Chapter 21
AMARA
“You never said anything about a blindfold,” I say as Ransome uses his black tie to cover my eyes.
It’s tight enough that I can’t see, that I can’t take it off by simply moving my head around. But it’s soft. And it smells like him.
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“You do if you don’t want me to call the police,” I say as his hand covers the top of my head. He is helping me into the back of his car and the world—my world—is black.
“You’re not that stupid, dorogoya.” His accent is thick on the last word.
“What does that mean anyways?” I ask as soon as he gets in the front seat of the car and closes his door. “Dorogoya. You say it all the time, but I don’t know what it means.”
Ransome shifts the car and punches the pedal. My back hits the seat hard. “For someone who is very adequate in the stalking department, you are somewhat lacking in the research department… dorogoya.”
I am officially pissed. If I had known this is what he meant by ‘stay after’, I would have left. As we drive down the street to God knows where, I am fuming. Also, note to self:
When I told myself I hoped that Ransome has a kinky side? Yeah, no, this is not what I meant. Because this… this is how women die. This is how girls go missing and aren’t seen again until a hiker uncovers them in the woods. Stops to tie their shoe and sees a stiff hand sticking out of the dirt.
Well, not me. I am not going to be a girl in the dirt.
Which is why, despite Ransome’s sporadic driving, I have been clocking every twist and turn we have taken since we left the Apex building.
I have lived in this city my whole life and I have become very familiar with every backroad, underpass and byway.
I have also been singing Bohemian Rhapsody in my head, on beat and on repeat since he peeled out.
As a diehard Queen fan, there is no song I know better.
And not just in the way that everyone who’s gone to a live concert knows it is the last song they play before the band comes out as a crowd engager (thank you, Green Day).
I know that it is five minutes and fifty five seconds long.
And as of now, I have sung it three times. Going on four now.
Suddenly the car stops. At first, it feels like we are in the middle of a road, since he didn’t even bother to slow down. But when he shifts into park and I hear the click of his seatbelt, I deduce that we have reached the final destination. Or my final destination, I should say.
The door clicks.
“Stay here,” he says.
I actually snort at that. “Not sure where you thought I was going to go. I don’t know where we are.”
That, and he tied my hands too. Another kinky detail that feels less kinky when I actually feel like I am going to die.
Actually, that’s a small lie. Not about the deadly bondage—I still feel very much like a scream queen waiting to happen. But the part about not knowing where we are? Teensy, tiny white lie.
Kind of.
While I don’t know our exact location, I have an idea. We are outside of the city, near the coast. I can smell it. Not in a Whitesands Beach-y sort of way. More like cold, dark water, the smell of fish strong in the air.
In short, we are nowhere I want to be.
With that, the door closes. But before I can let out a sigh, the backdoor opens and I jump. I feel Ransome’s hands on me and my body goes rigid.
This is it. This is the part where I should scream.
But as it would turn out, he’s actually taking the blindfold off.
“Here,” he says gruffly. “Don’t try anything. You’re not fast enough to outrun me.”
The way he says it sends chills down my spine. And not just the wrong kind.
“Do you really think I’m going to run?” I force out. Then I look around, taking in the scene.
I was right. We are near water. It appears to be some sort of industrial area and for the most part, it looks abandoned.
Ransome, of course, doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pushes a button near the seatbelt, and the seat back that I am leaning against starts to fold forward.
“What is this?” I demand as I try to move out of the way.
“I am going to take the ties off your hands. Under one stipulation.”
“Which is?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes slide past me, all the way to the backseat as it folds out of the way to reveal the trunk of the car.
Oh. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Sadly, no. Men like Ransome rarely ever say a word they do not mean. Which is precisely why I’m so pissed. “I told you I’m not going to run.” I try to say it calmly, but my heart starts to race, and not in a good way.
“I’m not afraid of you running, dorogoya. I’m afraid of you being seen.”
