Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
"In," he says simply.
I look at the open car door, at the dark interior, and know that stepping inside will change everything. Once I'm in that car, I'm truly his captive. Truly at his mercy.
"Please," I whisper, hating how broken I sound. "Please don't do this."
His jaw tightens. For a moment, just a fleeting second, I think I see something like regret in his eyes.
Then it's gone.
"Get in the car, Holly. Don't make me force you."
I want to run. Want to scream. Want to fight.
“If I climb into this car, then I’m dead.”
“No, Holly, you’re dead if you don’t.”
His warning shoots fear into every nerve and fiber of my being. I don’t doubt he means it.
So I climb into the car.
He slides in beside me, close enough that his thigh presses against mine. The door closes with a final-sounding thunk, and the driver pulls away from the curb.
I press myself against the opposite door, putting as much distance between us as possible.
We drive in silence through the rain-wet streets. Christmas lights twinkle from lampposts and storefronts, cheerful and bright, a stark contrast to the darkness inside the car. Couples walk hand in hand, laughing and smiling, heading home from holiday parties.
Free.
They're all free, and I'm trapped in this car with a killer.
I take stock of the men inside the car. My captor to my left. And two men in the front.
Three men standing between me and freedom.
"Where are you taking me?" My voice comes out steadier than I expect.
"Somewhere safe."
"Safe for who?"
He turns to look at me, and in the passing streetlights, I can see his face clearly. He’s all brutal beauty and cold precision, without an ounce of emotion. "For you, actually. Whether you believe that or not."
"I don't."
"You will."
The city doesn't give way to suburbs or highway. Instead, we're heading south, toward the airport. My stomach drops.
"We're flying somewhere?" The question comes out small and frightened.
"Yes."
I hate flying.
But just add that to the list of terrors tonight.
"Where to?”
"You'll see when we get there."
Panic claws at my throat. If he puts me on a plane, I could end up anywhere. Russia. Europe. Somewhere I'll never be found.
"I need to use the bathroom," I try.
"We will be on the plane within ten minutes."
I try a different tactic. "I'm going to be sick."
His eyes narrow. "Are you?"
"The motion of the car…"
He reaches into a compartment and pulls out a bottle of water, offering it to me. "Drink this. Small sips."
I don't want to take anything from him, but my throat is desert-dry from fear. I accept the bottle with shaking hands and take a sip. The cold water actually helps, but only a little.
"Good girl."
I glare at him. "Stop calling me that."
"But you are being good. Smarter than I expected, actually. You understand that running right now would be suicide."
"Is that what you want? My submission?"
His eyes go dark, and that look—that hungry, dangerous look—is back. "Don't put ideas in my head, Holly."
Heat floods my face. I look away and focus on the passing landscape, but I can feel him still watching me.
We pull through a gate marked ‘Private Aviation’, and my worst fears are confirmed. A sleek black jet sits on the tarmac, the stairs extended, lights glowing warmly from inside.
The car stops at the base of the stairs, and the driver gets out and opens my door. Cold air rushes in, along with the distant roar of jet engines.
My captor emerges from his side and comes around to me, offering his hand like we're on a date instead of him kidnapping me.
I ignore it and climb out on my own.
"This way," my kidnapper says, his hand returning to the small of my back.
I want to run. There are other planes, other people. Surely someone would help me.
But the driver and another man in a suit are behind us, and my captor's hand on my back is firm. And I realize with sinking certainty that even if I screamed, even if I ran, his reach extends here too. Private terminals. Private security. Money and power that can make a woman disappear.
“I’m not a very good flyer,” I say, my hands shaking at the idea of being stuck on a plane with this madman.
“Now is the time to overcome that fear, Holly,” he says simply.
“I’m not kidding, we’ll get thirty thousand feet in the air and who knows what I’ll do once my anxiety takes over.”
“You’ll do as you’re told. That’s what you will do.”
It’s a command. Not a suggestion.
So I do as I am told and walk up the stairs.
The interior of the jet is obscenely luxurious. Cream leather seats, polished wood, soft lighting. It smells like leather and expensive cologne. An elegant flight attendant greets us with a beauty-queen smile.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Morozov. We're cleared for takeoff whenever you're ready."