Her face, though . . . she was truly, stunningly, classically beautiful. High, sharp cheekbones, cute as a button little nose, a wide mouth with plump lips—she could rival Julia Roberts in terms of mouth hotness. She was sitting across the aisle from me and on the outside, so I could see she had legs for goddamn days, sheathed in a sensible black knee-length skirt, power suit style. She had on a long-sleeved forest-green blouse, buttoned to a hot but still modest second button, enough to show a hint of cleavage but not enough to make mouths water. The skirt and blouse were rumpled, the worse for wear, yet she still looked put-together, in control, and hot as fuck. Her knees were pressed together, her feet tucked on an angle underneath her seat, and I could see a hint of sensible black heels. Her skin was creamy smooth and naturally golden tanned and was everything sweet and luscious.
She caught me staring, and her eyes met mine—hers were storm-cloud gray and utterly fearless. Scratch that, I saw a hint of nervousness, but she met my stare boldly, and didn’t look away. I couldn’t help it: I winked at her, shot her a brief, cocky grin. She rolled her eyes and looked away, barely suppressing a hiss of anger.
I glanced at Layla and saw she was trying not to laugh, having watched the exchange, both my blatant perusal of the girl and her reaction to my wink and smile. Layla knew me as well as anyone, and if anyone was going to keep calm in this situation, it was Layla Harris. That bitch had ice in her veins, and I knew for a fact she could hold down her end of a gun battle. I honestly felt a bit of relief, knowing I had Layla with me, because I knew I could rely on her to help me wreck shit when the time came to put down the hurt.
I’d let the cigarette dangle from my mouth, not really smoking it, more letting it sit there for show, to look the part. Then I took a drag, held it in my mouth as if inhaling, and spewed out the smoke. Knocked the ash free and rolled my shoulders, fiddled with the AK as if bored, glancing at the driver. He seemed oblivious, navigating us through some rundown suburban neighborhoods like you’d see outside any airport anywhere in the world, fading paint on aging buildings, trees lining the streets, and the occasional billboard—I wasn’t much on languages, but at least I could tell we were in a country that used Cyrillic, Russia probably. The sky was as gray as lead and heavy, the buildings around us low, squat, ugly blocks in every direction.
I kept watching, shifting now and again as Tubby drove for what seemed like at least thirty minutes, if not longer. Some of the women started dozing, despite themselves.
Not Layla, and not sexy Miss Ringlets, though. They were both wide-awake, alert, watching.
Ringlets especially. She tried to keep her gaze out the window, but it kept sliding back to me, and I wondered what she was thinking.
2: Sparkin’
He winked at me. For real? Who even winks anymore? What was the wink supposed to mean? I felt his eyes on me, and it was fairly obvious what those jackasses were planning, but still. A wink? It wasn’t the kind of wink that said I’m about to rape you, though. It was . . . almost friendly. Playful. What the hell?
I also noticed the way he glanced at the four women sitting together across the aisle from me. I wasn’t sure who knew whom, but it seemed some of them knew each other, and Mr. Short, Buff, Bald, and Bearded seemed to know the four women, although he did a passable impression of not recognizing them.
Can’t fool me, though.
I also noticed that the body language of all four of those women seemed to relax ever so slightly when they saw Beardy.
Another odd detail: Beardy had a messed up finger. Recent, from the looks of it, the middle finger of his left hand was gone from the middle knuckle, the stump looking scabbed and burned and messy, still oozing nastiness, although he seemed somewhat oblivious to it.
The more I looked at Beardy, the more out of place he seemed. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off to create a muscle shirt, and the logo on the front was a bunch of angry red lines creating what was probably supposed to be lettering—a heavy metal band T-shirt. His pants were the kind of surplus military gear you could get from any surplus store anywhere in the States . . . but that was what was odd about it—did they have Army/Navy surplus stores in eastern Europe? He also had a full sleeve of tattoos on his right arm from shoulder to wrist, and a lot of the images were . . . uniquely Western, just put it that way. A pair of dice and playing cards, revolvers with the barrels crossed, a 1940s-style pinup girl, Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry, handcuffs, an M-16 with a US Army helmet hanging on it—a symbol for knowing someone killed in action . . . all über-masculine Americana tattoo images. A little out of place for a Russian gangster.
