Chapter 3 #2
I press myself against the opposite door, putting as much distance between us as possible.
We drive in silence through the rain-wet streets. Christmas lights twinkle from lampposts and storefronts, cheerful and bright, a stark contrast to the darkness inside the car. Couples walk hand in hand, laughing and smiling, heading home from holiday parties.
Free.
They're all free, and I'm trapped in this car with a killer.
I take stock of the men inside the car. My captor to my left. And two men in the front.
Three men standing between me and freedom.
"Where are you taking me?" My voice comes out steadier than I expect.
"Somewhere safe."
"Safe for who?"
He turns to look at me, and in the passing streetlights, I can see his face clearly. He’s all brutal beauty and cold precision, without an ounce of emotion. "For you, actually. Whether you believe that or not."
"I don't."
"You will."
The city doesn't give way to suburbs or highway. Instead, we're heading south, toward the airport. My stomach drops.
"We're flying somewhere?" The question comes out small and frightened.
"Yes."
I hate flying.
But just add that to the list of terrors tonight.
"Where to?”
"You'll see when we get there."
Panic claws at my throat. If he puts me on a plane, I could end up anywhere. Russia. Europe. Somewhere I'll never be found.
"I need to use the bathroom," I try.
"We will be on the plane within ten minutes."
I try a different tactic. "I'm going to be sick."
His eyes narrow. "Are you?"
"The motion of the car…"
He reaches into a compartment and pulls out a bottle of water, offering it to me. "Drink this. Small sips."
I don't want to take anything from him, but my throat is desert-dry from fear. I accept the bottle with shaking hands and take a sip. The cold water actually helps, but only a little.
"Good girl."
I glare at him. "Stop calling me that."
"But you are being good. Smarter than I expected, actually. You understand that running right now would be suicide."
"Is that what you want? My submission?"
His eyes go dark, and that look—that hungry, dangerous look—is back. "Don't put ideas in my head, Holly."
Heat floods my face. I look away and focus on the passing landscape, but I can feel him still watching me.
We pull through a gate marked ‘Private Aviation’, and my worst fears are confirmed. A sleek black jet sits on the tarmac, the stairs extended, lights glowing warmly from inside.
The car stops at the base of the stairs, and the driver gets out and opens my door. Cold air rushes in, along with the distant roar of jet engines.
My captor emerges from his side and comes around to me, offering his hand like we're on a date instead of him kidnapping me.
I ignore it and climb out on my own.
"This way," my kidnapper says, his hand returning to the small of my back.
I want to run. There are other planes, other people. Surely someone would help me.
But the driver and another man in a suit are behind us, and my captor's hand on my back is firm. And I realize with sinking certainty that even if I screamed, even if I ran, his reach extends here too. Private terminals. Private security. Money and power that can make a woman disappear.
“I’m not a very good flyer,” I say, my hands shaking at the idea of being stuck on a plane with this madman.
“Now is the time to overcome that fear, Holly,” he says simply.
“I’m not kidding, we’ll get thirty thousand feet in the air and who knows what I’ll do once my anxiety takes over.”
“You’ll do as you’re told. That’s what you will do.”
It’s a command. Not a suggestion.
So I do as I am told and walk up the stairs.
The interior of the jet is obscenely luxurious. Cream leather seats, polished wood, soft lighting. It smells like leather and expensive cologne. An elegant flight attendant greets us with a beauty-queen smile.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Morozov. We're cleared for takeoff whenever you're ready."
Morozov. Finally, a name.
He guides me to one of the large seats and waits until I sit before taking the seat across from me. Close enough to reach me, far enough to give me breathing room.
"Champagne, Mr. Morozov?" the attendant asks.
"Vodka. Neat. For both me and the lady."
The lady. As if I'm here by choice.
The attendant retreats to the galley, and the pilot's voice comes over the intercom announcing our departure. The engines' pitch changes, and I feel the jet begin to move.
Oh boy.
“Relax, you have more chance of being struck by lightning than dying in a plane crash,” Morozov says.
“Sorry, if I don’t believe you. Your credibility took a nosedive around the same time you abducted me."
His eyes gleam with amusement. "If this plane goes down, we go down together. That should be oddly comforting."
