Chapter 3
THREE
I am going to suffocate.
There is no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Soon, the compact trunk they shoved me in will run out of oxygen, and I will die.
My screams are muffled by the makeshift gag shoved between my lips and wrapped around my head.
The knot is caught up in my unruly hair, pulling painfully at small chunks.
I bang my bound hands against the inside of the trunk lid, but it is of no use.
Jesus. I’ve been fucking kidnapped.
I am going to be sick.
The trunk reeks of oil and gasoline, the fumes making me lightheaded and adding to the nausea that is growing in the pit of my stomach.
Damn, I am regretting drinking all that whiskey.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been in here.
I’d woken up to the feeling of claustrophobia clawing at my back, the only light permeating the small space coming from the dim glow of taillights.
Every dip, bump, and rolling stop causes me to whimper. My stomach churns with despair and regret as we inch closer to my demise. Where are they taking me? I’ve published enough stories on the police finding bodies of victims who’ve crossed the mafia to know it isn’t going to be pleasant.
Cement shoes.
Executions.
Exploding cars.
Those are just a few things I’ve come across.
Then there is torture, cigarette burns, iron brands.
Knife wounds so precise in the amount of pain they cause.
Are they planning on killing me? They know who I am, but only on the surface. No one knows about the connection with my family, and that will be my saving grace. They won’t try to use me for ransom to get to my father. That also means they have no use for me. A meddlesome reporter.
I think back to what one twin said. He knew about the bombing at the Ward farm.
The underground of Seattle calls it The Stables.
The place where traders hide their cargo from the authorities.
Elias Ward’s worst-kept secret among the criminal enterprise.
It is where he stored the flesh he was looking to sell. Like cattle.
It is disgusting.
Are these men somehow involved? The bombings likely hadn’t crippled Ward’s trade.
It was only one location out of who knows how many.
Rumors have been flying around for weeks that, since his death, Elias’s son, Christian, has taken the reins and is looking to expand.
The idiot is promising more flesh to those depraved enough to buy.
I’ve been digging into the Ward flesh trade for months.
Ever since one of my coworkers went missing on an assignment.
Not that anyone believes me. According to the paper, she put in her resignation and moved down south to be with her parents.
Except, Lina had been my mentor and a good friend to me.
We talked not only about her research into the sex trafficking ring but also about her personal life.
Her parents died in a car crash years ago, and even if they were alive, they’d been abusive alcoholics.
She wouldn’t have gone to live with them.
In my free time, I’ve been digging for the truth about her disappearance.
Despite ample protest. Someone set it up to make it look like she left of her own volition.
So, while everyone else put on their rose-colored glasses and believed the lie, I wasn’t going to.
I decided I was going to investigate, no matter what.
At least, that was the plan.
Repositioning slightly, I manage to pull down the gag between my lips. I’m going to scream my fucking lungs out when he opens this fucking trunk.
If he opens the truck.
Shit. He could end up just lighting the car on fire with me in it.
The car comes to a sudden stop, the engine cutting out. There is a tightening in my chest as panic surges through me, gripping me soundly, and I struggle to control my rapid breaths when the sound of the driver’s door opening and slamming shut reaches my ears.
It is the sound of my doom.
My death.
I listen for a moment, but nothing else follows.
Where is the other brother?
Both doors would have opened and closed, right?
Unless they tasked someone else with getting rid of me.
Footsteps echo inside the condensed space, my heart hammering away in my chest like a jackhammer as they grow louder before stopping completely.
Oh God. The click of the trunk unlocking has me nearly losing all the liquor I have consumed.
My hands grow sweaty, my fingertips tingling as I pant in fear.
The moment the trunk opens, I am blinded by the sudden brightness. I squint at the shadow looming above me.
Kiernan.
His red hair is tied back in a small bun at the top of his head, revealing a jagged undercut beneath that gives him a fierce edge. His cheekbones sit high on his face and easily accentuate his chiseled jaw and lush, kissable lips.
But it is his eyes that steal the show—a deep emerald that immediately catches you and swallows you whole. There is so much pain swirling behind them that it kills me. I want to know who put that pain there and take it away.
