Stolen by the Bratva King

Chapter 1Hazel

1

Hazel

M y phone vibrates in my purse for the third time in five minutes. Sighing, I reach for it, but my hand knocks it into the crack between the seat and console.

I lift my head, eyes darting, assessing my surroundings as I glance through the windshield. My heartbeat increases, thumping so hard in my chest that my ribs ache. Blending in like I belong here is going to be my survival tactic, but it might not work this time.

I wiggle my fingers around in the crack where I lost my phone and manage to get a grip on it, pulling it out and squinting at the screen.

It’s my coworker and friend, Veronica.

“Where are you?” she demands in a manic voice the second I answer.

“You know, a simple hello works, too,” I say, the grim smirk showing in my voice.

She gives me a non-committal huff. “When are you coming back to the office?”

I glance at my watch. “In a little bit. I have to do something first.”

“A work something?” she quizzes.

“Of course,” I reply, a little annoyed that she thinks I might be doing anything else. I work more than she does and she knows that.

“Robert called a meeting,” Veronica continues, lowering her voice a bit. “He seems pissed about who knows what.”

I wince and chew my bottom lip. “What else is new? Robert is always pissed about something. I’d be more concerned if he wasn’t .”

“How am I supposed to make it through this without you there?” She’s borderline whining now.

“Sorry I can’t be your emotional support pillar this time. I’m chasing a lead. Robert can’t be that mad at me for missing the meeting. He’s the one who put me on this story in the first place.”

“That gun trafficking thing downtown?” she chirps, her mood lifting immediately.

“That’s the one,” I reply with a grin.

There’s a pause, and I hear talking and phones ringing in the background. I smile and picture Veronica leaning over her desk cubicle, her tight curls springing around her head in a dark brown halo as she talks in a low voice into the phone.

“You owe me,” she says.

“Drinks on me this weekend,” I promise.

“I can’t wait that long. Charlie is going to break things off with me. I know it.” There is doom in her voice, the knowledge that what little support she has is crumbling. She’s relying on me to fill that void, but I don’t know how much support I can realistically give her.

“Don’t spiral. And you’re better off without him anyway.” I use my most comforting voice.

She groans. “You’re not helping.”

“Thanks, love you too,” I chuckle.

“Come back soon,” she whisper hisses, then hangs up.

I push my phone back in my purse and step out of the car. The humidity hits me like a waterfall, nearly knocking me back into my car. It gets worse every year.

I pull my hair back into a low ponytail. Then, I check my tires to make sure I parallel parked within the lines. I don’t know this area well, I’m somehow still terrible at parking, and I don’t want to be slapped with a fine. I should be paid to work, not have to pay to work.

Satisfied with my parking job, I swing my purse over my shoulder and straighten my posture with a new level of determination in my bones.

I set my sights on my target. It’s a large, gray, two story warehouse a block away that’s been associated with local gun-running activity.

I start marching in its direction, giving myself a gentle reminder that I’m just doing my job, and as long as I remain inconspicuous, I won’t put myself in any real danger. People hang out around here all the time. I’m nothing special.

The air smells like a combination of dumpster garbage and salty seaweed. Gulls caw in the distance, and the closer I get to the warehouse, I hear the lap of the bay water slapping against the concrete walls of Battery Park.

My heels click against the pavement. I really should have opted for better shoes on this field mission, but then again, these make me look more like a lost civilian.

A swell of rising paranoia causes me to swivel and toss a glance over my shoulder, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. I’m not being followed.

I step over a brown paper bag of fast-food waste that’s been smashed on the ground, the contents of it exploded. Two fat pigeons peck at scattered French fries next to the bag.

I’m not in the safest part of town. Maybe I should have asked someone from the office to accompany me out here, but it’s too late now. I’ve committed to this mission and I’m seeing it through.

In the distance, a faint siren whirls to life and I take a deep breath, clutching my purse closer to my chest. I hurry forward. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can go back to my familiar part of town, and, most importantly, air conditioning.

I remind myself that as a journalist, it’s my job to go after the story, and to get all the facts. Sometimes that means wandering a little further outside of my comfort zone to get what I need. A person’s willingness to do that is what separates the good from the great, the amateur sleuths from the masters. I’m aiming for the latter, but right now, I wish I wasn’t.

Sweat makes my dress cling to my back like plastic wrap, and I readjust it on my hips. My hair sticks to the back of my neck, even though I pulled it up the second I stepped out of my car.

My breathing becomes hollow as I approach the side of the warehouse, then round the corner. A car alarm goes off nearby, making me jump. I glance over my shoulder again. Looks like the coast is clear. I keep moving.

I slide up to the side of the building and run the tips of my fingers across the concrete surface. The whole places gives off the appearance of being abandoned.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, giving myself a moment to regenerate some thick-skinned courage.

I’ve been working on this story for weeks, and it’s taking over my personality in a way.

My responsibilities for the story involve a ton of researching the crime ring gangs in this area, in an effort to help authorities track down the skeevy criminals and bring them to justice.

The violence in this city is getting explosively worse, and the story is supposed to be a step in the right direction on infiltrating the illegal weapons operations. My job is to help expose some of the criminals at the forefront of the problem, hopefully causing a chain reaction that ends the terror before it grows too big to stop. Some people think it already is.

