by Andrea Kane
“Emma.” Was that gravelly sound really her voice?
“Emma what?”
“Emma Stirling.”
“Well, Emma Stirling, you picked wrong person to fuck with. No, maybe not in all ways,” he amended, considering his choice of words. The look in his eyes changed to lust, as he sat back and studied her body, taking in every inch of her.
Emma’s insides turned to ice. She knew the customary Lycra workout clothes she was wearing clung to her figure—all she wanted now was to be swallowed up by an oversized T-shirt and baggy sweatpants.
“Nice,” Slava commented, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. “Very nice. Maybe I put the gag back in for now. Talk can wait.”
Emma gritted her teeth as he reached for it, locking her mouth shut. Simultaneously, she tugged frantically at the bonds around her wrists. Her primal instinct was to fight. She knew it wouldn’t help. It would probably make things worse. But she couldn’t help it. She was fighting for her life.
“Lie still.” Slava pressed an elbow into her stomach until her head rolled with pain and she went still. “Now open your mouth or I open it for you.” The massive fists at his sides told Emma there’d be no contest.
She obeyed his order.
“Good. Now, first I take what you offered in Chicago. But different. No pleasure. Pleasure would have been for Isabella. Pain is for Emma Stirling.” Another cruel smile. “But much pleasure for me.”
He stuffed the napkin back into her mouth. Flourishing the knife, he began to cut her Lycra top and sports bra, starting just above her breasts and slicing downward until he’d reached her waist. Then, he peeled back the layers and stared at her naked breasts.
“Beautiful,” he said, ignoring the way Emma shrunk as far into the mattress as she could. “Just like I knew.” He cupped both breasts in his huge palms, and Emma swallowed back her vomit.
He bent to take a nipple in his mouth. Emma cringed, squeezing her eyes shut.
Slava’s cell phone rang. He ignored it, lowering his head until Emma could feel his hot breath against her skin.
The phone kept ringing, over and over, stopping only to start ringing again.
Slava angled his head to see the caller ID and then leaned over to grope at the nightstand, muttering a few choice words in his native tongue. Emma didn’t have to know Russian to know he was swearing.
A temporary reprieve.
Bless whoever was on the other end of that call.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Slava kept one of his hands clamped on Emma’s breast, furious that Max was calling right now. All he needed was an hour, one hour, with this gorgeous bitch, and he’d be sated. He’d have taken all her body had to offer and then some. He’d have punished her in ways that excited him even further. And he’d have oozed every ounce of pleasure out of his body and every ounce of life out of hers.
One fucking hour.
Why was Max calling? He knew that Slava had landed, checked into his hotel, and was surveying the necessary areas in Upper Montclair. He also knew that Slava didn’t like—or need—anyone to check up on him. So what the hell did he want?
Snatching up the cell phone, he answered in Russian, his voice rough, gravelly, and pissed. “I’m busy.”
“Whatever you’re doing to her, it stops now,” Max commanded.
“How…?”
“One of your new flunkies called me. He was trying to reach you for further instructions. He saw you take the girl, and he assumed you were on your way up here, which is exactly where you should be.”
“I’ll leave soon.”
“You’ll leave now. My private jet’s already on its way. It’ll land in Morristown, New Jersey in less than an hour. Get yourself to the airport and get on that plane—with the girl, who’d better be intact.”
“She’s one of them.”
“I assumed so. Which is the only thing that turns your blatant disregard for my orders into something I can live with. She’s crucial to safeguarding my work and to ensuring my freedom and yours. So stop thinking with your dick, and think with your brain. We need to know everything she knows—and we need it before she’s too traumatized to provide it. I’ll do the interrogating. You’ll provide the incentive. That part should entice you.”
“Maybe.” Slava’s anger waned a bit. But not enough. He wanted absolute control over Emma Stirling’s body and her life. “Let’s say I do what you’re asking and you get what you need. Then what?”
