by Livia Grant
As an actress, she enjoyed getting deep into her character and tonight, she was playing the role of Ryder Helms's sex slave. Her fingers pinched her tit, as she remembered he had done. Her hand slid through her dripping folds, faster and faster until she felt the desperation of emptiness. How she longed to have his cock thrust into her. Her own fingers were a sorry substitute as she started finger-fucking herself as she moved her left hand from her breast to her clit, pressing and rubbing it harder and faster, matching the quick insertions of her three fingers inside her neglected cunt.
How sad that it took less than two minutes to bring herself off with a weak climax. It was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it was all she had left of a man she'd never see again.
Post orgasm exhaustion closed in and she welcomed it. Suddenly chilled, she snuggled back under the covers, but then regretted not peeing before she'd gotten into bed. She'd regret it in the morning if she didn't take off her layers of makeup and replace them with layers of the high-priced anti-aging creams she lathered her body in nightly, hoping to fend off the wrinkles she knew would end her career. Eventually, the pressure on her bladder insisted that she'd have to brave the chill of the room at least long enough to dash to the toilet if she hoped to sleep.
Swishing back the heavy comforter again, she dashed for the door to the bathroom across the room, flicking on the light as she sped into the room.
Too late she registered the danger.
Too late she tried to shrink back, but momentum propelled her into the center of the room before she lost her balance, falling to her knees. She was surrounded by a shrine of pictures of herself, taped to the mirror, the walls, hell even the glass slider to the shower. Photos cut from magazines. Grainy printouts of images she recognized from being posted online.
The ones that scared her the most were the candid shots. Someone had gotten close enough to her to snap her ordering a drink at Starbucks. Another picture caught her jogging in Malibu, close enough to see the damp perspiration soaking her tank top. One photo showed her conferring with the director on the closed set of her current film project, a place no one unauthorized should have been able to access.
But it was the word MINE written in what looked like her own red lipstick above the bathroom sink that finally filled the room with her scream. Some pervert had been in her home. In her private bathroom. Only then did she think to scan the room, frantically praying she was alone. Self-preservation kicked in as she pushed to her feet and dashed back towards the bedroom. She grabbed the thick white robe from the back of the door struggling to wrestle it on as she full-out ran back through her bedroom, down the long hall and towards her front door, praying an intruder didn't tackle her before she escaped.
Khloe didn't stop running until she arrived at the elevator. Tears made the down button she was pressing frantically swim before her eyes. Her heart thumped in her chest as she dared a glimpse back over her left shoulder, praying the boogieman wouldn't be chasing after her and grateful when the hall was empty.
She rushed inside the small lift the second it arrived, pressing L for lobby over and over until the doors slid closed. With each floor she descended, awareness of the gravity of what had happened grew in the pit of her empty stomach. This was no crazy email threat or innocent message from an avid fan on her Facebook profile. Someone, presumably a man, had been stalking her. Photographing her. That man had been in her apartment. Her home. Her bedroom.
Only when the doors opened on the first floor did she realize she had no idea where she was going or how she would get there. Hell, she didn't even have on shoes.
Patrick, the doorman, stood behind the front reception desk. He looked up, smiling at first, until he realized something was very wrong. Her logical brain knew Patrick was safe, but in that moment, her body reacted to a large man rushing towards her by shrinking back until she slammed into the now closed elevator doors, screaming at the top of her lungs. She saw his mouth moving as he got near, but a loud ringing in her ears blocked out his voice. White spots blurred her vision as she began to feel lightheaded. In a last ditch effort to protect herself, Khloe swatted his hands away from her as he reached out, not recognizing he was only trying to stop her from falling as she felt herself teetering.
The last thing she remembered before feeling his arms wrapping around her to break her fall was wishing it were Ryder there catching her instead.
Chapter 3
Twenty-six security cameras. Twelve armed Bratva soldiers. Four Volkovs. Two locked doors.