My street-sense was tingling.
Beardy caught me staring, then, and shot me another wink. I glared back at him as his eyes blatantly skimmed down my body, checking me out. Not much to see, buddy—you and your thug asshole buddies snatched me as I was leaving work, which meant they’d gotten conservative Colbie, the version of me who wore business-formal skirt suits at an office-appropriate knee-length and blouses that showed little to no cleavage. Had they snatched me an hour or so later, from my home, I’d probably be a lot less conservatively dressed. But I supposed I was glad for that. Conservative Colbie wore her skirt suits like armor; once I zipped that skirt up and buttoned the blouse, I put on my take-no-shit mentality. It was this mindset that had taken me from homeless drug-addicted orphan teenager to Harvard Business School graduate with a double minor in Chinese and Russian.
I knew the score here—I was on my way to being sold into the sex trade. But these jackasses really had no idea who they were dealing with, or what I’d been through, and what I was prepared to do in the name of self-preservation. I’d survived heroin addiction; I’d survived on the streets of New York as a teenage girl alone; I’d fought my way into Harvard on loans, grants, and scholarships, then graduated summa cum laude. I did all that on my own, no handouts, no ass kissing, no favors. After all that, I’d landed myself a job at one of the top import-export firms in the country.
And these assholes thought they could just nab me off the streets and sell me like a bag of dope? I did not think so.
I didn’t know how, but I was getting my ass back to New York, and if I had to break some heads back-alley-brawl style, I wouldn’t even feel bad.
Beardy, though. He was interesting. At first I’d just dismissed him as another gangbanger and hadn’t given him another thought. Then he’d shot me the wink and the smirk, and I’d noticed the tattoos and the looks the four women were giving him, and I took another look at him. And I realized he wasn’t exactly bad looking. Sure, he had that crazy goddamn beard, but it wasn’t a hobo beard, it was well groomed, brushed, maintained, shaped. It was a well-loved beard. Big, bushy, long as hell, but it suited him. Framed a strong jaw and an expressive mouth. The end hung to midchest. And his eyes, man, those eyes of his were . . . complicated. Dark brown, like chocolate and coffee, sharp and bright with intelligence, wary, alert, and piercing. Yet when he shot me that stupid wink, if I were a writer, I’d have said his eyes twinkled. He wasn’t a tall guy, but he was massive despite that. His arms alone gave my waist a run for its money in terms of width and breadth, and his chest and shoulders were equally as massive. It wasn’t fat, either—I saw the tendons and cords of muscle shifting and tensing as he moved, saw the bulge of his bicep when he reached up to scratch his scalp. He was brawny and powerful, and I found myself wondering about him, unable to stop stealing glances at him.
Bad timing for curiosity, though. I mean, kind of a dumb idea, wasn’t it? Getting hot for my kidnapper?
You would’ve thought I’d be more afraid, but I was in survival mode, which meant whatever fear I might have felt was pushed deep down. I’d have a nice little girly fit later, when I was safe and alone, but for now, I knew I had to keep it together. It was a false calm, but better than hysterics. I’d seen some of the other girls break down and indulge in bouts of tears, dissolving into sobbing puddles of fear and exhaustion, which only served to piss
off the gangsters.
Speaking of which, there had been a lot of guards on that plane, at least twenty that I’d counted; yet there were only the two on this bus—the driver and Beardy. Where were the rest? Why send so many of them only to leave us guarded by a single pair?
The bus pulled up to a stoplight, and that was when I got at least one answer to my questions. I heard a crackle of static from a walkie-talkie, and a male voice said, in Russian, “Chekov, are you there?”
Ah, that explained it: the rest of the guards were in other vehicles ahead and/or behind this one.
The driver pulled a handset from the pocket of his tracksuit and answered in Russian. “Yes, what is it?”
“Anton is missing. Have you seen him? Is he with you?”
“No, he’s not,” the driver, Chekov, answered. “He’s not with you?”
“No. He was supposed to unload the bags.”
“Someone else unloaded the bags,” the driver said. “A new guy.”
“A new guy? There is no one new.”
The driver twisted in his seat and shot an odd look at Beardy, then returned to face forward as the light turned.
