Chapter 18
LAUREL
It was a war zone. Another man was acting as a sentry by the remains of my room. At least one marshal was still alive and exchanging shots with them in short bursts, but that stopped when it became apparent I’d been taken and might be caught in the crossfire.
The team of men dragged me, kicking and fighting, to the far end of the corridor with skilled efficiency, like I was nothing more than a toddler throwing a tantrum. My bloodstained feet picked up every grain of dirt on the metal stairs as we descended to the ground floor.
Two more steps and I was flung into the back of a running van. I had to scramble out of the way as the men jumped in behind me to avoid getting crushed. The last one in pulled the door closed, and the man up front kicked the wall of the cab twice. It was a signal that they were good to go.
The van peeled out with such force, I was slung against the wall.
“Fucking marshal piece of shit,” a sneering man said, pulling his helmet off so he could better examine the bullet hole in his arm that was bleeding profusely. His face was as ugly as the wound.
I didn’t waste any time looking at that one. I set my focus on the man who’d shot Jason. He lay on the floor of the van, looking like he wanted to die, and I was plenty ready to help him along.
No one was paying much attention to me until I flew at him and slammed my fist down on his neck as hard as possible. It crushed his windpipe and drew a horrible wheezing sound from him. I readied another strike, but strong arms locked around my waist and pulled me off.
“Laurel.”
Oh, no. No!
The voice turned the blood in my veins to ice. With identical tactical gear and low-slung helmets, they all looked the same. He was the second man to clamp down on my arm in the moments before Jason had fallen.
He was the one I’d been running from, who’d destroyed my life. My stomach rolled, and an acidic taste filled my bloodied mouth.
“Get away from me!” I bucked against his hold.
“You gonna cuff her?” a tall, wiry man asked. A pair of plastic handcuffs was held up and glinted in the headlamps.
“Hold out your hands,” Frey ordered.
I shook my head, too terrified to speak.
“Say no to me,” he challenged.
When I couldn’t bring myself to do it, he spat an order to the other man to hold me.
His grip was tight and unforgiving as he bound my wrists, and the sharp edges of the plastic bit into my skin.
When it was done and he released me, I scurried across the ridged metal floor to the farthest corner.
I drew my feet up to my body and glared at the men over the tops of my knees.
Ten minutes ago, Jason had been telling me about what-ifs, and now he was gone. Rage and pain made me stiff and tense.
“That was a motherfucking rush,” the man with a cracked helmet said. “Going to bring a shitstorm down on you, though.”
“I don’t plan on sticking around.” Frey’s piercing blue eyes focused on me. “I think you owe me an apology. You weren’t very nice the last time we were together.”
I knew I should keep quiet, but I felt like I was no longer here, no longer in my body. It made me reckless. “Did I hurt your feelings?”
His lips pulled back into an evil smile, amused. “Hardly.”
The rest of the men trapped in the back of the van eyed me with suspicion. They were probably wondering why Frey was so interested in an unremarkable girl who was shivering in pajamas and a bulletproof vest.
He pulled himself up, stooping because of the low ceiling, and stalked toward me. My breathing went ragged, but I steeled my expression. I refused to show fear as he dropped down to squat beside me, his lamp blinding.
“I really wish you hadn’t taken my laptop. You’ve made it difficult to be friends.”
“They got everything off it, the marshals,” I said, hoping my lie was convincing. “They know about your next job.”
“Bullshit.” He sat beside me and tilted his head to the side, just enough to lift the light from my eyes. When he came into focus, there was a scowl twisting his face.
“I can prove it. The email was in Russian.”
Anxiety glanced through him so quickly, I wasn’t sure if I’d seen it or imagined it. But for a single heartbeat, he’d looked uneasy.
It vanished, and his expression filled with icy indifference. “It doesn’t matter what they think they know, we can still get to Zupan. Now that we’re reunited, they’ll focus on that. We,” he said with emphasis, “can focus on that.”
My shiver had nothing to do with the cold. It made the idea that pounded in my head loud and unrelenting.
Escape.
I’d done it once before; I could do it again. Derrick had told me transport was the greatest risk—or opportunity, in my case—for escape. Could I take a gun from one of these men who seemed highly trained and much more powerful than I was?
If so, I’d have to do it now.