When Ryder added up all of the obstacles that stood between him and escape, he had to face reality. Rescuing the Marshall family was a suicide mission... for him and them.
He sat idly by, trying to look interested and not horrified by Artel's lecherous action plan. The naked servant girl kneeling in the corner had been summoned by Viktor to distribute fat cigars and fingers of liqueur to the seated men as if they were about to enjoy an after-dinner entertainment. As Ryder lit his cigar, he glanced to his left to find Alexi looking as uncomfortable as he secretly felt.
Mrs. Marshall fought like a madwoman to get to her daughters, but her bravery only earned her a backhand so hard that she collapsed to the floor in a dazed heap. Her face, already puffy and sporting multiple bruises, attested to the fact this blow had not been the first. She was bleeding from her nose hard enough that streaks of bright red dripped down her chin and onto her ripped dress. The young girls cowered, clinging to each other while Artel's henchmen easily lifted them, throwing each of them to the floor near their mother where they scrambled into her arms.
The scene was surreal. The only sound in the room were the whimpers of the women and children along with the click of the camera as a Bratva goon took dozens of photos of the unfortunate family now huddled on the floor.
Only now did Ryder recognize a white curtain had been pulled across a drapery rod. It conveniently hid the distinctive carved mahogany paneled walls. Anger flared hot as he realized they did this sort of despicable thing often enough that they'd permanently installed camouflage to disguise their sickest of crimes.
The gunman turned photographer stopped snapping shots to force their faces up so the camera could accurately capture their terror. Each tear that fell turned Ryder's stomach more than the one before until he felt like he was about to throw up his lobster dinner. He'd been party to a lot of fucked up shit in his deep undercover career, nearing his ethical limit more times than he wanted to remember. He'd dreaded the day he'd come face to face with the limit to his immorality.
With a calm certainty, he knew that day was today.
As the minutes ticked forward, Artel's and the guards' behavior grew increasingly aggressive towards the innocent family––slapping the youngest girl who refused to stop sobbing and ripping the mother's bodice to expose her blood-stained bra. It helped Ryder press forward with his decided plan.
He forced a practiced ruthlessness into his voice as he spoke. "If you don't mind my asking, Pakhan, how much do you plan to ransom them for? I'm sure they are worth a great deal."
Viktor didn't take his eyes off the spectacle playing out in front of him as he answered. "No ransom. The bastard doesn't deserve the courtesy."
Based on Artel's earlier comments, Ryder wasn't surprised by the information, yet he suspected the American businessman wouldn't see anything about the abduction and terrorization of his family before they were murdered as a courtesy.
"Of course, sir. But surely it's too dangerous to hold such valuable assets here at your home."
Finally, the elder Volkov glanced his way. "I'm glad you're on our side, Nicolai. It is also why I've chosen to trust you with our most valuable task."
"I'm honored to be of service to the family," he replied with trained sincerity. "How may I be of assistance?"
He'd asked Viktor, but it was Artel standing behind him who answered his question.
"You've been chosen to deliver our very strong message to Chip Marshall."
He already suspected the answer to the question he was about to ask. "Do you have the message prepared? Where would you like me to deliver it?"
In his gut he knew the communication wouldn't be words. More likely, the planned message would be disposing of the oil tycoon's family in some seedy neighborhood in Moscow where a vagrant would stumble upon them and maybe call the police.
Viktor took a puff of his cigar, luxuriating in his power, ignoring the question still hanging in the air. Only when the photographer pulled a vinyl tarp from a duffle bag near the door and spread it across the priceless antique carpet did Ryder have confirmation for his suspicions.
Artel puffed on his tobacco, on his feet, pacing like a dangerous animal about to pounce on his prey as his henchmen prepared the scene. Despite her fear, Mrs. Marshall had noticed the tarp, too. Like a protective mama bear, she'd moved her young daughters behind her, shielding them as best as she could. One by one, she frantically scanned the dangerous men in the room, desperate to find someone who would help her. Ryder held his steely gaze as their eyes met, giving her no reason to hope for his help.
