Chapter 39 Maeve
Maeve
My lip is cracked, my left eye swelling, and this bumpy ride doesn’t help matters.
The Russian didn’t kill me, but he knocked me on my ass with the butt of the gun, which hurt like hell. I don’t recommend it.
Handcuffs secure me in place on the floor of a blacked-out van. Where there would usually be seats, the floor is bare, leaving the bar primed to hold hostages like me.
I can’t see anything from down here.
But LA was my playground.
I rode my bike on these streets, put in about ten thousand miles training for cross-country along them, and learned how to drive in dismal LA traffic.
I’ve gone up the 101 to go camping and hike the El Camino Real. I’ve taken the 10 to Vegas more times than I can count. Just recently, in fact, for Lenora’s birthday.
Big Bear, Joshua Tree, Tijuana… I don’t need a smart phone to navigate SoCal, or most of the Southern United States. And I’m almost always the one driving, if not my 850i, then some other vintage vehicle with a manual transmission.
I retract what I said about my father never showing me any affection. He taught all his kids how to drive a stick.
Every day since, I’ve fallen a little more in love with driving.
Thanks to my father—probably the only time I’ll ever utter those words—I know these streets.
I know the Russian was on the 10 East for about twenty minutes before making a right. But we weren’t cruising over twenty miles an hour for most of the ride. It’s never not rush hour around here. And he didn’t exit onto a ramp that brought us to another freeway.
We’re navigating side streets. Maybe Alameda, or possibly Santa Fe Avenue. Heading due south to Vernon, perhaps. Lots of industry there.
I participated in a drag race in that area once that featured a bunch of sense-challenged teenagers and the shortest race in the history of the sport. That was the night I had sex in a jacked-up Mustang.
Nice guy, though the attraction was more about the car. The relationship never went anywhere, but I still have no regrets.
I figure this Russian asshole is probably taking me to Vernon. The perfect locale for nefarious mob business due to the density and many deserted buildings. While I don’t have a phone, I at least know where I am, where we’re going. And when we stop, I’ll craft an escape plan.
He accelerates into a fast turn. I hit my head on the bar I’m cuffed to, my nose pressing into the filthy floor.
I can’t imagine how horrible Kellin must feel. I only got punched once.
Well, struck with the butt of a gun. But still. Every inch of Kellin must be in a world of pain.
The van slows as the tires go over a bump. Not a speed bump, but the thin metal track of a gate.
As soon as the Russian puts the van in park, he’s out of the vehicle. Seconds later, he opens the door and grabs a foot to yank me out.
“The cuffs!” Is this guy for real?
He digs in his pockets for a key before unshackling me.
Sweat rolls down my back and dampens my shirt. I hope these bastards gag on the stench.
Nothing good comes next.
I hop out of the van, reminding myself to just keep my mouth shut, because I really don’t want another black eye. I follow my captor willingly, my gaze flicking everywhere.
We’re in a freight train yard. If we board one of the cars, my family will never find me. There must be two hundred or more, all nose-to-ass on the tracks.
Everything in Vernon is so gray. A real black-and-white photo encapsulating an area that has yet to be altered by the passing of time. We could’ve teleported back to the seventies for all I can tell.
I’m scouring for anything that pops out. A landmark, a sign. Anything to let me know exactly where I am.
I spot a metal wall painted Los Angeles Lakers gold. Fifty feet long by twelve or so high. Nothing’s written across it, though, which won’t help my family discover my location.
Assuming I magically find a phone and some alone time to dial home.
Maybe I get one call?
I sigh. That’s jail, not the mafia. I highly doubt my Russian captors would demonstrate that much courtesy.
How did I manage to get myself into this situation?
Wrong place, wrong time, Maeve.
If I live through this abduction, I’m severing ties with my father. We can’t keep using the Cypress for his dirty dealings. What if I’d sent Lenora downstairs to check on everyone? What if someone else had encountered this jackass before I did?
I couldn’t live with myself if one of my staff or guests were in my position.
We’re heading into a dingy building—all corrugated metal—just beyond that glossy gold wall. Some kind of abandoned warehouse.
I bet there are a dozen of those in my eyeline, if I were to stop and count. What distinguishes this one from the rest?
Another guy approaches us, broader and paler than my escort and wearing a scowl that could scare Christmas off the calendar. He’s excited, or maybe anxious, until he examines me and my face.
He barks at my captor—an actual nonverbal command—and goes ballistic.