There’s a slight buzzing in my brain, warning me to be careful, but I ignore it, hoping for the sweet taste of victory in finding something incriminating here.

When I turn another corner, I freeze in place, my heart climbing into my throat. The low rumble of deep male voices drifts through a broken window that looks like it’s been cracked by the telltale circular shape of a baseball.

Careful not to cut myself on the pointy glass shards, I spring myself up on tip toes and cup my hand over my eyes, peering inside. My eyes don’t adjust at first, and everything beyond the window looks black and endless.

My throat is dry. My heart is a ticking bomb and my pulse pounds through my eardrums. I can’t make out what the voices are saying, but one of them stands out, deeper and authoritative.

I flatten my palm against the building and try to get my breathing in check. Adrenaline gives me another surge of bravery and I lift my head again to take another, longer glance through the window.

This time, I notice a wall on the far side, with long, rectangular boxes stacked against it. Men roam around the boxes, opening them.

My eyes widen with horror as I realize there are guns inside the boxes. Dozens of men wearing combat boots, green cargo pants and black, tight-fitting shirts are lifting the guns out of the cases, inspecting them, and putting them back.

My heart does a little leap. Part of my research is weapons trafficking, and it looks like I’ve hit the jackpot.

I do a quick sweep of the room, wondering what crime ring these men are associated with. I want to bring as many details to law enforcement as possible. One of the men in the room turns around right as my head pops back up.

Instinctively I duck back down, grimacing when I scrape my knee against the rough edge of the building. I glance down to make sure I haven’t drawn blood, muttering a string of curses under my breath. Now is not the time to get sloppy.

Did he see me? No, I doubt it. I was so quick I barely even saw him.

I force my hands to steady and reach inside my purse to yank out my phone. I swipe to the camera app, pointing my phone up to capture a few shots of the illegal gun market happening through the window.

I can’t believe I’m witnessing this breakthrough of evidence and am excited to bring it to the authorities.

My focus is so sharp on what I’m doing, I don’t notice the clomping of heavy footsteps behind me until it’s too late.

Pain sears through my scalp and my head yanks back as a fist grabs my hair and drags me away from the window.

I try to scream but the sound gets stuck in my throat. Panic swallows me whole. I try to break free, try to force my legs to move. My thighs burn from the effort. My teeth grind together. I’m not making any progress to get away from my assailant.

Finally, I manage to make a noise of distress but it’s nothing more than a strangled cry. A gloved hand that smells like metal and leather slides over my mouth. I try to bite down on fingers, but the hand is pressing too hard. I can’t even breath, much less move my jaw.

Tears spring in my eyes, blurring my vision. I glance up but can’t see anything but hazy blue sky.

“Not so fast,” a male voice growls from behind me. His breath is hot on the back of my neck.

His palm shoves against my lower back, driving me forward. My arms flail in front of me as I grasp for balance, but he quickly takes the upper hand and reaches around, cuffing my wrists.

He pins my arms behind my back. A knee digs into the back of my thighs. “Move,” he growls.

A tear rolls down my cheek and I shudder out a low sob. My knees buckle and my legs are made of jelly.

The man makes frustrated, jerky movements as he pushes me along. I scurry on scrambling heels.

He stops in front of the door, breathing heavily. He pushes me against the wall of the building. His hands canvas down my waist and hips. I make another sob sound as he spreads my legs, tears rolling faster down my cheeks now. How could I be so stupid to think I ever could have pulled this off by myself?

“Please, don’t… don’t hurt me. I have… cards… a wallet in my purse…”

He barks out a scoff as if he’s insulted in my assumption that he’s trying to rob me. “I’m checking you for weapons.”

“I don’t have any weapons… I promise…” I stammer and trail off, squeezing my eyes shut.

Satisfied that I’m telling the truth, he peels me from the wall and reaches out and flings the warehouse door open with a loud crash. It slams behind us as we barrel through it.

“Please,” I beg, trembling in every bone of my body. “I can give you whatever you want.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you. I might need to tape it shut,” he grunts.

The bright sunlight disappears as if through a tunnel, replaced by the dim lighting of a single, swinging lightbulb on a string over my head.

It smells musty like a basement, with a thin hint of rust and bay water. The man thrusts his hand between my shoulder blades and knocks me down.

My knees hit the concrete floor and pain roars up my thighs, through my abdomen, jolting up my spine like white-hot electricity.

I cry out as my palms splay on the dirty, dusty floor.

Heads snap in my direction, distrustful eyes narrowing.

“Look at the cute little prize I just caught,” my captor’s voice gloats from behind me. “Saw her doing some snooping. Maybe she should stick to minding her own business.”

I try to scramble to my feet, but he pushes me back down. I experience a moment of fear so paramount, it’s almost as if I’m floating up out of my body and viewing everything as a spectator of someone else’s life. I breathe in and out with desperate gulps.

Something hard and cold slams into the back of my head. My vision fuzzes, and everything around me goes black.

My jaw goes slack, and my arms go limp, wilting by my sides. My body is as heavy as a bowling ball. I collapse onto the dirty floor right before everything goes dark.