“By who?”
“I will come back for you,” he says instead of answering. “Now get in the trunk and keep quiet. Don’t do anything stupid.”
I narrow my eyes at him in a last-ditch effort to get him to change his mind, but I know full well it’s a Hail Mary. When he doesn’t break, I turn my back to him so he will untie me. My body stays still as I look around the car for anything that might be useful.
It’s always best to take note of one’s surroundings in a dangerous hostage situation.
I don’t necessarily know this firsthand, of course.
But growing up with an MIA mom and a deadbeat dad, we didn’t have a lot of money.
We certainly didn’t have luxuries like cable TV.
That, for me, meant a lot of true crime shows, the ones that came on late at night after the ten o’clock news.
Ransome’s car, of course, is immaculate. That is, except for the sleek black iPhone laying on the floor.
It’s the burner phone from his office. The one my location was linked to. Maybe it isn’t a burner after all.
“Alright, you’re free. Metaphorically speaking,” he adds. His best attempt at humor, I am sure. Not a very good one. “Now get in the trunk.”
“Can I at least take my shoes off first? My feet are killing me.”
“Fine.”
I bend down and undo the latch on my heels. Ransome’s phone, his regular one, buzzes and he checks it.
While he does, I swipe the burner off the floor and shove it in my bra.
Then I kick my shoes off and attempt to climb into the open trunk.
I say “attempt” because it’s easier said than done in a pencil skirt.
If he’d told me we’d be roleplaying as Buffalo Bill and Catherine Martin, I’d at least have worn pants.
I swear to God, I can feel his eyes on my ass.
If he were the old Ransome, the one that didn’t know how I felt about him, the one I didn’t know was in some kind of cult, I would be turned on by the idea of him checking me out.
But considering the circumstances, I’m half-tempted to donkey kick him in the face right now.
Ransome presses the button and the seat folds back up, taking the light and a decent amount of air with it. Luckily, I know how to keep calm in tight spaces, both metaphoric and literal. Again—thanks, Daddy, for never splurging for cable.
I wait until I hear the beep-beep of the car doors being double locked and the sound of Ransome’s wing-tipped shoes on the ground slowly getting further and further away before I pull the phone out.
“Getting a little sloppy, aren’t we, boss?” I muse. “Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please don’t be—yes!”
I am actually smiling when the white Apple symbol lights up the screen and the phone comes to life.
“Full charge, baby. Let’s go.”
Not knowing if Ransome is going to be minutes or hours—hell I might die in this trunk. For all I know, Ivan came and picked him up and this is where it ends. Damn, that’s even more grotesque than the body in the woods…—I get to work.
While the phone is in SOS mode, disabling the internet and most phone calls, I can access the text streams. One stream in particular catches my eye. It’s from an anonymous number. I open it up and read through the texts backwards.
After only a few seconds, I know two things for certain:
One—it’s Bratva related. That much is obvious, because the messages are a blend of English and Russian.
And two—it’s drug related. Words like shipment, borders, pick-up, drop-off and deal give that away.
So Ransome Rozanov, CEO of Apex Oil and Gas, my boss for the last few months, my obsession for the same amount of time, is a big-time Bratva man.
And he’s a drug dealer.
I’m not sure just how to wrap my brain around this. On one hand, it’s terrifying. This isn’t just a street exchange of some weed. If I had to guess, whatever he is involved with, whatever he is apparently running, isn’t recreational and green.
It’s coming from Mexico.
It’s white.
And it’s probably in that building we are parked in front of.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Then, suddenly, the car beeps twice, signaling the unlock. Not even a second later, I hear footsteps.
“Fuck!” I let out again, struggling to hide the phone.
I manage to tuck it away just as the trunk pops open. And there I am, laying in the fetal position in the back of his car, staring up at him while he glares down at me through eyes that are darker than the night sky itself.
“Get up,” he punches out. “You’re coming with me.”