Chapter 14 #3
"I'm fine," I manage, though every inch of me throbs with pain. "Are you—"
Car doors slam nearby, cutting off my question. Greyson is on his feet in an instant, pulling me up beside him. "Run," he orders, pushing me toward the trees that line the road. "Now!"
I stumble forward, but before I can reach the tree line, a figure steps out to block my path. The man from the SUV, his suit now dusty but his expression coldly professional.
"Olivia Bennett." His accent is vaguely Eastern European. "We've been looking for you."
Greyson lunges at him with a roar of fury, but a second man appears, swinging something that catches Greyson across the temple. He staggers, blood streaming down his face.
"Stop!" I scream as the first man grabs me, pinning my arms behind my back. "Don't hurt him!"
Greyson recovers, his eyes murderous as he charges again. This time he connects, his fist driving into the second man's solar plexus with enough force to lift him off his feet.
A brutal fight ensues, Greyson moving quickly despite his injuries. He's holding his own against both men when a third emerges from the SUV, this one pointing a gun directly at my head.
"Enough," the gunman says calmly. "Mr. Reed, please stop, or I will be forced to kill Ms. Bennett."
Greyson freezes mid-swing, his eyes finding mine with agonizing clarity. I can see the calculation in them, the desperate search for a way out that doesn't end with a bullet in my brain.
"What do you want?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet as he slowly raises his hands.
"Both of you," the man replies. "My employer has questions that only Ms. Bennett can answer. You are… insurance that she will cooperate."
"If you touch her—" Greyson begins, but the man presses the gun harder against my temple.
"Please, Mr. Reed. No threats. They are tedious and unnecessary." He gestures toward the SUV. "Shall we go? I promise we will make this as civilized as possible."
The other two men, now recovered, approach Greyson with zip ties. He allows them to bind his hands, his eyes never leaving mine, silently promising that this isn't over.
"I'm sorry," I whisper as they push us both toward the vehicle.
"Don't be," Greyson replies, his voice steady despite the blood dripping down his face. "We're going to get through this. Together."
As they force us into the back of the SUV, I catch a glimpse of our surroundings, desperately trying to memorize landmarks, anything that might help if we manage to escape.
But the roads here are isolated, rarely traveled at night.
By the time anyone finds Greyson's abandoned bike, we could be anywhere.
The man with the gun slides in beside us, keeping the weapon trained on me as the other two take the front seats. The engine starts, and we pull away from the scene of the crash.
"Where are you taking us?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Somewhere quiet," the gunman replies with a thin smile. "Somewhere we can have a long, detailed conversation about your friend Diane, the information she stole, and exactly what you know about it."
My blood turns to ice. "Diane? What have you done to her?"
His smile widens, revealing teeth too perfect to be real. "Ms. Mercer has been most… informative. But we have reason to believe she has not been entirely truthful. Perhaps you can help us separate fact from fiction."
Beside me, Greyson has gone utterly still, his expression unreadable. But I can feel the fury radiating from him, see the calculation in his eyes as he studies our captors, looking for weaknesses.
"My father will find us," I say, more confident than I feel. "And when he does—"
"Please, Ms. Bennett," the man interrupts with a dismissive wave. "Spare me the threats about your motorcycle club. By the time they realize you're missing, our business will be concluded."
The SUV turns onto a dirt road, heading deeper into the forest that surrounds our small town. I exchange a glance with Greyson, trying to communicate without words. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod—a promise that he has a plan, that we'll find a way out of this.
As the trees close in around us, blocking out the moonlight and any hope of being seen from the main road, I cling to that promise like a lifeline. Because the alternative, that these men will do to us what they've clearly already done to Diane, is too terrifying to contemplate.
The SUV bounces over ruts and potholes, each jolt sending fresh pain through my bruised body. But I force myself to stay alert, to memorize every turn, every landmark we pass. If we get a chance to escape, I need to know which way leads back to civilization.
"Almost there," the driver announces, his voice oddly cheerful. "Mr. Volkov will be pleased we found you so quickly."
Volkov. The name means nothing to me, but I feel Greyson tense beside me at the mention of it. He knows something, something he hasn't shared with me.
The SUV slows as we approach a small clearing where a cabin stands, isolated and grim. Another vehicle is parked nearby—sleek, black, expensive. A man leans against it, smoking a cigarette with casual elegance.
