by Nicole Fox
Then, I hear a footstep overhead.
A single thump followed by the creak of the old wood as the weight settles.
I freeze.
“Did you hear that?” The voice is distant but right above me.
I know that voice.
It is Rian Morrison’s.
I grit my teeth but keep going. Instead of throwing my weight, I use what little mobility I have in my toes to slide the chair across the floor. It is loud, but a low sound that is probably more difficult to hear upstairs.
“She is tied up,” a deeper voice says. It is Cole’s father. They are both right upstairs. “She can’t go anywhere.”
I nod, trying to telepathically encourage that line of thinking. I can’t go anywhere. I’m tied up. Stay upstairs. It is fine.
I slide the chair closer to the stand. I am crawling at a snail’s pace, and somewhere deep down, I realize it is futile, but I can’t give up. Not now. Not before I’ve really tried.
“It is about time we check on her anyway,” Rian says, footsteps moving across the upstairs. “I’m going down there.”
Hope sinks in my chest like a stone in the ocean, and I lay my head back and stare up at the ceiling as she moves down the stairs and into the dining room.
The door opens. “You look like shit.”
I sit up and see a put-together Rian standing in front of me. She has on a royal blue pencil skirt with a cream shirt tucked in, the buttons done up to her throat. She looks like a villain from a science fiction movie.
“Smell like it, too,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “We did our best to clean you up after you had your little ‘accident.’”
I don’t know what she means until I look down at myself and realize I’m in different clothes. I’m no longer in my pajamas but in a cotton pair of sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt.
My bladder is empty. I peed myself.
“You force-fed me water and refused to let me use the restroom,” I say. “I’m not sure what you expected?”
She is across the room in an instant, her face less than an inch from mine. “I expected you to be better than a dog from the pound. Though, I shouldn’t be surprised. You are nothing more than a bitch.”
I open my mouth to argue, but as soon as I do, Rian pulls a bottle from behind her back and shoves the top of it between my lips.
Water floods my mouth and I spurt and gag on it, wrenching my head away. Rian grabs the back of my neck, digging her nails into my skin, and yanks me forward. She tries to force my mouth over the bottle, but I keep my lips and teeth firmly closed now.
Her father appears behind her, his face red and angry, and stomps over to help.
He moves around behind me and presses his palms into either side of my face, squeezing down until it feels like my jaw will shatter.
“Open up,” he growls, squeezing even harder.
“We can’t mark her,” Rian hisses at him. “Bruises on her face won’t sell.”
Instantly, his grip lightens, and I realize I was right. They can’t touch me. Not really.
He moves around and kneels in front of me. He wriggles his finger into my mouth, and though I try to resist, he is able to wrench my mouth open and hold it there while Rian pours water down my throat.
I spit half of it back out, but the other half goes down, and within a few minutes, I start to feel drowsy again.
Then, for what feels like the millionth time since the FBI raid on our house, the blackness takes me away once more.
The next time I return to consciousness, I’m lying down. There is nothing around my hands and ankles, and for one blissful second, I think it was all a horrible nightmare.
“Grab her head.”
Rian Morrison’s voice is like a shot of adrenaline straight to my heart. My body goes rigid when I feel sweaty hands grabbing at me.
Instinctively, I kick out at the hands and begin thrashing.
Rian lets out a yelp, and I hear a deep growl behind me. Her hands clamp down hard on my calves, but I fight against them.
I still don’t have my full strength yet because the drugs haven’t totally left my system, but I can still fight.
I open my eyes and realize I’m in the back seat of an SUV. Maybe the same one they used to take me to the house. I’m not sure. But I see a different house in the distance. Or, really, a large manor. There is official signage above the door, letting me know it is a business of some kind, but I’m too keyed up to read it.
Rian tries to wrap her arms around my legs, but before she can, my bare foot connects with the underside of her jaw. I hear her teeth crack together, and she falls back into the dirt.
A deep voice I assume belongs to the driver tries to grab my arms, but I slip out of his grip and through the door where Rian was standing. I have a better chance of fighting her than a grown man.
My feet hit the dirt, and I throw myself forward into a run, but my legs are still wobbly. My knees feel like jelly, and I trip over Rian’s leg and hit the ground.
I scramble quickly, but Rian recovers just as fast and throws herself over my body, smashing my face into the dirt.
“Enough!” she yells.
Hardly, I think.
I hurl my weight to the right and then bring my left hand around, my fist smashing into Rian’s nose.
It is a weak punch, but it is enough to knock her back for a second, freeing me up to crawl out from under her body. I only get a few feet away before she is on me again.
Her FBI training is outdoing my self-defense classes, and I can hear the driver moving around the back of the car. I won’t get away. There is no chance.
“You’ll want to stop fighting now. We have Milaya,” Rian growls in my ear.
My daughter’s name stops me in my tracks. It sends a chill down my spine, dousing the fire inside of me.
“We have Milaya,” she repeats. “And if you don’t do as you are told, we will make sure she suffers.”
I let my cheek fall against the dirt driveway. “Please don’t kill her. Please. She is only a baby.”
