Chapter Forty-Two
Mirabel
I come to gagging, my lungs fighting for air.
Fragments of consciousness piece together, but nothing makes sense.
Where am I?
What happened?
My brain refuses to form coherent thoughts, everything scattered and wrong. The taste in my mouth is copper-rich, unmistakable. Blood. My own blood. I’ve bitten my tongue during whatever happened to me. And something else too—a chemical bitterness at the back of my throat. They drugged me.
They.
Who are they?
Memory flashes: walking out of Dad’s house, waiting for the Uber. The black vehicle pulling up. A group of men approaching. The acrid taste of chloroform overwhelming me before I could even scream.
The van lurches beneath me, sending me sliding across metal flooring.
My shoulder slams into something hard—a metal toolbox, maybe—and pain radiates down my arm.
Every movement reveals new aches, injuries I can’t remember receiving.
The floor reeks of motor oil, cigarettes, and that indefinable sour smell that belongs exclusively to men who consider bathing optional.
I try to lift my head, but nausea surges immediately. The effects of the chloroform haven’t worn off yet. I stay still, eyes barely open, listening.
Accented voices filter back from the front seats. Two men, speaking in a confusing mix of English and Russian.
“We’re behind schedule.” The voice is rough, impatient. “Gavriil won’t be happy if we damage her.”
“The money is guaranteed once we reach The Emirates. Stop worrying about the old man.” The second voice sounds younger, cockier. “He cares about the merchandise, not the timeline.”
Merchandise. Me. And worse—Gavriil Laurov.
The name pierces through the remaining fog in my mind, clarifying everything with terrible precision. This is Arkady’s father. The man whose cruelty is spoken of in whispers even by those who fear nothing.
Instinctively, I want to flatten my hand over my stomach, but my wrists are bound with zip ties, cutting into the skin with every movement. A wave of panic washes over me.
My baby.
I swallow the sob building in my throat. I can’t afford the luxury of fear right now. I need to think. I need to escape.
Arkady will be looking for me. The thought offers momentary comfort before reality crashes back. He doesn’t even know I’m missing yet. By the time he realizes, I could be on a plane to Dubai, handed over to a system that treats women like property to be used and discarded.
I’m on my own.
I flex my fingers, testing the zip ties.
They’ve bound my wrists in front of me—another mistake.
Had they secured my hands behind my back, I’d have far fewer options.
The ties are tight, digging into my skin, but with my hands in front, I can still maneuver.
My ankles, I realize with a surge of hope, are completely unbound.
The van jerks violently, then shudders to a complete stop. The suddenness of it sends me sliding forward.
“Chto za khuy?” The younger voice explodes in angry Russian. “Not again!”
“Traffic jam.” The older one sounds resigned. “Nothing we can do.”
“Call Mikhail. Tell him we’re delayed. Again.”
“And say what? That New York traffic is shit? He knows.”
Their argument escalates, peppered with Russian curses. I recognize a few from Arkady’s occasional outbursts—none of them polite.
This is it. My opportunity. Maybe my only one.
I push myself up to sitting, moving slowly to keep the wave of dizziness at bay. The drug is wearing off, but not fast enough. The van’s interior swims in and out of focus as I take stock of my surroundings.
It’s a cargo van, empty except for me, a toolbox, and some dirty rags. The front seats are separated from the back by a partial metal divider. Through the mesh, I can see the backs of their heads—one with close-cropped silver hair, the other dark and longer.
My eyes fix on the rear doors. Double doors, probably with external handles. They might have child locks, but commercial vans often don’t. It’s a gamble worth taking.
I scoot backward on my bottom, using my heels to push myself toward the doors. Each movement sends pain shooting through my bound wrists, but I bite my lip and continue. The floor is filthy, covered in grit.
“This is taking too fucking long,” the younger kidnapper complains. “We’ll miss the flight if this doesn’t clear soon.”
“Shut up, Kostya. I’m thinking.”
“Think faster, old man.”
I reach the doors and twist around, positioning my feet against where I think the handle mechanism should be. The motion sets off another round of dizziness. I close my eyes, willing it away. Not now. I can’t afford weakness now.
With my back against the side wall, I probe with my feet, searching for any give in the door. I try to remember how cargo van doors work from the inside. I’ve never had reason to know until this moment.
I press experimentally and feel nothing. Shifting my feet higher, I push again.
Still nothing.