When Artel pulled a heavy Glock from his shoulder holster, Ryder made his move. Pushing to his feet slowly, he deliberately kept his hands in the open, setting his half-smoked cigar into the heavy hand-blown glass ashtray before approaching Viktor Volkov.
Father and son tore their attention away from the doomed family to look at Ryder.
He spoke with confidence. "I would be honored if you'd allow me to prepare the message for the American."
He saw the surprise in Viktor's old, jaded eyes, quickly replaced with pleasure.
Artel was less pleased, eying Ryder with suspicion. Still, when his father gave his oldest son directions, Artel listened.
"Loan your weapon to Nicolai, syn. He offers a great service to the family."
It took almost a minute of silent standoff before the tallest Volkov in the room extended his hand, providing the only weapon in the room to a man he knew as Nicolai Romanovski. With a forced calmness, Ryder carefully closed the gap between them, grateful the bastard had been too arrogant to walk towards him. By making Nicolai come to him, he'd played perfectly into Ryder's plan.
The weapon was comfortingly heavy... sturdy. Out of habit, Ryder hit the magazine release, pulling the ammunition out to ensure all was as expected before slamming the magazine home and taking the weapon off safety.
His trained movements were so smooth, the Volkovs' sluggish reactions were no match for the seasoned operative.
Ryder closed the few feet remaining between him and Viktor Volkov. He grabbed the older man by the lapel of his suit, yanking him to his feet and pressing the nozzle of the weapon to his temple. His rush of adrenaline helped swing the now joined men around, putting the patriarch of the family directly in front of him, the perfect shield.
He'd half expected the other Volkovs to whip out hidden guns, but none did. Instead, they cursed loudly. The surprise on Vlad's face was almost comical, proving to Ryder he'd just blown a very successful cover.
"I'm sorry, but I can't let you kill innocent children. That's an unacceptable line to cross."
He'd spoken the words in Russian, but Artel answered him in English. "I fucking knew you weren't to be trusted. You have no idea how big of a mistake you made threatening my father."
Ryder smiled a menacing smile, switching to English as well. "Oh, I have a pretty good idea. But this is how this is going to go." The elder Volkov struggled half-heartedly to break free, but he was too old. Too frail.
He didn't dare take his eyes off Artel who was both the closest and deadliest man in the room, yet he spoke to the woman huddled on the floor crying. "Mrs. Marshall, stand up and gather your girls. Then walk to the man sitting directly in front of you in the black jacket. He's going to give you a set of car keys."
Alexi's eyes widened before turning dark with rage. Ryder knew that Alexi would pay a high price for not detecting the truth earlier, and for that he was sorry, yet the man was no innocent. When you play with fire, you need to be prepared to get singed.
Only when Mrs. Marshall had the keys in her hand did Ryder bark the next order. "Everyone except the Marshalls stand and go to the other end of the room." When no one moved into action, he pulled the muzzle of the gun away from Viktor's temple, only to bring it back with force. His pained cry filled the otherwise quiet room, jarring his sons into action, first rushing towards Ryder until he shouted, "STOP! NOW!" When the men did as they were told, he added, "To the other end, now."
Mrs. Marshall was stumbling towards the exit, pulling her girls with her, but Ryder needed to warn her of the dangers on the other side of the door.
"Don't leave yet."
Her eyes widened, desperation glaring at him. She swayed on her feet, still unsure why one of the Russians was helping her.
Ryder pulled the dead weight of Viktor Volkov along with him as he made his way to the door himself, keeping his back to the wall and the elder mafia king safely in front of him as leverage.
When he reached the door, he instructed her, "When we get outside this room, there will be many armed guards. We need to keep the old man between us and them. Grab a pool stick and put it into the door handles to this room to slow them down. We'll stay together."