“Yes, you’re right, thinking about you dying in a fiery crash is oddly comforting,” I snap, but I’m not really paying attention to him. Because we’re about to take off and my nerves are staging a full-scale mutiny.
I make a point of inhaling slowly in, and slowly out, in an attempt to steady them.
“Where are we going?” I ask Morozov as a distraction.
“Alaska.”
“Alaska?” Okay, so not Russia or Europe. This is good. I feel a surge of hope.
"And how long will it take to get there?" I ask.
"Four hours."
Four hours. It means I have four hours to figure out what to do. Four hours before we land somewhere and my options become even more limited.
The attendant returns with drinks. Morozov takes his vodka and downs half of it in one swallow, never taking his eyes off me. I sip mine, my hands still shaking.
“Drink,” he insists. “It will help with your nerves.”
“Letting me go would work better,” I say.
He gives me a dark look, so I down the vodka in one mouthful. It’s so smooth, I don’t even taste it. But I feel the burn spread through my chest, and it’s comforting.
“So are you going to tell me your name?” I ask. “Or should I just call you Morozov?”
He signals for another vodka, then brings his gaze back to me. “You can call me Nikolai.”
The jet accelerates along the runway, and we lift off, and I grip the edge of the seat until I’m white knuckled.
"You're scared," Nikolai observes.
"Of course I'm scared. You murdered someone, and now you've kidnapped me. What do you think I am?"
"Smart enough to survive this." He finishes his vodka and sets the glass aside. "Tell me about your work. You're an art curator."
The shift to casual conversation is so jarring, I almost laugh. "You can't be serious."
"We have four hours. We can spend them in silence, or we can talk. Your choice."
"My choice." I let out a bitter laugh. "I haven't had a choice since you broke into my apartment and stole me."
"You had choices, Holly. You chose to fight me. You chose to get in the car instead of forcing me to carry you. You chose to walk onto this plane. They were all difficult choices, but they were yours."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," he agrees. "But it's what you have right now."
I look out the window at the darkness. We're above the clouds now, and there's nothing below but an endless black void.
My head aches, and I press my fingers into my temples.
"Why Alaska?" I ask quietly. "What fate is waiting for me there?"
He's silent for so long I think he won't answer. "I have a home there. You’ll be safe."
“I’d be safer in my own home.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
I shake my head. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“There is a lot I’m not telling you.” He leans forward. “Because I’m the kidnapper and you’re the captive.”
I glare at him and he leans back again.
"This is insane," I breathe. "You’re insane.”
“Murderer. Insane. You do like your labels.”
“Here’s another one. Asshole. That works too.”
He smirks, and I want to punch him right in his perfect mouth.
The plane levels out, and the seatbelt sign dings off. The attendant reappears with more vodkas.
"We're at cruising altitude. Would you like dinner?"
"Yes," Nikolai says without looking away from me. "Something light."
The attendant disappears again, and we're alone except for the muted roar of the engines.
I down the second vodka and relish the new wave of warmth carving its way through me. My muscles finally relax. In fact, all of me starts to relax.
"Eat when it comes," Nikolai orders gently. "You'll need your strength."
"For what?"
"For everything that's coming." He stands and moves to the seat next to mine instead of across from me and I instinctively press myself against the window, but there's nowhere to go.
His thigh is inches from mine, his shoulder nearly brushing mine.
"For the storm that's about to hit. For the choices you're going to have to make. "
"What choices?"
"Whether to trust me. Whether to fight me." His hand comes to rest on the armrest between us, close enough that I can see the scratches my nails left on his wrist. "Whether to accept that your life as you knew it is over, and something new is beginning."
The fear and panic I had successfully vanquished with vodka come roaring back. This time with greater force. What does Nikolai mean when he says my life as I knew it is over?
"I don’t want this," I say breathlessly.
His fingers brush against mine where they're gripping the armrest. "You need to accept it."
I jerk my hand away. "I'll never accept this."
He leans in closer, and I can smell him, something dark and delicious that makes my pulse race. His lips are close to my ear when he speaks.
"We'll see, malyshka. We'll see."
He pulls back and stands and returns to his seat. He opens a laptop and begins working, dismissing me as casually as if I'm not even here.
I'm left trembling in my seat, wrapped in luxury as we hurtle through the darkness toward an unknown destination.
Toward a fate I can't even imagine.