Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I focused on situational awareness in a room full of armed thugs. I placed the metal briefcase on the low marble table between us and sat. “2.2 mil. Untraceable.”
Chelomey smirked, lifting a crystal tumbler of vodka. “All is good. I pray this is the beginning of a new relationship, Mack.”
Pray? This man prayed?
Leith chuckled on the stiff antique couch at my side. Must’ve seen the look on my face. I called bull.
Two men—thick-necked and armed—stood on either side of the room behind the Bratva Tsar’s seat. They eyed Leith while two more were near the door we’d entered. While I hadn’t stared at them upon entering, I’d seen them, silent sentries with AK47s, in my peripheral. Five soldiers in this room alone, which included the man who introduced himself as Denis and was now sliding over the metal briefcase.
Chelomey flipped a finger through one brick of cash, then another brick, delighted I hadn’t tricked him. He looked up from the money with a grin. I felt antsy. I disliked being in a position with my back against an exit, despite the presence of threats all around.
Chelomey gestured with a few wiggled fingers adorned with rings. “Ah, here she is now. Come. Come.”
I turned my head to set eyes on Jordyn. Instead, I saw a flash of gold silk skim the floor as if someone walked by quickly. Someone … in an ankle-length dress? Jor— “Where is she?” I stood up as Chelomey closed the briefcase.
Traps always came wrapped in false hospitality. I’d come through on my end, willing to become Jordyn’s last buyer so that she could reclaim her life. I’d pay the man and go.
Was this a game?
Leith rose.
“Denis, get—”
In one blur, I snatched the metal briefcase from the older man, thwacking him over his face. Blood, teeth, and Aleksandr Chelomey went flying. Hot, sticky blood landed on my face as the trafficker fell sideways in an unconscious heap. Leith grabbed the burner phone in his pocket, wired with a manual trigger.
A white light flashed like an ocean wave rising up to consume everything in its wake. The disorienting light that stole a person’s equilibrium and everything with it was not nearly as effective with the additional eye protection Leith and I wore. I drove my elbow into Denis’s rib. A crack broke off beneath my olecranon.
I brought the man down an instant before bullets sprayed wildly from the men whose fingers sat on the trigger. With a groan, Leith dropped on my other side. I barely deflected the fist that flew in my direction. The scrappy Russian lifted another fist. I slammed the briefcase into his face. The first hit collapsed Denis’s nasal bridge. The second sound cracked his jaw. The following hits—mushed, mushed, mushed as more blood sprayed in my face.
I grabbed the gun from Denis’s lifeless body and handed it to Leith. He shot at the other men, still disoriented and cowering from the light. One Russian, still blind and nearest the door, made a run for it. I hurled the steel briefcase at the back of his head. It met my target. The man bumped into the doorframe but managed to escape.
Reminder to self: grab your money on the way out. I disarmed a revolver from Denis’s ankle holster. Fired on the third man just as Leith finished the second one.
Pop. Pop. Pop. The report of bullets split through the walls from outside of the office. Was it one bodyguard trying to get the drop on me? Or the six unfriendlies somewhere in close proximity, yet too afraid to breach the door. Didn’t matter. My br—ahem—Leith and I weren’t out of the line of fire yet.
The enemy outside the room became more strategic. Bullets pierced the drywall from somewhere else in the house and zigzagged up and down inside the room. Drywall powder went flying. I dove for cover. Leith slammed down beside me. Together, we tipped the heavy marble coffee table to use as a shield. As Leith bit back an expletive, I fisted the gun in my hand.
I shouted, “I’ll not be dying today!” The Scottish accent I hated rode along with the vow. “And I’m not leaving without JORDYN!” Or anyone else who doesn’t want to be here.
5
TARZANA HILLS
Jordyn
8798 days captive
Someone pulled me from the clawfoot tub, which meant I had insufficient time to change the trajectory of my life. A life hijacked from me too young.
Because I could hardly stand in my strappy stilettos, Monique soothed my feet with a miracle ointment. The pain had vanished, though the scars on my feet lingered. Ironically, that was a curse since pain dulled my sensitivity to other fears.
My knobby knees brushed against a gold silk sheath dress that smoothed tight against my curves. I took teensy steps toward Aleksandr’s study. Just run, Jordyn. Just do it.