I watched Beardy during this exchange, and he gave no impression of understanding what was being said; he scratched his nose with an index finger and then wiggled the stump of his missing middle finger, as if testing the pain level.
“If there is no one new, and Anton is missing, then who is this guy on the bus with me?” the driver asked.
“Good question. Find out.”
The driver slid the walkie-talkie back into his tracksuit jacket pocket and then reached into the other pocket and withdrew a huge silver handgun. He checked the mirrors and pulled off the road into a mostly empty parking lot outside a partially demolished building, shoving the shifter into Park.
Beardy finally seemed to realize something was up, glancing out the window as if curious as to why we’d stopped. He eyed the driver, who tried to surreptitiously pull back the slide of his handgun, but the noise as the slide clicked back into place was distinctive and unmistakable. Beardy glanced at me as he pulled a small black handgun from his waistband then cut a glance at the driver and back to me, wiggling the gun; it was a question—does he have a gun out? I nodded, a tiny movement of my head.
The driver twisted in his seat to look at Beardy. “What did you say your name was?” he asked, in heavily accented English.
“Puck,” Beardy said, and then instantly realized what had just happened. “Shit.”
The following few seconds were a blur of noise and movement taking place too fast for me to track. As soon as the word “shit” left Puck’s mouth, he lifted his gun and shot the driver, a single deafening concussive BANG! Red spattered against the windshield, a hole appearing in the glass, spiderwebs spreading. Screams filled the bus. Puck was out of his seat the moment his gun went off, yanked the handle that opened the driver’s door, snatched up the shiny silver pistol, patted the driver’s pockets, and tugged out two magazines. Puck then grabbed the body by the shoulders and, with a grunt of effort, heaved the corpse out the door. The dead driver flopped to the ground, his head crunching wetly on the pavement, his feet still inside the bus. Puck leapt into the driver’s seat, jerked the shifter into drive, and floored the gas pedal. The bus growled, and we were all thrown back in our seats as the vehicle accelerated, and I heard a nasty thump as the wheels rolled over the body.
The road we were on was mostly abandoned; a single sedan passed us, and upon seeing the body flop out of the van, their tires squealed, and they peeled away. I got the impression that this might not have been an uncommon occurrence in this area.
So now we were moving. The only problem? Blood coated the inside of the windshield, making it impossible for him to see.
“Well that was dumb,” Puck said, sounding irritated. “This is not going as I’d hoped.”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Puck?” one of the women asked; she was medium height with dark skin and a springy mass of curly black hair, and she was so curvy she made me stare, and I’m as straight as they come. I’m . . . svelte, let’s call it. Not stick-thin, and I’ve got a decent rack and nice tight ass, but nothing like that woman had.
“Getting you out of here.” He wiped at the windshield with his hand, but only smeared it and made the visibility worse.
“Well you’re sucking at it so far,” the woman said. “I’m gonna give you a C on this rescue attempt, so far.”
“I’d rather you give me those double Ds,” Puck said, shooting her a grin.
She smacked his shoulder hard. “You’re a pig.” She whipped off her T-shirt to reveal a pink tank top with purple bra straps peeking out from underneath. “Here, asshole,” she said, handing him her shirt.
Puck took the shirt and wiped at the blood, folded it and wiped again, and finally made a little progress, clearing a patch through which he could see. “Thanks, Layla.”
I could see the driver’s side mirror, and the reflection of a big black SUV in it. As I watched, a passenger window lowered and a figure leaned out, a machine gun in his hands.
“Umm.” I raised my hand. “Puck, I’d check your mirrors.”
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, and then checked his side-view mirror. “Shit. I was hoping you girls being in here would stop them from doing anything too crazy.”
The woman, Layla, held on to the driver’s seatback and crouched next to Puck. “Can I hang out the side of the bus and shoot at them like in the movies? I’ve always wanted to try that.”
“I don’t think so. You drive, I shoot.”
Layla grabbed his bicep and shook it, pleading with him. “Come on, Puck. Please? Just a couple shots? You know I can hit them.”
Puck snorted. “Bitch, please. Harris would have my ass if I let you do that.” He glanced at her. “’Sides, that shit is a lot harder than it looks.”