“Then she’s yours. Do with her as you please. I don’t give a damn. But for now, I need her alive, healthy, and talking. So get your hands and your instruments off of her. Tie her up, throw her in the van, and drive to the airport. Your reward will be as sweet as you want it to be.”
Cupping Emma’s breast, Slava pondered Max’s promise and then reluctantly withdrew his hand. “Fine. But don’t forget what I’m owed, or I’ll be happy to remind you.”
Hutch was beyond frustrated.
He’d been in solution mode since Casey had called and blurted out the details of the crisis with Emma. He’d burned up the phone lines, setting the process in motion by appealing to his ASAC, who’d called the ASAC in the Albany Division—the division that handled Vermont. As shit luck would have it, their SWAT team was out of town training. The SWAT supervisor was willing to call them back, brief them, and devise a tactical plan. Then, given that the United States district attorney would be prepping the warrants, they would travel to Lubinov’s compound and be ready to move in. Hutch had stressed that this was exigent, but he knew that SWAT wouldn’t budge without those warrants.
So, despite all his hard work, he was facing a brick wall that he knew Casey would refuse to accept.
It was time for a blowout with his stubborn, reckless girlfriend.
Casey answered on the first ring. “Finally,” she said in greeting. “What do you have for me?”
“We’re screwed on the make-it-happen-now front,” Hutch stated bluntly. He went on to explain the dilemma they were facing. “So the wheels are in motion, but we’re going to need some time.”
“We don’t have time,” Casey countered. “Emma’s life is on the line.”
“You’re not even sure she’s in Burlington.”
“I know the odds are good.”
“You’re waiting until the Bureau can get there.”
“The hell I am.”
Hutch slammed down his fist. “Dammit, Casey, you can’t just—”
“Watch me. Marc and Ryan are already en route. That means they’re hours ahead of the FBI. I’m giving them the go-ahead. If the SWAT team shows up first, they’ll back down. If not, they’re going in.”
The line went dead before Hutch could respond.
Marc’s conversation with Casey was a minute long.
With a terse sign-off, he disconnected the call and turned to Ryan, relaying Casey’s orders.
Ryan nodded, flooring the gas just a tad more than he already was and speeding up the highway.
“Don’t get a ticket,” Marc instructed. “We can’t afford the time, and we can’t give an explanation.”
“I’ve got my eye out for cops,” Ryan replied. “But we’ve got to push it as much as we can.”
Marc didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up his iPhone and pressed a private number.
“Yup,” Aidan answered. Abby’s voice in the background told Marc that his brother was working at home.
“Black Hawk.” Marc uttered the two words tersely.
There was a long pause at the other end. “Are you drunk?” Aidan finally asked.
“Not even a little.”
“Black Hawk? Marc, we haven’t played that game since we were kids.”
The game in question was a Special Forces battle that two like-minded brothers had reveled in. Yes, it was fictional, but to them it was real, with hand-to-hand combat, military warfare, amphibious attacks, and tactical strategy that was pretty sophisticated for two boys of eight and eleven. Back then, they didn’t know
it would be their futures. They only knew that they loved playing it. When one of them said “Black Hawk,” the game was on.
“Yes, I know,” Marc replied. “But I need you to fast-forward it and come through for me now. It’s urgent.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
Marc laid out the entire situation to Aidan: Emma, her life-threatening circumstances, and the FBI’s time constraints.
“The SWAT team won’t reach her in time,” he concluded. “So we have to. Ryan’s with me. He’ll pinpoint our targets. But it’ll take the two of us—you and me—to pull this off.”
Aidan’s wheels were turning. “I’ll need to get in touch with a Marine buddy of mine and call in a favor.”
“Then do it. If we don’t get to Emma in time, she’ll be tortured, raped, and dead. You and I did military cross-training. We’re in sync. I’ll follow your lead. Just make this happen.”
Aidan swore under his breath, and Marc knew exactly what he was thinking.
