Chapter 6 #2
I'm not staying here. If he were going to put a bullet through my skull, he already would have. No… Instead, he's put me in this fucking cage, drugged me, and is taking me to god knows where.
Yes, but I was born for this moment. I know exactly how to slip out of somebody's grip. I know exactly how to get away. I know how to cut a man's balls off, shove them down his throat, and then choke him out in his sleep. And this asshole has actually given me a reason to do that.
Yay me.
I didn't escape the clutches of my father and his fucking asshole minions—the worst, most painful experience of my life—or marriage to the Kopolovs and danger with the Irish, only to end up dragged back like a naughty little girl who ran away from home.
Nope. Not me.
So I'll bide my time, lean into this “I’m so drugged” shtick, and then, at my first opportunity, I'm getting the fuck out of here.
"Hungry?" he asks. Even though he's speaking English, he has a hint of a Russian accent.
"I could use a little water," I say in my most pathetic voice. I add in a little dry cough for the hell of it.
He takes a little bottle from beside him, twists the top off, and sticks it through the bars.
But his hands are too damn big. He can't fit through while holding the water bottle.
It actually pleases me to see the way he thinks about opening up my cage, as if the second he opens it, I'm going to flee.
I'm obviously hightailing it out of here, but I'm not so dumb to try and take him now. We could be airborne for all I know.
Still, I watch as he slides a key into a metal hook, unfastens it, and warily hands me the bottle.
"Um, my wrists?"
"Nice try. Do the best you can."
Fine then. He wants to play this game? I take the little bottle between my hands and make sure it's sloppy work.
I slosh half of it across my torn top. The soaked fabric goes sheer, outlining my full (very nice, if I do say so myself) nipples.
Some of the water gets into my mouth, and it does feel good.
I wasn't lying; I am thirsty. I'm also hungry, but I don't give him the satisfaction. For all I know, he’ll poison the food.
Predictably, his gaze drops to the wet T-shirt contest in a cage as he leans in and takes the cuffs out with a grunt.
He stares at me but doesn't speak for long minutes while I take my time observing everything I can.
He wears a tank top, and the markings on his neck show me a few things.
He's not just Bratva but high-ranking Bratva, for one.
He spent time in jail for another. But there's no ink to indicate he's an assassin.
"I'm assuming you know the Kopolovs," I say. My tongue is thick, and my voice sounds strange. I close my eyes to make myself look half out of it. He doesn't answer but just watches me. "If you are, then you would know I have a deal with the Irish."
He nods his head almost amiably. "More accurately, you did."
My heart thumps. What?
"I'm sorry to tell you," he says in a tone that isn't sorry at all, "we've moved in and given the Irish a better deal. They don't need your services anymore."
"But you do?" I snap. This isn't fair. After everything I did for them, they're just going to ditch me?
"Do I have a use for you? Yeah, you could say that,” he drawls, his voice dripping with amusement.
I don’t flinch. He doesn’t own me. And the second I get a chance? I’m gone.
I’m almost sad I’m going to ditch his sorry ass. Could be fun taking the piss out of a guy like him, and I’ve been bored for a while. But I did not come this far only to be put back in a literal cage.
Asshole.
I’m going to play the long game. He might be motivated, but I suspect he’s done what most men have done—underestimated me.
And since he obviously thinks he’s already caught his prey, it’s only a matter of time before I can make my move.
Every man has a weakness. All of them. And this one, despite his control, is no exception.
A door opens, and someone stands on the other side. I’m momentarily blinded by bright white light. Okay, so we’re not flying, then, but in some sort of transport vehicle.
“Matvei.”
With a growl, he turns his back to me and snarls at his visitor. Ha! He doesn’t want me to know his name.
Matvei. Nope, definitely not one of the Kopolov brothers. I knew their names. But his name is unfamiliar to me. One of their friends? Associates? Hmm.
The Irish never kept me in the loop of what their plans were, and for my own safety, I kept my nose out of details. They gave me a job, and I did it, no questions asked unless I had questions that were directly related to my job.
I watch the way he moves, slow and deliberate, which makes sense for a guy of his size. Despite Matvei’s control, he still has a weakness. But I’ll wait.
"I'm a little nauseous," I say in a low whisper. "Can I have something to eat?"
He eyes me suspiciously, definitely expecting that I'm going to play him. Of course I fucking am.
"We'll get something to eat once I get you situated."
"Oh," I say with mock excitement. "Do you have a bigger cage for me? Or am I good enough that I'll get let out of my cage and maybe get a little fresh air? Spread my wings a little bit? Please, sir?"
He now has his eyes on me and doesn't respond. I'm a scrapper, but he's obviously larger than I am, and larger usually means slower. He’s the goddamn linebacker for the Bratva, too big to move with any speed, and either way, too damn proud to send someone else after me, or… this is personal.
Incapacitating a man this big takes precision.
I will not get a second chance.
He comes closer to me and bends. I draw in a breath, and I move.
A quick jab to the throat, followed by a knee to the groin.
I lift the water bottle and smash it against his skull.
He stumbles, caught off guard, and he's so big that when I kick his kneecap, he falls hard.
He reaches for me with a growl, but I have the key in my hand already.
Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.
"You little bitch," he says. He almost grabs a fistful of my hair, but I quickly evade his grip and elbow him in the neck before I kick his groin.
He could have grabbed me just now, could have manhandled me, but either he's afraid to break me or too surprised by my sudden movements.
I take the water, splash it in his face, and when he turns and blinks on instinct, I dive out of the cage.
I slam it, turn the key in the lock, and take a moment to gloat at the sight of him in there.
He grabs my wrist straight through it. I bite down on his finger until I taste blood.
He screams, shouting in Russian, but I shake my head at him.
"Did you forget? Nobody can hear you screaming in here. "
I smile at him. I've won this battle. I am so fucking out of here.
It was dirty, brutal, but effective. I make my way to the front as he curses at me from behind, yelling.
“Oh, honey. Settle down,” I purr.
Sure enough, there's a small latch that allows me to open the door from this holding place to where the driver sits.
Outside this door, I see four armed men, but the dumbasses are staring at the entryway to the back, not this way.
I have seconds to make a move. Right on the console, I see a faded leather wallet and a gun.
I take both, slide out of the driver's seat, and then tuck myself beneath the largest wheel.
I can hear Matvei screaming and swearing from here, and I can't help but chuckle a little to myself.
I blink at the bright sun overhead and assess my situation.
We're in a gas station. Excellent. To my left, about six feet away, is a large pickup truck with bales of hay.
All I have to do is hide there, and I have enough cash to bribe my way out.
I wait until there's a shout behind me, and I make my escape.
They're going to look everywhere for me.
I'm thankful I'm small and lithe. None of them think to look here.
When a truck pulls up beside me, these guys aren't even pretending to be good guys anymore.
They're scouring the gas station, looking for me with their weapons drawn.
D’awww. I’m so dangerous.
Dummies.
I shake my head, crawl unseen into the back of the cargo truck, and to my delight, find that it's loaded with junkie snacks for delivery.
I open up a bag of cheese puffs, sit in the way back, and happily munch.
Two minutes later, the cargo truck is on its way, and so am I, with orange-tipped fingers, stolen cash, and a gun at my side.