by Kaylea Cross
The agent knocked once on the window, signaling for her to get ready. She gripped her briefcase tight in her left hand and prepared to make the short run to the entrance as instructed.
The moment the door opened, she shot through it and jogged straight for the door to the elevator where another agent waited, holding it open for her. Halfway there, she vaguely picked up the sound of a vehicle’s doors opening behind her.
“Get her inside, now!” her guard snapped.
Rowan wrenched her head around in time to see masked men burst from the van, holding rifles. Fear ripped through her. She swung her gaze front once more to find the guard at the door reaching for her, his weapon raised and his expression set. Urgent.
The staccato pop of semi-automatic gunfire shattered the silence. A scream locked in her throat as the guard at the door grabbed hold of her shoulder, yanking her inside the building.
Bullets slammed into the windows and door, spraying bits of glass down on them. The agent dragged her to the floor and landed on top of her, shielding her with his own body. The shooting got louder, more ferocious as the FBI agents returned fire. Bursts of shots came one on top of the other until it sounded like continual gunfire.
Then, suddenly everything got quiet. Over the ringing in her ears, the agent on top of her let out a vicious curse and scrambled off to drag her to her feet. “This way,” he commanded, seizing her by the upper arm. “Run and don’t stop until I say.”
Heart in her throat, Rowan rushed after him, her high heels sliding on the bits of glass. Her shins and the front of her thighs stung in places but she barely noticed, racing to keep up with the man, who raised his weapon as he wrenched open another door and pushed her up the stairs in front of him.
As she turned the corner of the staircase and began to run to the second floor, she glanced back and glimpsed the two FBI agents beside the SUV down. And the masked men bearing down on the entrance with their weapons up.
Terror rocketed up her spine. She kicked off her stupid shoes and fled up the stairs, her heart racing. She bit back a scream when the man at the base of the stairs fired his weapon.
A volley of rifle fire answered him. Rowan didn’t dare look back, didn’t dare slow down, racing for the upper hallway.
Another agent appeared on the landing, weapon drawn. “In here,” he shouted to her. Rowan ran for him, had almost reached the doorway he was in, holding out his hand to her, when an accented male voice called out from behind her.
“There’s nowhere to hide from us, bitch.” Then male laughter.
God, how many of them were there? More gunfire shattered the stillness. High-pitched pops amongst the staccato fire of the rifles.
Gasping for breath, her heart was about to explode, Rowan latched onto this new agent’s hand. He was talking to someone via his earpiece, demanding backup as he dragged her inside, quickly locked the door, and herded her away toward the far side of the room to another door.
He shoved her inside it. “Lock it. Don’t open it until I tell you to.”
Her hand shook as she turned the bolt home, then retreated to the opposite side of the storage closet and stood there with her back pressed to the wall, her breathing shallow as she stared at the door.
This was it. Her last refuge. If the agent on the other side couldn’t take down the attackers, then she was dead.
She squeezed her eyes shut, took a shuddering breath. She thought of Malcolm. Kevin. Her parents. I don’t want to die!
The thought had barely formed before gunshots ripped through the room. She swallowed a cry and forced her knees to hold her upright, her chest so tight she could barely draw a breath.
The shooting stopped. The resounding silence reverberated against her eardrums, mixing with the terrified thud of her heart. There was no way the FBI agent had survived that. She had no weapon. Nothing to defend herself with.
Rapid Spanish filtered through the door. Her heart sank, fear giving way to denial. Oh my God, you’re about to die and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
The door handle rattled. She shifted her stance, balled her hands into fists, ready to fight if she could.
More Spanish, and an oily male snicker that made her skin crawl. A single gunshot hit the door. She flinched and pressed her lips together, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing her scream.
A moment later the ruined door swung open. Before she’d even taken a single step, fist raised, hands reached in and plunged a hood over her head.
She fought it, grabbed at the fabric and tried to wrench it off but cruel fingers wrapped around her wrists and yanked them behind her, squeezing until her bones hurt. Something wound around them, imprisoning her hands.
“Don’t bother fighting, puta,” one of the men sneered, dragging her out of the closet.
“Or, go ahead and fight,” another argued. “We love it when women have some fight left in them.”
The smug male laughter infuriated her. Rowan yelled and kicked but it did no good. Two sets of hands had her now, immobilizing her as they hustled her out of the room.
Where were they taking her? Why hadn’t they just shot her? If they were planning to do to her what they’d done to Anya or Victoria, she’d rather have died here and now.
She twisted and bucked, got nowhere. The hood was stifling, the total lack of light completely disorienting. It felt like there was no air. Like she was slowly suffocating.
The sound of the men’s running footsteps changed as they hit the tiled hallway, then she bounced a little as they rushed down the stairs. They were going to take her out of the building. To what? That van?
Must. Get. Free.
Gritting her teeth, she wrenched up against the restraining hands. Her strength was waning, her muscles already weakening, but she couldn’t give up.
“Better save your strength,” the first man said with a chuckle. “You’re gonna need it, linda.”