Those two bicker in Russian in a way that suggests deep familiarity. I’m probably dealing with brothers. Just my luck.
Scowl waves a hand at me. “The face!” Ah, English.
Well, well. Somebody’s in trouble for hitting me.
I hear my father’s name a few times, along with the word for money in Russian and English. More than once.
Another guy appears. His slate gray tailored suit screams Milan—high fashion—and he’s got bad-guy good looks. Great hair. A nice mustache. Nothing like these two bickerers.
At the sight of me, he halts in his tracks. He shoves his hands in his pockets and cocks his head. “What the fuck is this?” He speaks with an accented English that I can’t quite get a read on.
I must resemble an exotic bird at the zoo. Or maybe my eyeball is hanging halfway out of the socket.
My escort addresses him. “She saw us take Doyle. What were we supposed to do?”
“She was not part of the plan!” Scowl shoves my kidnapper’s shoulder. “Rostov gave us specific instructions to secure the accountant and—”
“Silence.” The Suit walks over, touches my chin, and examines my lip and eye. I can smell his mossy, musky cologne. Nausea rises in my throat. “This will set Gallagher over the edge, and we need him to cooperate.”
My captor crosses his arms. “I would think blackening the pretty face of his only daughter would make him more than willing to comply to our demands.”
Scowl throws up his hands. “It will do the reverse. You know nothing. You are not trained to think.”
I really want to jump in and agree with Scowl. Black eye or no black eye, if you really want to blackmail my father, you should’ve taken Connor.
Suit gives me a full view of his back to further belittle his underlings while they continue to hypothesize about what Grigori Rostov will do when he sees me.
They already have this Doyle accountant guy. Can’t they just release me?
Given my father’s role as the head of a criminal enterprise, logic dictates that I will not talk to the police about this.
My father probably wouldn’t hand over even his least favorite possessions in exchange for my life.
I’ve spent so much time denying my true identity that I don’t even know my father at all. I can admit I’m guilty of that much.
But if I were a gambler, I’d place bets that he’d save Doyle over me. His empire is all he’s ever actually cared about.
Terrifying to admit, but true.
Twelve hours ago, the man referred to me as a whore.
Rostov will be disappointed when this deal goes south.
You boys kidnapped the wrong kid.
They’re idiots. But they’re also mobsters. And when they realize I’m useless, there’s no reason for them to keep me around.
For the first time since the Russian abducted me, I truly believe I might die.
Thick, cold, clarifying fear slices through me.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
I inch back a little. I’m now one foot farther away from my captors, and they didn’t even notice a thing.
The golden wall glitters behind me. A perfect backdrop for a firing squad.
Presumably, they all have guns, and I’ll be an open target unless I can get around those weapons and somehow find my way to freedom.
After two more tiny steps back, I remind myself to breathe.
Beyond that wall, maybe twenty feet or so, I spy a semitruck, dead to the world and catching cobwebs. My best chance is to sneak behind the wall, then duck under that semi.
Alternatively, I could go past the truck and through the building and pray there’s an exit or a small dark space to wait these men out. Or maybe I can just hide in the semi’s undercarriage.
If I trip the Russians up with my speed and smaller size—and they lose track of me—I can reach the streets at some point and scream with all I’ve got. I’ll have to rely on the good citizens of Los Angeles County to come to my rescue after that. But I have faith.
I slink another four steps back and exhale.
It’s like I’m not even here…
I wonder if I can risk ditching my shoes. Even though I’ve cracked a million jokes about being able to run a marathon in these pumps, I’d rather not put that theory to the test.
Between the three of them, Suit is definitely the one in charge. I pray he’s the long-winded type.
I retreat a little more and then pivot about thirty degrees so I can peek around the wall to plan my path.
I wait a heartbeat.
And then I run.
One of them shouts in Russian as I slip around the wall and dive under the truck. Gravel grinds into my knees and shins, but I don’t stop.
Metal scratches at me—my cheeks, my ears, my back—as I scramble on top of a tire axle and hold tight.
Freeze.
Don’t breathe.
One man sprints past me, cursing under his breath.
Russian sounds so much angrier than English.
The metal bar beneath me is like an icicle. Digging into my arms, my thighs. Oil and gas cover my palms, coating me in the scent of road and travel.
I breathe slowly. Quietly.
My pulse pounds in my wrist and ear and squeezes my chest.
I have never been so insanely terrified in my life.
But I’m fine. I’m fine.
I’ll survive this.