“We’ll get it done before SWAT arrives,” Marc said quietly. “Abby won’t be caught in the crossfire of you being prosecuted. And capture is out of the question. You know how good we are. I promise you that Abby will never be left alone.”
Aidan blew out a breath. “I’m all she has, Marc. She’s my world—and I’m hers. You can’t promise me shit.” A pause. “Goddammit. I can’t let Emma die. And you and Ryan can’t do this without me.”
“Exactly.”
“This is the first and only time, Marc. Understood? Never again, and only because it’s Emma.”
“Heard loud and clear.”
“I want Madeleine to stay with Abby. How soon can she get here?”
“I’m calling her now. She’ll be there by the time you pack up your gear. She won’t leave Abby’s side until you walk back through your front door.”
Aidan didn’t doubt that. Madeleine was amazing with Abby, and his little princess adored her. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
“You know the coordinates of where we’re headed,” Marc said. “We’re already an hour ahead of you, with four more to go. We’ve got one stop to make in Burlington. Get on the road as soon as Maddy arrives. And let me know our meeting place after you make your phone calls.”
Claire had been holed up in her yoga room for over two hours.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to calm down enough to channel her energies where they needed to go.
She’d set the stage perfectly, shutting the blinds and turning on the room’s low, soothing lights. She’d then seated herself in lotus position on her mat, placed Emma’s things in front of her, and begun taking deep, cleansing breaths. She had to make this happen. But she also knew that what she was striving for couldn’t be forced.
Finally, her mind shifted into that wide-open, ethereal place where white light dominated her being, and she knew she was ready.
Eyes closed, she allowed the energy to flow. She reached out, and her fingers found Emma’s “emergency-hot-guy bag”—a faux suede pouch that held all the essentials Emma felt were necessary if a last-minute date opportunity arose.
Unzipping the pouch, Claire removed the shimmery pale peach lip gloss that Emma claimed went with everything. She unscrewed the top and pulled out the wand with the soft tip that was moistened with gloss.
Slowly, she slid the pad of her finger over it, feeling the sticky substance coat her skin.
Emma.
Her image slid into Claire’s head and immediately took shape. Emma. Bound. Gagged. Crumpled on a leather seat. Crying. Hurting. Her body trying to curl into fetal position. Bruises on her face and at her wrists and ankles, where she was bound. And the terror. It was overwhelming. Thoughts of torture and sexual assault and dying all crashing into Claire at once.
Oh, God, poor Emma. How much of that had happened already and how much was yet to be?
Claire shifted her concentration to Emma’s surroundings—the tan leather seat and the tightly enclosed quarters.
It wasn’t a room. It was small and contained. A cabin. Filled with noise. A loud, thrumming sound that pounded inside Claire’s head. A motor? No, an engine.
Emma was on a plane—a plane bound for Burlington, Vermont.
She’d be there soon.
It was making its descent now—Claire could feel the pressure build in Emma’s ears, see the tops of the lush green trees draw nearer. She didn’t need to call on her gift to know that Emma was being taken to Maxim Lubinov’s compound.
Marc and Ryan didn’t have much time.
It was after nine o’clock on a moonless night when the FI van arrived in Burlington, and Marc and Ryan broke into the Department of Land Records in City Hall.
Quickly and efficiently, they used their flashlights to rifle through the file cabinets. Ryan’s search of the tax records revealed the lot and block number of Lubinov’s estate: Block 026-4, Lot 001. Quickly, they pulled the architectural plans for the buildings that made up Max’s compound, spread the sheets out across a tabletop, and took pictures in rapid fire.
“We’ve got more than enough,” Ryan said at last. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Marc nodded, already returning things to their proper spots and shutting the drawers and cabinets.
He and Ryan left the building, easing the door shut behind them until they heard the telltale click that signified it was locked. Then, they jumped into the van. Marc checked in with Aidan for the third time in the past few hours and carefully explained the plan to Ryan as he drove.