The change in temperature told her they were outside now. She kicked her feet, hoping to smash the man holding her legs in the face. “Let me go,” she roared.
They tossed her into the air. She had only enough time to suck in a breath and brace for impact before she landed with a bone-jarring thud on something hard and metallic. Pain radiated throughout her ribs and hip, the side of her head where it had hit whatever they’d thrown her onto.
Doors slammed shut and she started moving. A vehicle. Maybe the van. God, where were they taking her?
She struggled to her knees. Something slammed into her temple. Pain shot through her skull as her head snapped to the side. She crumpled onto the floor of the vehicle.
“Stay down there where you belong, puta,” a hard voice warned, “or you’ll get more.”
Gasping, disoriented, Rowan curled onto her uninjured side and bit her lip to keep from crying. She had to be smart. Strong. Figure out how to survive whatever they had planned for her. Killing federal agents would rain hell down upon her captors. The FBI would be sending backup right now. A task force would be set up to find her.
Commander Taggart would be alerted. Malcolm would find out soon after that. He would do everything humanly possible to find her before it was too late.
Except she knew in vivid detail what these animals had done to Anya and Victoria. Ice congealed in her gut, terror snaking through her body. How could she endure that? How could she survive it?
Even though she couldn’t see through the impenetrable black fabric of the hood, Rowan squeezed her eyes shut and sent up a silent prayer.
Malcolm, help me. Please help me…
****
“Good to be back?”
Mal looked up from gathering his gear at Khan, the team medic, who was watching him from over at his locker with a knowing grin. They were kitting up for a training exercise to work on their urban combat skills, followed by a trip to the range for some long gun work.
“You have no idea.” He missed being with Rowan, but since that wasn’t a possibility, the only other plac
e he wanted to be was with his team. Here he had a purpose and it felt good to be back in the fold again, with guys he knew and respected.
From over by the door, someone let out a shrill whistle. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked over to where Commander Taggart stood in the doorway. “Listen up,” he said, closing the door behind him as he addressed the team. “We’ve got a major kidnapping situation unfolding right now.”
When that aqua gaze landed on Mal, a warning prickle started at his nape. Not Rowan. Jesus, not Rowan.
“Armed attackers assaulted Miss Stewart’s security team twenty-minutes ago.”
Mal shot to his feet, his heart rocketing into his throat. Fucking Christ. Next to him, Maka put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Mal barely refrained from wrenching away from it.
“HRT Commander DeLuca is aware of the situation and his boys are on standby. But the way things are going, both our units might be needed if the call comes in.” He paused a moment, his gaze lingering on Mal for a second, a kind of silent acknowledgment that he was aware of how Mal was feeling. “So everybody head to the briefing room. We’ll be getting updates and new intel in real time, so I want us up to speed and ready to go at a moment’s notice if they need us.”
Mal was the first one out the door behind Taggart, his body pulsing with helpless fury. Where was she? Was she injured? If those assholes had killed more federal agents, then she might have been shot too. Was it Ruiz, looking to stall his upcoming trial? Or Nieto, looking to make a statement?
“Freeman, wait.”
Mal stopped, realizing only then that he had barged outside instead of heading to the briefing room. Fighting to get control over his emotions, he slowly turned to face Hamilton and Prentiss.
Prentiss stopped a few paces from him, searched his eyes a moment. “I’m sorry, man. I know how much she means to you. And I know exactly what you’re feeling right now. I was out of my mind when they took Autumn.”
His little daughter, who they’d thankfully found and rescued in time. Mal didn’t bother denying that Rowan meant something to him, because it was an understatement and it felt like his fucking heart was being put through a shredder right now.
“Come inside,” Hamilton said quietly. “If we get the call, all of us need to be ready, so we can do what it takes to get her back.”
He was right, of course. “I just… I need a minute.” Mal’s voice was hoarse.
“I get it. But when you’re ready, come to the briefing room so we can get to work.” Then he pointed at the building behind him, his expression earnest. “Every last guy in there is here for you. For her. We’ll get her back.”
If someone finds her and we even get the call.
Mal pushed the awful thought away and nodded, because what the hell else could he do, and his team leader was just trying to give him hope. When Prentiss and Hamilton turned to walk away, Mal couldn’t help saying, “You know what they did to Victoria. To Anya.” Hamilton had spent more time with Victoria than anyone else on the team. He’d seen in grim detail the damage they’d done to her. And Prentiss had been the one to find her in the woods that night.
His team leader turned to face him. His demeanor was calm and steady as ever. But those steel gray eyes glowed with deep, burning rage. “I know. But none of that’s gonna happen to Rowan. They’ve already got teams out looking for her, and a net set up. Roadblocks into and out of the city are in place and they’re analyzing CCTV footage now. She’s going to be okay.”
The fierce way Hamilton said it, Mal almost believed him. They would find Rowan. But there was another part, deep down inside where his most secret fears lay buried, that was fucking terrified they wouldn’t find her in time.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rowan couldn’t stem the fear surging through her. Couldn’t stop her mind from spinning out of control as she lay on the floor of the van while it bumped over the pavement.