“Kill her?” Rian scoffs. “That isn’t suffering. That would be a gift compared to what I could do to her.”
My arms and legs are trembling from the unspent adrenaline in my body, but I hold still. I don’t kick or fight or yell. I just contain the rage and let Rian pin me to the ground.
No matter what happens to me, I can’t risk Milaya’s safety. I’ll do anything before I let them hurt her.
They’ve got me. There’s nothing I can do. So I go limp.
Rian and the driver drag me to my feet and lead me through the front doors of the Crooked Tree Inn.
6
Luka
I’ve only slept in thirty-minute dozes. And never lying down. Sleep only comes when I’m least expecting it. I’ve woken up with my head on my desk, cheeks pressed against my laptop keyboard. I jolted awake in the middle of eating dinner. Or, at least, what little dinner I can stomach.
Without knowing what is happening to Eve or where she is, any normal human activities feel impossible.
Instead of rest, I push my body to the limits. I spend an hour or more at a time in my home gym, running the adrenaline off on the treadmill and lifting weights, trying to find even a moment of reprieve.
But there is none.
When I’m not burning off energy, I’m doing what I can to find out anything about the Crooked Tree Inn and the LeClerc Cartel.
In this situation, knowledge is power. The more I can find out about the Cartel’s practices and the location of the auction, the better off I’ll be.
It isn’t enough to just walk into the inn and buy Eve. They might be expecting me or I might be outbid. I have no idea what kind of men to expect at this thing. Will they be wealthier than I am? Will I have to watch men test out my wife the way Rick suggested they might?
The thought alone makes me turn the speed of the treadmill up faster.
Sweat is pouring into my eyes, but I can’t stop yet. Not until my l
egs are shaking. Not until I collapse. That is the only way I can stay seated enough to do any valuable research. Otherwise, I pace, anxiously waiting for the time when I can leave and head to the inn, hoping Eve will be there.
When my legs feel like rubber, I take a quick shower and then move into my office.
My computer is still on, loaded to a page about the LeClerc Cartel. The only information I’ve been able to find is a few investigative journalism pieces from a few years prior and then a forum for at-home detectives who are trying to bring these men to justice.
One of the commenters laments that the Cartel went underground when a local magazine wrote the last article about them.
These journalists aren’t doing us any favors. LeClerc needs to be an undercover operation. That is the only way to find out where they hold their auctions. As soon as something ends up in the paper, they go deeper underground.
The only thing I’ve found out is what I already know. The LeClerc Cartel sell labor and sex slaves. They are known for serving an elite clientele with the best “merchandise” around.
Thinking of Eve as goods for sale makes me sick.
Rick gave me the address of the auction location: a small inn upstate. Based on satellite view, it is in a rural area, and based on the website of the Crooked Tree Inn, the rooms are luxurious.
Otherwise, nothing.
No blueprints or layouts—those are mysteriously absent from the file depository of the county’s architectural commission. Not a surprise, really. Men who succeed in businesses like this rarely let such vulnerabilities linger unaddressed. As far as I can tell, I’ll be going in blind, with nothing that could help me plan a good exit strategy should I find myself in a position where Eve and I can make a break for it.
I let my head fall forward on my arms and take a deep breath. I just finished in the gym an hour ago, but I can already feel my anxiety elbowing its way back to the forefront.
I check the time. I have another hour before I need to leave for the inn. I would spend the time packing, but Rick told me not to bother. They won’t allow me to take any luggage inside, anyway. So, I’m about to stand up and head back to the gym for one last run when there is a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Grigory Kamarov steps inside.
He is my right-hand man, but since Eve disappeared, he has kept his distance. It is what I told him to do. I don’t want to see anyone. Definitely not anyone from the Bratva. Admitting that I’ve lost my family is too shameful. Seeing the faces of men who trusted me makes it even worse. It makes me feel unworthy.
“I’ve been calling you,” Grigory says, folding his hands in front of him. His head is bowed forward, shoulders shrugging inward. He is trying to make himself appear smaller, probably to avoid the rage that has been leaking out of me like water from a cracked glass.
“I haven’t been taking any calls.” I didn’t turn my phone off because I didn’t want to miss a call from Eve, but I avoided calls from known numbers. Even Grigory’s. I knew if he had anything dire to tell me, he’d show up at the house. “Do you have something to tell me?”
“No good news, if that is what you mean,” he says, looking down at the floor. “But the men wanted me to come check on you.”
“Well, you did.” I gesture towards the door. “Thanks.”
On instinct, he moves towards the door to follow my order, but then he stops. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go without asking what the plan is.”
“The plan is my concern.”
Like the commenter on the detective forum said, any attempt to infiltrate the LeClerc operation has to be undercover. The fewer people who know about it, the better my chances are. It’s like the old saying: three men can keep a secret, if two of them are dead. I won’t run the risk of a mole turning me in before I can rescue Eve.
Grigory nods. “I respect that, but we all just want to do what we can to help. We love them too. Eve and Milaya are our family.”
“No, they aren’t,” I snap, standing up, pent-up energy bursting out of me like a bomb. “They are my family. My responsibility. Not yours.”