“Are you listening to me?” he demanded, seeing that Ryan was studying the photos.
“I’m listening. I’ve got my part down pat. No worries.” A pause, as Ryan continued to pore over the diagrams. “The master bedroom suite is in the northwest corner of the manor,” he murmured. “By the time you and Aidan are ready to move in, my guess is that that’s where Lubinov will be.”
“Which means our point of entry should be in the living quarters, not the sleeping quarters. Now we just need to figure out the most desolate area, and the one closest to the lake.”
“Yup. That’s why I’ll be covering all our bases and leaving as little to chance as possible.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m going to get as accurate a handle on where the most security is located before I let you two loose.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
“Get where?” Marc’s head snapped around. “We’re meeting Aidan at the warehouse he instructed us to. Not on Lubinov’s grounds. Remember?”
“I remember. But you and I are making a quick stop on Lubinov’s turf. We’ve got the time. Aidan hasn’t even gotten to Burlington yet. And I have some of my own recon to do. So when we get to the fork in the road about a mile down, veer left.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The expansive grounds surrounding Lubinov’s mansion were utterly dark and equally still. The house was secreted behind groves and groves of trees, set so far back from the road that it would be invisible to a passerby.
A perfect place for top-secret experimentation.
Marc maneuvered the van just inside the property line and into a hidden recess in the wooded area that was a considerable distance from the dwellings.
“Okay, Ryan, this is as far as we go. Whatever it is you have in mind, it better be fast, and it better be from here. I’ve indulged you because you swore you’d get crucial data for us. But this is where I draw the line.”
“No sweat. I’ll go the rest of the way by foot.” Ryan had climbed into the back of the van and was rummaging around in his duffel bag. “Here,” he announced.
Before Marc could continue his tirade, Ryan pulled out a bird-like drone with a broad wingspan and a brown underside.
“Is that an owl?” Marc asked.
“Sure is.” Ryan grinned. “Meet Hooter—Bee’s big brother in flight.”
“Give me a break.” Ma
rc shook his head. “Only you would think of naming your drone Hooter.”
“Hey. Show some respect. Hooter is going to surveil Lubinov’s property and take videos that will provide us with a map you and Aidan need to follow. He’s a nighttime drone—no moon, no problem. And he has infrared video camera capability.”
Ryan continued, as if Marc weren’t thoroughly familiar with infrared technology from his night vision training.
“Infrared detects warm objects relative to their surroundings,” he explained. “So humans and animals outside the house will show up as bright spots. Buildings, assuming they’re warmer than their surroundings—pretty much a given at this time of night—will show up, as well. Most important, so will security guards, who, obviously, need to be avoided. Like I said, no moon, no problem.”
“Thanks for the brush up course. Still, I have to admit I’m impressed with what you’ve built with your owl drone. Except for one caveat—distance. How close do you need to get for Hooter to do his job? Because, like I said, we’re not moving in. We have no idea how much security is stationed on the grounds. Lubinov’s not going to situate himself in such an isolated locale and then leave the place unguarded. If we thought he would, then Aidan and I wouldn’t have devised such an elaborate plan to get inside the house. We’d just kick the door down and walk in.”
“I won’t have to get close to the buildings,” Ryan replied. “Just close enough to use Hooter. Unlike Bee, he flies from a distance. Not to worry.” He gathered up the drone and its controls. “He’ll only have a few passes before he’s noticed. So it’s a good thing I made him as accurate as I did. Be back in a few minutes.”
“I’m going with you,” Marc said, unfastening his seat belt.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yeah, it’s necessary. You may be a tech genius, but you’re an arrogant asshole. I’m a former Navy SEAL. SEAL outranks ego. You’re only getting a little wiggle room. My lead. Our getting killed won’t do Emma any good.”
“Killed.” Just tasting the word on his tongue seemed to give Ryan a cold dose of reality.
