“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“How do I know you won’t shoot me as soon as I transfer the ten million, then have someone else try to find it?”
Not that they’d be able to.
“My word’s as good as yours.” I do honestly mean that. I’ll give back every penny if he just gets me out of here.
Seconds tick off the clock while he stares at me, and I glare back, heart in V-fib and no one nearby with the paddles to shock me back to life it my ticker calls it quits.
Finally, he nods. “Fine. Half now. Half when you’re safe. But if you double-cross me, there’s nowhere you can run where I won’t find you.”
“Bet you say that to all the girls.” I didn’t realize I was such a nervous chatterer. It’s partly because I really believe he’ll find me. And also because Peyton’s dead, bloodied body is still lying between me and the computer.
I try not to look, try to figure out how to make my body as small as I can so I can squeeze around without touching any part of him, but the room is small, the equipment is big, and Peyton is at an awkward angle.
I suck in a breath. I’m getting out of here. Nothing else matters.
It takes two minutes to transfer the money into his account and for him to get a notification email. I look up at him. “You should probably open a couple accounts, you know? This kind of money all in one place makes for an easy target. Plus, there’s the tax implications. A lot of red flags.”
I’m being serious, but he just points at the door. “Let’s go.”
This time, he doesn’t touch me, but lets me walk past him out the door. In the hallway, I wait for him. I don’t know how to get out of here, and I want some kind of protection. I’ve already made a copy of his files that I sent to myself while I waited for his money to transfer.
He leads me through a supply room into the warehouse part of the building. Crates and boxes are stacked three or four high in neat aisles. I can’t see anyone, but I can hear voices—Russian, semi-angry, loud.
They can kill each other for all I care. I just want to go home. I try to quicken my pace, but Totti stops and holds me back.
I can see the door and the line of light at the bottom. So close. Almost there.
“Stop!”
How a single one-syllable word can sound so decidedly foreign, I don’t understand, but this one does.
Roberto and I turn to the old man who shouted. He’s white-haired. and not in the silver-fox-handsome kind of way. His face is scarred on one side, the skin red and angry like he’s been burned at some point, and he’s twenty-five pounds too heavy. Just a big, angry Russian bear.
“This is the bitch who humiliated my daughter,” the old man snarls.
“I don’t know your daughter.” The only other Russian I know is Tomas. But I have a sneaky suspicion that the daughter in question is Tomas’s fiancée. Was? Is? Shit, I don’t know anything anymore.
I don’t have time to consider it before the old man swings a backhanded slap at me, connecting with my already-cut and not-yet-bandaged cheek.
My face explodes in pain and I scream as I go down. He straddles me with a knife. I look for Roberto Totti, who’s gone from villain to my only possible savior in the blink of an eye.
“You disgraced my family,” the bear growls. He pulls a knife from a sheath under his jacket. “For my daughter’s honor …”
I look up at Roberto, begging for his help with my eyes, but he’s receding into the background, emotionless. Apparently, my life isn’t worth the remaining seventeen million dollars.
The old man presses the blade under my chin.
“I’m someone’s daughter, too,” I whimper. I don’t know if he hears me. Even if he does, I doubt he cares.
24
Tomas
It’s taken three days. Long, exhausting days of capturing men who work for Totti, torturing Kuznetsov brigadiers, following the Italians to various warehouses and drop locations.
Until recently, there’s still been no sign of Corrie. No ransom demands. No clues.
But now I have a shitload of intel on their operations since our last hostage wasn’t very good at being tortured. I also have four dead Russians, three dead Italians, and an Italian soldier fairly high up the ranks in their spaghetti-sauce army with one hand, one ear, and eight missing fingers to deal with when we’re through here.
We’re at a warehouse we only discovered because the soldier’s directions led us to it. He didn’t know for sure, but it’s the place he said he would’ve taken her if it was up to him. Totti’s man gave up the address and I watched Peyton, Totti, and Totti’s son—the same kid who stopped at Chik-Fil-A and McCarty’s Books this afternoon—go into this same building earlier.
Now, Leonid Kuznetsov’s black Escalade is sitting by the loading dock.
This is the place. Probably their headquarters or at least a backup.
It’s about forty degrees outside, just cool enough to be comfortable underneath the tactical combat clothes. They’re light. Breathable. Easy to move in for hand-to-hand fighting. And they work with my bulletproof vest.
I glance at Kostya and Petr. They’re dressed all in black, with weapon holsters attached to their belts, and Kostya wears one at his rib cage. Two of the best fighters in the Bratva. Kostya is also a friend, but in a shootout, I want Petr and his guns as close to my side as I can get him. He’s a former Russian special forces soldier and a Bratva legend who carries a gold-plated Ruger my father gave him, and he’s leading a second wave of our men into the building.
We have enough firepower to blow this place up—and we will, as soon as I get Corrie out safely. This building and four others in this cluster of industrial warehouses, along with a city-block- sized abandoned factory where Leonid stores his weapons, a parcel of shipping containers at the harbor, the Kuznetsov safe houses, Leonid’s mansion, and any building that connects to the Totti family or the Kuznetsovs will soon be piles of rubble and dust.
Josef, Ilya, Sergei, and all of the other men in our ranks are at a location strategic to busting into this building. Ilya and Sergei are on the roof, ready to rappel over the side and through the windows on the second-floor office side. The rest of the men are in threes, armed for battle and covering exits. This will be a total annihilation. As soon as Corrie is in the clear.
They’re all waiting for my signal. I’m about to give it…
But then I hear her screaming.
I know it’s her. It’s Corrie.
The sound goes through me, and I turn hot and cold, furious and fearful. Someone’s going to die. I run to the building, flattening my back against the wall beside the door. Kostya slides into the small space against the cinderblock wall next to me. “What are you doing?”
I don’t answer but fling the door open. Kostya yells into the microphone embedded in his jacket. “Go! Now! Idti! Idti! Seychas!” Doors bust open, windows break. My men rush into the building from all sides.
But I only see old man Leonid crouched over Corinne, his knife at her throat.
While my men begin the gun battle with all the Italian and Kuznetsov security men, I hold my Glock in front of me and advance on Leonid. “Stop!” I bellow.