Grigory keeps his eyes on the floor, accepting my rage even though he doesn’t deserve it. “Respectfully, I have to tell you that your family is our family.”
I take a deep breath, calming myself down, and collapse in the chair. I want to thank Grigory. The outburst saved me another trip to the gym. Suddenly, I feel drained. Physically and emotionally. Like my very soul is tired.
“We just need to know that you aren’t going to get yourself killed,” Grigory says. “The men are worried that we are in the dark. We will follow your orders. Whatever you want us to do, we will do. Is there anything you can tell us?”
I think through my plan—what little of it there is—and sigh.
Grigory needs to know.
So I tell him about the Cartel and the auction. I tell him what Rick told me and pull the mask he gave me out of the top drawer.
“I want to do this on my own. Not because I’m proud, but because it is the safest option. We can’t attack the Cartel the way we would a rival family. They are too secretive and there are too many unknowns. So, I’m going in alone. This mask will act as a ticket, and I’ll get inside and try to get Eve out.”
“Are you going to bid on her?” Grigory asks.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I will have to get inside and formulate a plan.”
He looks unsure, but he nods. “So what do we do?”
“The auction starts tonight and ends in five days,” I say. I grab a piece of paper and scribble down the address of the inn. “If you don’t hear from me then, get as many men as you can and come to this address. Be ready for a fight.”
Grigory studies the address for a moment like he is memorizing it and then looks up at me. “If we don’t hear from you in five days, we’ll come ready to save the three of you. Or die trying.”
I nod slowly, silently thanking him for his loyalty. He tucks the address in his jacket pocket and leaves.
And, finally, it is time.
I am alone.
The drive to the inn takes almost an hour, but it feels like mere minutes.
I park in the back of the lot, shift the black mask over my face, and get out of the car.
I’m in a dark gray suit with a black button-down underneath. It is well-tailored and marks me as a man of taste without being too outlandish. I don’t want to stand out.
There are other men in the parking lot, all of them wearing masks. From what I can tell, the inn has been rented out for the weekend. There are no ordinary guests milling around, which makes sense. The Cartel wouldn’t want bystanders to their illicit activities.
I vaguely recognize a few of the men as prominent businessmen. They are wearing masks to hide their identities, but everything else about their appearance remains unchanged. They wear the same suits and carry the same weapons as they do in their day-to-day lives.
One man I can place instantly. His name is Peter Struthers and he is the president of a large bank. He is a hefty man with a round middle, which is difficult to hide, but he makes his identity even more obvious by wearing a pocket square with the bank’s logo embroidered on it.
I seem to be the only attendee of the event attempting to fly under the radar. Rick said that the masks are there to keep men from recognizing one another and rehashing old feuds, but clearly the other guests are uncomfortable going unrecognized. They flaunt their wealth and their power in their clothes and the way they carry themselves. Which is fine with me. It will make it all the easier to ascertain who they are and how I can outsmart and outbid them.
If there is one thing my father taught me, it is how to read people.
As leader of the Bratva, I have to know who is a threat to me, and the easiest way to do that is to watch people. To study them, to be proficient in body language, verbal tics, all the little signs and tells that mark a person as himself. Knowing who a man is can help you predict what he will do next
. And that could be the difference between life and death—not just for me, but for my wife and daughter, too.
Also, those skills make me even more aware of my own behavioral cues. If I want to go unnoticed, I can’t let my own tics give me away.
I walk to the entrance with my head held high, but casually so. I let my arms swing at my sides, and I even smirk, something I usually reserve only for Eve.
As soon as I get to the door, it opens, and I realize the level of security this event has.
There are armed guards standing just inside the door. They wear headsets and their suits are bulky enough that I suspect they have on armor.
“Sir,” the bald guard who opened the door says. His words are respectful, but his eyes narrow as he takes me in. “I’m afraid there will be no electronics or weapons beyond this point.”
He tips his head to the other guard who is holding a basket.
“Really?” I ask, raising my eyebrow before remembering I have a mask on. “Feels a little juvenile, no?”
One of the guests behind me laughs at my joke, and the guard snaps his attention to him. The laughter cuts off mid chortle.
“It is for your protection as well as that of the merchandise,” the guard says. “Tempers can flare and it is easier to control fists than guns.”
I can’t argue with his logic, and even though everything inside of me wars against it, I drop my gun and my cell phone into the basket. I know it isn’t a big deal. I have plenty of experience fighting hand-to-hand should I need to, and even the guards, while muscled, look like they are more bark than bite. In a pinch, I could incapacitate one of them and steal a weapon.
The guard slaps a label on the side of the basket and shoves it into a safe before grabbing another empty box and holding it out to the man behind me.
Beyond the security checkpoint, no one asks me for a password or a ticket or any kind of identification to prove that I am supposed to be at the event. Apparently, Rick was right. The mask is all you need.
I walk further into the entryway and take note of the staircase that wraps around the edge of the circular room, leading to a large landing area on the second floor with a balcony. The room is all dark wood and crisp white walls, clearly updated recently to cater to modern sensibilities.