Shaking my head slightly, I throw those thoughts right where they belong. In the trash.
This is the man about to kill you, you idiot.
My vagina doesn’t seem to care. She is too busy throwing a pussy power party.
“Let’s go,” is his gruff command. Snatching my bound hands, he easily lifts me from within the confines of the trunk, setting me on my feet before him.
Bad idea.
The world around me spins like a tilt-a-whirl at the county fair, and before I can stop myself, I am heaving all over his expensive-looking shoes.
Serves him right.
“Críost,” he mutters and pulls back my tangled hair from my face, with a gentleness that belies his savage expression. Once I am done emptying the contents of my stomach, I run my tongue over my dry lips, trying to rid myself of the bitter taste of whiskey-tinged vomit. “Are you done?”
I nod my head sheepishly, my anger momentarily forgotten as my stomach churns again and the surrounding space spins.
Without another word, he swings me up into his arms. My eyes snap shut, the action causing my stomach to gurgle and protest. Luckily for him, whatever is left in my stomach remains there.
“Where are you taking me?” Ugh, cotton mouth. I bury my bound hands in his green button-down, struggling to hold on as he stomps away from the car with me in his arms.
“Quiet,” he snaps.
I huff. “I deserve to know if you’re planning on killing me, you know.”
He grunts like he doesn’t think so.
Rude.
Realizing he isn’t going to talk, I let my gaze wander. Maybe if I take in enough detail, I can figure out how to escape before he springs the guillotine and offs my head.
There are cement pillars everywhere, and the ceiling is lower than normal.
It looks to be an underground parking garage.
The fluorescent lights above are so bright that they mirror daylight.
Several cars dot the underground parking structure, ranging from simple four-door sedans to oversized Mercedes G-wagons that I have no doubt can survive a tank attack.
“Sir.”
A man in a pair of tight-fitting black cargo pants and a polo nods at Kiernan and presses the arrow for the elevator. Who the hell is this guy? He obviously works for the Irish Mob. Is he one of their top lieutenants? He must be higher up in the chain of command for someone to refer to him as sir.
The elevator dings, the untarnished silver doors sliding open to let us in. Kiernan nods at the man who leans in to press another button and then swipes his finger along the sensor.
Great. It is fingerprint controlled. That isn’t going to help me escape unless I plan on hacking someone’s finger off, and even then, I’m not sure shit like that works outside of James Bond movies.
The panel lights up with the number three.
Where is he taking me? Aren’t torture chambers normally in the basement?
The doors open, revealing a dark, wood-paneled corridor.
Kiernan strides out of the elevator and into the quiet hallway.
There isn’t much I can see from where I am curled up against the mobster’s chest, the smell of vomit overpowering the woodsy scent of the man carrying me, but the interior seems to have proper order.
The carpet beneath his feet stifles his booted steps. There are pictures hanging along one wall that look well cared for and dust-free. It is hard to tell from this distance, but they appear to be family related.
There aren’t any windows, save one at each end of the hallway, but the hallway is lined with several doors.
He stalks toward one end of the hall, stopping in front of the last door on the right.
He doesn’t let me go; instead, he clutches me tighter before reaching for the doorknob and pushing it open.
Kiernan doesn’t stop at the doorway. He kicks the door shut with his foot and continues to carry me through the apartment-style suite toward a back room. I struggle against him as we approach the bedroom. The movement causes my head to spin and stomach to churn sourly.
Kiernan doesn’t loosen his grip as he bypasses the bedroom altogether and heads straight through another door and into an attached bathroom. His strong arms lower me until my bare feet meet the cold tile floor. My body wavers slightly before gaining its balance.
The world spins again.
A little less than last time, but it’s still enough to give me a headache.
He reaches behind me and grabs a small white bottle. Pulling out two pills, he hands them to me.
“For your headache. The doctor will be in a little later to check you out.”
What kind of kidnapper pays attention to their prisoner’s headaches and asks for a doctor if they are going to kill them?
Irish ones, apparently.
I stare at the white pills in his hand apprehensively, but the banging construction gnomes in my head are going full speed ahead. I take the pills and swallow them down with the glass of water he tips to my lips.