“If you want to be friends,” my voice was unsteady, “you should take the handcuffs off me.”
Frey’s sinister smile returned. “No, you’ll have to be friendly with them on.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere quiet.”
It was hard to think with the blood rushing so loudly in my ears. “Quiet, so you can kill me?”
He gave me a look like this was a preposterous question. “I could have killed you days ago.” His tone was resigned. “I should have.”
The van took a turn, and I fell into him, my shoulder knocking against his. Instantly, I put my handcuffed hands on him to push upright and away.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I told you, people don’t say no to me.” His face morphed into the monster I’d seen back in the Opulent hotel room. “But I like a challenge. Eventually, I’ll get what I want from you.”
I was terrified to ask it. “Which is?”
He grabbed me roughly, so I was immobile and his mouth was right by my ear. “For you to say yes.”
Then his tongue drew a line across my skin from the spot where my shoulder joined my neck, all the way up to my ear. My whole body convulsed.
“No! No, that won’t happen.”
I had to get away.
I’d need a distraction and a ton of luck, too. But when I glanced around the van, my options were limited. What could I use to draw their attention?
There had been a dancer in my senior recital who’d had exercise-induced asthma. Often, she’d struggled to complete her solo without running for her inhaler, gasping for breath the whole way.
I did my best now to mimic the shallow, strained noises she’d made, letting it build until I was out of breath. My heavy rasps made it sound like I was in serious trouble.
“Laurel?” Concern skidded across Frey’s face. He secured his gun by passing it to another man, freeing his hands so he could loosen a strap on my vest, like he thought that was the problem.
I huffed air in and out, making a production, but began to worry this plan wasn’t going to work. I was getting lightheaded and there wasn’t a gun within reach. Plus, my hands were still handcuffed.
“Is she having an asthma attack?” one of the men asked. “Get her to slow her breathing. Make her lie down.”
I didn’t resist as Frey eased me down onto my back on the uneven, filthy floor, forcing my bound hands up overhead so my arms were out of the way. I was too focused on keeping up the act to fight him, anyway.
My throat burned. My vision blurred as I peered up at the men evaluating me. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep up the labored, heaving breaths, when both my luck and the van turned.
The man I’d punched in the throat was wounded and still in pain, so he wasn’t overly concerned with the gun he’d set beside himself.
It skated a foot in my direction and then picked up momentum as it skittered along.
Frey was busy tugging at the straps of my vest and didn’t notice the way I subtly reached for it.
It slid the last crucial inch, bringing it close enough I could get it in my hands.
I bolted upright, the gun so much heavier than I expected, and I had to use both hands to support it as I aimed at Frey’s face. Everyone who was able drew their weapon—except for Frey. All he did was hold his hand out toward me.
His tone was the same as a parent demanding a child return the toy they weren’t allowed to play with. “Give me that.”
“I can give you the bullets inside,” I said. “Let me go.”
He considered my request, his face giving nothing away.
“All right.” He motioned to the man closest to the back. “Open the doors.”
The man complied. The empty road was rural and unlit, but the moon was bright enough to see the pavement . . . which was flying by. We were going far too fast for me to jump.
“Make the driver stop.”
“No.”
I stared at him with disbelief. Did he not see the exceptionally scary-looking gun in my hands?
“That gun has a powerful kick,” he added. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you try anything.”
Even if I shot him, I wouldn’t last another five seconds. The other men in the van couldn’t care less about me. In fact, I suspected if Frey went down, they’d be thrilled to get rid of me.
But I couldn’t threaten them with the gun if they didn’t believe I’d use it.
I aimed at the ceiling, pulled the trigger, and unleashed chaos.
The plan had been to fire a single shot, but the gun was an automatic, and I fired off five rounds before I released the trigger. As promised, the recoil was violent and it made me swing wildly, uncontrolled.
The first shot lodged in the ceiling. The next few ricocheted off the metal walls surrounding us, drawing panic and a cry of pain from one of the men. The last few went straight out the back through the open doors.
The burst of gunfire caused the driver to slam on the brakes, sending us to the floor on top of each other in a jumbled mess. The gun was still in my hands.
Go, a voice in my head that sounded like Jason’s commanded.
“Don’t stop!” Frey yelled into the radio on his vest.