Panic flutters in my chest. If I can’t get these doors open, I’m finished.
The traffic isn’t moving. Soon they’ll check on me, realize I’m awake. The drug will wear off completely, but it won’t matter because they’ll restrain me properly this time.
I try once more, angling my feet at what feels like the center seam of the doors.
There—a slight movement.
I freeze, not daring to breathe. Did I imagine it? I push again, harder, straining until my thighs burn.
The door gives just a fraction, a whisper of movement. The latch isn’t fully engaged. They didn’t secure it properly.
“I’m calling Mikhail,” the older one says. I hear him shifting in his seat, probably reaching for a phone.
It’s now or never.
I pull my knees to my chest and kick outward with everything I have. The doors resist for a heartbeat, then burst open with a screech of metal. Light floods in, momentarily blinding me.
“BLYAD! SHE’S OUT!” the younger one—Kostya—shouts. The van rocks as someone lunges toward the back.
I don’t wait. I tumble backward out of the van, landing hard on unforgiving pavement. The impact knocks the wind from me, but I roll immediately, pure instinct taking over. My palms scrape against rough asphalt, warm blood slicking my fingers.
Chaos erupts behind me. Car horns blare. Someone shouts a string of curses. I scramble to my feet, swaying as the world spins, then steadies.
Traffic surrounds us, a maze of vehicles trapped in New York’s notorious gridlock. I spot the driver’s door of the van flying open, the silver-haired kidnapper emerging into the sunlight. He’s tall and muscular, his face a mask of controlled fury. He scans the area, spots me.
Our eyes lock for an eternal second.
Then I run.
I weave between cars, my bound hands held awkwardly before me. Horns honk as I dart past vehicles. I don’t think of stopping and asking a driver for help; I’ll only drag them into this shit. All I can pray for is that someone calls the police.
“Dial 9-1-1!” I yell at a startled woman, who stares at me from behind the wheel of her Prius.
Behind me, I hear shouting in Russian. A shot rings out.
Shit, shit, shit!
There are screams as people scramble for cover.
“Stop her!” The older kidnapper’s voice carries over the din of idling engines. “Block her off!”
I dodge between a taxi and a luxury sedan, nearly colliding with a man in business attire stepping out of his car to see what’s causing the commotion. His startled expression barely registers as I push past him.
A car horn blares directly to my right. I spin to see an SUV lurching forward, the driver slamming on brakes just inches from me. The near-miss creates momentary chaos, drivers shouting and gesturing. I use the distraction to duck behind a delivery truck.
My lungs burn, vision swimming at the edges. The drug, the exertion—it’s too much. But stopping means capture. Capture means Dubai. Dubai means being lost forever. My mind cycles through these connections, using fear to push past physical limitations.
I run faster.
A flash of movement to my left—Kostya, the younger kidnapper, has circled around and is trying to cut me off. He’s maybe thirty, lean and quick, with a jagged scar running through one eyebrow. His eyes narrow as he spots me, changing direction to intercept.
I scan frantically for options. Up ahead, I see it—a city bus pulling alongside the traffic, preparing to make a stop in the bus lane. It’s my only chance.
I sprint toward it, lungs screaming, legs threatening to give out. The bus doors hiss open, passengers beginning to disembark. The first few step down, looking bewildered as I race toward them.
“Move!” I gasp, shouldering past a woman with shopping bags.
With my bound hands, I grab the metal handrail and haul myself up onto the first step. The movement sends pain lancing through my cut palms, but I don’t stop. I push inside, into the relative coolness of the air-conditioned interior.
The driver stares at me, shock in his wide eyes. I must look deranged—disheveled, wrists bound with zip ties, blood on my hands, and scrapes on my arms. But there’s no time to explain, no time for anything but raw desperation.
“Please,” I rasp, the word catching in my dry throat. “Those men—they took me—”
The driver’s eyes shift to something behind me, his expression changing from shock to fear.
Cold dread washes through me. I turn just as a hand snaps out and grabs the bus door, preventing it from closing. Kostya stands there, one foot already on the bottom step, his face twisted with a mixture of anger and satisfaction.
“There you are, darling,” he says in accented English, his tone falsely sweet. His eyes, however, promise violence. “You’ve had your little adventure. Time to go home now.”
Our eyes lock.
There’s nowhere left to run.
I turn back to the bus driver. “Go!” I scream. “For God’s sake, just drive!”