"Our host," the gunman explains unnecessarily as we come to a stop.
The driver and his companion exit first, coming around to open our door. The gunman slides out, keeping his weapon trained on me as the others haul Greyson out of the vehicle. His face oozes blood from the head wound, but his eyes are clear and focused.
"Careful with him," the gunman instructs as they cut Greyson's zip ties, only to resecure his hands behind his back with rope. "Mr. Volkov will want him intact for questioning."
They do the same to me, the rope biting into my wrists as they tighten it. The pain is nothing compared to the fear coursing through me as we're marched toward the waiting man.
"Ms. Bennett," he greets me. "And Mr. Reed. How kind of you to join us."
"We didn't have much choice," I reply, trying to match his calm tone despite my racing heart.
He smiles, dropping his cigarette and crushing it beneath a polished shoe. "Few do when dealing with my organization. But I assure you, cooperation will make this process much less unpleasant for everyone involved."
The cold metal of the gun barrel digs painfully into my temple as Volkov studies us with clinical detachment.
I force myself to breathe evenly, fighting the urge to flinch away from the pressure.
My head throbs where the weapon presses against my skin, but I keep my expression neutral, unwilling to show weakness.
Greyson stands ten feet away, blood still trickling down his face, his eyes locked on mine. I can see the barely contained rage in his stance, the way his muscles strain against the ropes binding his wrists. One wrong move and these men will pull the trigger.
"Now," Volkov continues, circling me slowly, "let's discuss your involvement with Diane Mercer and the information she stole from my associates."
I want nothing more than to run to Greyson, to feel his arms around me, to know we're facing this together. But the gun remains steady against my head, a constant reminder of our precarious situation. I have to stay calm. For both our sakes.
"I don't know anything about stolen information," I say, proud that my voice doesn't waver. "Diane and I were friends, that's all."
Volkov laughs, the sound devoid of humor. "Ms. Mercer tells a different story. She claims you were the mastermind behind everything, that you found recordings made by Richard Keller and decided to use them for blackmail."
"She's lying," I reply immediately.
The pressure of the gun increases slightly, making me wince despite my best efforts. Greyson takes an instinctive step forward, only to be restrained by one of the men.
"Don't," I plead, meeting his eyes. "I'm okay."
"Yes, Mr. Reed," Volkov says with mocking gentleness. "She's perfectly fine, as long as she cooperates. As long as you both cooperate."
He gestures toward the cabin. "Shall we continue this discussion inside? It's getting rather chilly out here."
The men force us through the door, the interior of the cabin stark and utilitarian—a table, some chairs, a woodstove providing minimal heat. What catches my attention immediately is the plastic sheeting spread across the floor, dark stains visible even in the dim light.
Blood. Diane's blood.
"Where is she?" I demand, unable to stop myself. "What have you done with Diane?"
Volkov smiles thinly. "Ms. Mercer is resting. She found our questioning quite… taxing."
They push Greyson onto a chair, securing his ankles to the legs with more rope. The man with the gun finally removes it from my temple, but only to force me onto a second chair facing Greyson.
My skin stings where the barrel pressed against it earlier, relief mingling with fresh fear as they bind my ankles as well. Across from me, Greyson's eyes never leave mine, silently communicating strength, determination, and love.
"Now," Volkov says, pulling up a third chair between us, "let's try again. The recordings, Ms. Bennett. Where are they?"
"I don't have any recordings," I insist. "I don't know what Diane told you, but she's the one who was involved with Richard. She's the one who had access to whatever he was hiding."
Volkov studies me for a long moment, his pale eyes unreadable. Then, without warning, he backhands Greyson across his already bloodied face.
"No!" I scream as Greyson's head snaps to the side.
"This is how it will work," Volkov explains calmly, as if he hadn't just struck a bound man. "You lie to me, Mr. Reed suffers. He lies to me, you suffer. Simple, effective motivation for honesty, don't you think?"
Greyson spits blood onto the plastic sheeting. "Touch her and I'll kill you," he promises, his voice deadly quiet.
Volkov merely smiles. "Bold words from a man in your position." He turns back to me. "The recordings, Ms. Bennett. Diane claims you have copies hidden somewhere as insurance. Where are they?"