starve.
That was fine.
I needed time to figure out how I was going to get out of this.
Just because I would rather die than give this asshole any of my money didn’t mean it was on my short list of things to do today.
The page refreshed again, and again that brief message flashed: Invalid login attempt.
“You are trying my patience, bitch.”
“Trust me, I know the feeling. Good help is just so hard to find.”
Mateo hit me again. This time, he let the chair fall. My head banged onto the cold concrete, and I landed directly on my already injured shoulder.
The sadistic fuck then kicked me in the gut a few times. I coughed and choked with every single strike.
I tasted blood, but I wasn’t coughing it up, not yet.
I didn’t know how much longer that would last.
When he lifted the chair, he put me back in front of the computer.
“I’m done playing nice,” he growled.
Fuck him. He didn’t get to see my pain and he didn’t get to see my fear. He was only worth my indifference, and barely even that.
“But we were having so much fun,” I said, my words coming out as more of a wheeze before I dissolved into a coughing fit.
“Bitch,” he yelled in my face.
Vile spittle and rancid breath flooded my nose, making my coughing so much worse.
“God, I knew meth-mouth looked terrible, but no one warns you about the stench,” I said.
This time, it was his other hand that flew through the air. He slammed the butt of the knife into my temple, into the fresh stitches from earlier.
I toppled over again, but this time it wasn’t my shoulder that I was worried about.
He had opened stitches.
And I started bleeding.
Not a slow trickle, but warm, gushing blood that poured down my temple, soaking into my shirt. A hot, sticky reminder that I was running out of time.
The end was going to come so much faster than I thought.
I wasn’t going to get the chance to break myself out.
Only one word echoed through my head as the fear finally set in.
Roman.
CHAPTER 21
ROMAN
Pain radiated through my shoulder as I pulled the T-shirt over my head, the fresh stitches protesting every single movement.
It didn’t matter.
The pain grounded me.
Reminded me I was still alive.
Every breath was fire, every movement a threat to the torn muscle, but I welcomed it. Let it sink into my bones. Let it make me sharper. Stronger.
I locked the vest into place with a grunt, tightening each strap as if preparing my body for war—and my mind for the possibility I wouldn’t come back.
Gritting my teeth through the pain, I strapped on my holster and checked the magazine of the Glock. My movements were sharp and deliberate. They were not meant to baby my injuries, but to ignore them. I needed pain to be second nature. I needed it to not interfere with my mission.
“You’re not going there to kill her, are you?” Pavel’s voice came from the doorway. “For you, this isn’t about finishing a mission. It’s about her.”
“No, it’s not about finishing the mission,” I said as I slid a fresh magazine into another Glock and slid it into the holster under my left arm. There was one under each arm and another at the small of my back.
The holster was thin enough to fit under my Kevlar tactical vest.
“Are you taking backup?”
“No.” I didn’t volunteer any other information.
“Why not?”
I let out a deep breath. There wasn’t time for this, but I owed him answers. He had until I was ready to leave.
“Because I’m not going to kill her. The men, on the other hand, work for the Ivanov name, for Artem or Gregor. And this mission isn’t on their orders. It goes against them.”
I slid two more magazines into my vest.
I didn’t know what kind of condition Zoya was in—if her disease had flared up, if she was bleeding again, if the stress had pushed her over the edge. She needed a hospital. She needed help.
And instead, she was locked up, surrounded by men who only saw her as a pawn or a threat. I’d seen what she looked like when she was pale and fighting for breath. I couldn’t let her slip through my fingers—not like that.
There was no telling what I was walking into or what state I was going to find her in when I did. I was going to be alone, and I needed to be prepared for absolutely anything.