They’d been driving for what seemed like a while, maybe around an hour, she wasn’t sure. There were so many places they could be by now, and so far no one had tried to pull them over. Did the van have plates on it? Surely one of the FBI agents had reported it if anyone was still alive.
A shudder sped through her. She hadn’t tried to fight anymore, not after the shot to the side of the face where her cheekbone still throbbed like it had its own heartbeat.
She rolled a little as the van made a left-hand turn. This time the driver went slower. They were no longer on the highway. The road here was bumpier. It had either some stoplights or stop signs, judging by the slowing and acceleration pattern. Were they getting close to their destination? They’d taken her alive for a reason. What were they going to do to her once they got there?
Horror curdled in the pit of her stomach. Details of what they had done to Victoria filled her mind. No, stay strong, she reminded herself. But when the van finally stopped and at least some of the men exited the vehicle, panic slammed into her like a wrecking ball.
Rough hands grabbed her by the arms and hauled her upright. She held herself rigid as they dragged her out the back. The moment she felt the breeze on her bare arms and legs, she struggled, survival instinct taking over.
“Help!” she cried, twisting, kicking. “Somebody help me!” She kicked out behind her, hope surging when the man holding her grunted. If she could get free, maybe she could run—
Pain sliced through her ribs as a fist slammed into her right side. She doubled over, the air knocked from her lungs. Growling male voices echoed around her but she couldn’t understand them, too overcome with the fight for breath to focus on anything else.
Slowly the swimming sensation faded, a clammy film of sweat coating her skin. There was no escaping the cruel, iron hold on her arms and legs, the men’s fingers biting deep with bruising force. They lifted her. Carried her quickly.
Their footsteps shuffled along pavement, then a door squeaked open. The man holding her legs let go. She stumbled, her knees slamming into the hard, unforgiving floor. Then the man holding her arms yanked her upright, shoved her backward and down. Her rear hit something hard, the unexpected impact jolting up her spine, making her teeth clack together.
A man muttered something in Spanish. The door opened again, then shut. A cold bead of sweat trickled down her ribs, her heart slamming against her breastbone.
Someone grasped the hood and roughly jerked it from her head. Rowan flinched and squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden brightness, but fear forced them back open, her entire body on red alert as she took in her surroundings.
She was in some kind of a small hut with no windows. A single bulb surrounded by a wire cage suspended from the middle of the ceiling.
Movement to her right made her snap her head toward it. A man stepped in front of her. Late twenties or early thirties, with bronze-colored skin and a dark moustache and goatee. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, and the evil gleam in them made her skin fucking crawl.
“Miss Stewart,” he said in a thick Spanish accent. “So good to finally meet you at last.”
Through her terror, it took a moment to place him. But when her brain at last snapped into gear, the chill inside her turned into an arctic blast.
Juan Montoya. Manuel Nieto’s chief enforcer. One of the most feared and notorious criminals within the entire Veneno cartel. Vicious even by cartel standards.
Even though she was shaking inside, she met that awful stare and raised her chin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of allowing him to see how terrified she was. He needed something from her. Otherwise he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of kidnapping her.
One side of his mouth tipped up in an amused smirk. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to retrieve you, puta,” he said softly. So softly the tiny hairs on Rowan’s nape prickled in warning. “You’d best not disappoint me after all this.”
Her spine was rigid as a steel rod, her muscles locked tight as she stared up at him. It was almost worse that he was a good looking man, his attrac
tive exterior at complete odds with the evil that lurked underneath. But it showed in those dark, gleaming eyes that made her want to recoil. Only by sheer force of will did she hold her position.
He took a step closer. She braced herself for a blow, for him to grab her by the throat, but he merely placed his hands on his jean-clad thighs and leaned forward at the waist slightly, bringing his face closer to hers. “Where is Oceane?”
She’d expected this. Still, her mouth went dry. He wasn’t going to like her answer. “I don’t know.” Her voice was faint but surprisingly steady.
His face tightened. The evil beneath the polished façade rippling just under the surface. “Don’t lie to me, puta,” he spat. “Where is she?”
There was no harm in telling him what she did know. It wouldn’t put Oceane in any more danger than she already was. “I don’t know. She was supposed to meet with me this morning at the building, but her security team must have diverted when mine saw your van and got suspicious.”
He searched her eyes. “And?” he prompted.
“And when y-you attacked—” Damn, her voice was shaking a bit now. “Her team would have taken her back to the WITSEC facility.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
He bared his teeth, his patience slipping, and seized a handful of her hair, wrenching her head back painfully. “Tell me where it is.”
“I don’t know!”
Releasing her hair with a rough yank, he reached behind him to withdraw something from his pocket and crouched in front of her, that frightening gaze freezing her in place. A quiet snick sounded as a bright silver blade sprang free from the switchblade he held in his hand.
The blood drained from her face, her entire body shrinking away from it.
