5. Gwen
Gwen
It’s the hangover from hell coming off the drugs these bastards gave me.
My brain’s buffering, running on corrupted code. I can’t see anything clearly, let alone use logic and reason to try and make sense of my surroundings.
I shake my head, like that’ll magically help me recalibrate, but the world continues to glitch. Blurry frames skipping and jump-cuts spliced by whoever’s directing this nightmare. All I can hear is the faint hum of the engines from the plane behind me.
I stretch open my mouth, forcing a yawn, hoping it’ll help my ears. No relief, but the little dots in front of my eyes are finally going away.
And great, there’s an unmasked woman in front of me. She’s saying something, but it might as well be in a foreign language, because my hearing is still working on a different frequency.
I truly have no clue how these arseholes pulled off one of the greatest heists of the century by stealing me, and I haven’t had time to think much about it because of the stupid drugs. Not until now.
After being thrown into the SUV, I was drugged and woke up on a yacht. The kind of yacht that has a helo pad. From there, I was flown to a private island that had its own landing strip, forced to board a plane, and now . . .
Where the heck am I?
The woman before me is letting me know she’s a green-eyed brunette in her forties, so there’s no way she plans on letting me see my family again.
Family . . .
My heart aches with sadness at the thought of Dad. It’s the first real emotion these drugs have allowed me to feel since I was jabbed. He has to be losing his mind. Beyond losing it, actually. Blaming himself while going scorched earth trying to find me.
And he will find me, I know he will.
But . . . I’m usually the go-to girl for searching for missing people, and now I’m the one who needs finding.
Maybe they’ll think to ask Julian for help?
The woman steps closer, right up in my personal space, and squeezes my chin. When she abruptly shifts her focus to something else and releases me, I tilt my head and follow her gaze.
Warm wind rolls into the hangar, carrying the scent of gasoline and rain-soaked grass. A small plane sits not too far away, and great, I’m going to be sad about Easton now, too.
And then there’s Elaina.
Oh, God. What if she stops taking her medication to try and find me?
Chills zip down my spine, peeling me wide open, unleashing the full force of every emotion that’s been trapped in the back seat of my brain until now.
I shut my eyes, hoping when I reopen them, I’ll wake up from a bad dream and be in my hotel room in Dubai. But instead of that, I see a man in fatigues and a gray shirt stepping into my view. He’s by the plane, and there’s a shattered glass beside his boots.
I let my gaze slowly journey up his body. His frame is familiar. Those forearms, too.
My breath hitches when our eyes collide, and recognition hits me hard.
Easton?
For half a heartbeat, the world goes quiet.
Someone says something. An order, maybe. To him? To me? I’m not sure.
But when he suddenly rips his eyes away and crouches to pick up the glass, I slam the brakes on my hope that it’s really him.
No, not possible. It can’t be.
I lift my bound wrists, trying to swat away the illusion my brain’s manifesting.
Fate’s been too cruel over the years for me to believe Easton’s here. I’ve got a hundred reasons backed by cold, hard facts to know better. No way my prison comes with a built-in hero.
My brain is playing tricks on me.
I flinch at the sudden bee-sting prick at the side of my neck as someone says, “Gwen, do you hear me?”
Shit, now I do.
A tingling sensation rolls through me from head to toe, waking my body up. I’m much better with code than people. So, all I can think to do is crack my knuckles as a response to what’s happening to me. My fingers itch for a keyboard so I can control-alt-delete myself from this nightmare.
“We need to talk.” The woman’s accent is the same as the guys who took me: Aussie.
“Ever heard of texting? Much easier, cheaper, and less hazardous to your health.” I’m fairly decent at using sarcasm to mask my real emotions, but I’m not usually forced to do it while staring down the barrel of a gun.
Scratch that—not one, but two weapons are currently pointed at me.
I zero in on the woman’s lifeless eyes, hoping to clock her reaction to my snark. There’s something sinister in those pools of deep green.
She remains quiet, and I resist the urge to check in on my hallucination-hero, staying locked on her.
Then, against my better judgment, I dig my possible grave by opening my mouth with a warning. Or, maybe it’s more of a threat? “There are three things you can count on in life. Death, taxes”—I jut my chin forward, doing my best to imitate my badass stepmum—“and my team killing everyone here.”