I watched them bicker, amused, and wondered what Layla would do, being called a bitch. Me, I would have slapped him hard enough to show him who the real bitch was.
“Oh, don’t be a wet blanket, Puck. I won’t tell him if you won’t.”
The way Puck hesitated made it seem like he was actually considering it. He wouldn’t, would he? No way.
Puck handed her his pistol. “Don’t try to hit their tires, that’s Hollywood bullshit, and it never works. Either go for the engine block or the driver. And when they start shooting back, get your juicy ass back in the bus.”
Layla took the pistol, held it by the barrel, and whacked Puck on the top of the head with the butt. “I’m married to your boss, Puck Lawson! You can’t talk to me that way.”
“You can stop a man from touching, but you can’t stop him from looking . . . or appreciating.” He rubbed the top of his head, and then ducked involuntarily when the clattering crackcrackcrackcrackcrack of an AK-47 blasted the air behind us, and the rear window shattered.
“EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR!” Puck shouted. “Layla, start shooting.”
I hit the floor, too, and then thought better of it; I wasn’t a hider. I crawled forward as Layla levered open the bifold bus door, held on to the handle mounted on the inside of the frame, leaned out, and aimed the pistol one-handed at the vehicle in pursuit of us. I focused on Puck but heard the BANG! . . . BANG! . . . BANG! as she fired.
I tapped Puck on the leg. “Hey.”
He glanced down at me. “Hey there, gorgeous. You have the advantage with me, I’m afraid—you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
I ignored his statement and pointed at the shattered rear window. “Go shoot at them.”
“You’ll drive?” he asked. I nodded, and he slid off the chair while keeping one hand on the wheel and his foot on the accelerator. “Keep it straight and hold steady on the gas until Layla is back inside.”
I slid behind him to take his place at the wheel, but the tight quarters meant I had to press up against his back, sliding my thighs under his butt so I could get my foot on the gas ped
al. As soon as I was sitting and had the wheel and my foot on the gas, Puck sat down on my lap and twisted so he could look at me. His eyes twinkled again: merry, amused, glittering with intelligence and humor—and lust, as he blatantly looked down my shirt.
“Umm.” I pushed at him, but it was like trying to push over the Rockefeller building. “Get off, asshole.”
He slid off me and pivoted in a crouch. “Oh, I intend to. You and me both, sweet thing.” His eyes met mine, and he winked. “Gotta tell me your name first, though.”
“Does that shit actually work for you?” I asked, giving him my best die-you-asshole glare.
He shrugged. “Yeah, usually. Telling a woman exactly what I intend to do, and how well, and how often . . . yeah, it works pretty damn well.”
“It’s not gonna work on me, though.” I jerked my thumb at the rear window. “Go shoot someone.”
“Shooting people is my second favorite activity.” He winked at me again and hauled the AK-47 around and held it in both hands as he moved forward in a crouch.
“And stop winking at me!” I shouted. “Nobody winks anymore! It’s stupid.”
I heard a snicker from Layla, who had pulled herself back inside the bus. “What?” I snapped. “What’s so funny?”
She held out her fist for me to bump. “You—you’re funny. I like you. We can be friends.”
I tapped my fist against hers. “Good to know I have your approval.” I gestured at Puck. “Is he always like this?”
Layla nodded. “Worse, usually. You’re meeting Puck when he’s focused on work. Just wait till he has time to really hit on you.”
“Work? This is . . . work?” I frowned. “And if he hits on me, I’ll hit back, just sayin’.”
“Careful, he might like it.”
I couldn’t help a little snicker from escaping. “Dammit, you’re right.” I grinned at her. “Colbie Danvers.”
“Layla Harris.”
While Layla and I were talking, Puck was shooting, the AK-47 barking intermittently, and then after a moment the sound of shooting stopped. I glanced in the rearview just in time to see the SUV behind us rotate sideways, the windshield riddled. It skidded sideways, then a tire caught and it rolled, metal crunching and glass shattering. I returned my attention to the road ahead, a four-lane thoroughfare that could have been in a neighborhood outside New York City, except for the fact that the street signs were all in Cyrillic.
Puck: Alpha One Security Book 4 Page 2