"But who are you?" she asked with doubt.
"He's a dead man, that's who he is," Artel snarled from the far end of the room, too far away to help his father. Ryder made the mistake of making eye contact and knew if he didn't open fire and kill the men in the room before he left, he would forever be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. He'd never start his car again without wondering if that was the day it would explode, the Volkovs having found him.
He pushed down the thought of offing the entire family before leaving. As tempting as it was, he knew it would only destabilize things further in Russia. More importantly, it would alert the guards on the other side of the door.
Instead, he had the woman he was rescuing open the door slightly so he could glance out the crack. All of the guards were still playing cards, oblivious to the drama going on inside the private dining room. It gave Ryder the edge.
Going from slow motion to top speed, Ryder pushed through the door, swinging the old man in front of him as the henchman nearest the pool table recognized the threat. Ryder took aim and squeezed off a shot straight to his chest, quickly returning the muzzle to Viktor's temple.
"Hands where I can see them," he shouted to the remaining Bratva. At first, no one moved, but he quickly raised the gun and shot into the ceiling before returning the threat to the old man's temple. "Hands!"
It was then Viktor finally spoke. "I'm disappointed, Nicolai. Artel warned me about you, but I did not listen."
Nothing Ryder could say would change a thing so he kept silent, pushing their little party towards the exit while scanning the room for new threats. They had arrived at the door to the grand staircase when all hell broke loose. He reacted on instinct, lifting the gun and shooting at the armed guards in the room who dared to shoot in his direction, despite the patriarch of the family being at risk in the middle of the action.
They were almost out the door when he felt the impact of the bullets hitting Viktor. The old man grunted in pain, slumping in Ryder's arms making it harder to continue using him as a shield. By the time they got to the stairs, Ryder knew he'd have to make it the rest of the way without the shield. He let the old man slump against the bottom steps. Standing above him, Ryder could see the pained disbelief etched across his face.
"Why, Nicolai? I treated you as a son," the old man croaked.
"No, Viktor. You treated me like a henchman. Nothing more. Nothing less."
The old man coughed and a small line of blood dripped from his mouth. Not a good sign. An odd sadness invaded Ryder, recognizing he probably wouldn't make it. He may not have pulled the trigger that killed the Pakhan but he would be held responsible by the remaining family as if he had.
He didn'
t have time to mourn the years of work he'd thrown away in the space of a few reckless minutes. Knowing every second that ticked by made their escape harder, Ryder reached to grab up the smallest girl and barked his order.
"We need to run. Stay behind me. We're heading to the midnight blue Ferrari to the left as we leave the front door. Pile the kids in and have the keys ready for me when I get behind the wheel."
The frightened mother had morphed into a warrior, prepared to do all she could to assist in her family's rescue. They had made it almost all the way to the front door before he heard the dangerous cock of a weapon in the grand foyer. Spinning around, he got his shot off in time to neutralize the guard who'd come to investigate the shots fired.
Ryder cracked the front door, relieved to find the guards from the front gate had not already descended on mansion. He'd been counting on the communication blackout in the private meeting space paired with the confusion over Viktor being shot to give them the few minutes they needed to have a prayer of a chance.
He could see the bumping headlight of a souped up golf cart heading down the driveway in their direction. Their time was almost up. When he opened the driver's door to Alexi's beloved car, he practically threw the crying girl from his arms into the almost non-existent back seat. He had to hand it to Mrs. Marshall. She had kept up with him every step of the way, helping her older daughter into the car and handing the waiting keys to Ryder the second his ass hit the leather seat.
The engine roared to life as the first bullet punctured the back window, thankfully missing all occupants. He threw the car into reverse, spinning out as he screamed orders. "Everyone get down low and stay there." He maneuvered the sports car while adding, "There's another Glock on the floor under your seat along with my cell phone. Grab them and send a text that says 911 to my contact labeled 'Pizza'."
