Chapter 22
Olivia
Pain wakes me first.
Sharp heat pulses through my ribs hard enough to drag a broken breath from my lungs before I even open my eyes.
For one confused second, everything is dark.
Still.
Wrong.
Then awareness crashes back in piece by piece.
My wrists ache.
Rope bites into skin already scraped raw.
My side burns beneath a tight bandage that feels sticky now.
Blood.
Still bleeding a little.
Fantastic.
I force myself to breathe slowly through the pain while my vision adjusts to the dim room around me.
Concrete walls.
No windows.
A single strip of weak light spills through cracks somewhere overhead.
The air smells like dust, oil, old metal.
Not moving.
So not a vehicle anymore.
A building.
Somewhere enclosed.
Somewhere bad.
Voices drift faintly through the walls outside.
Men.
Speaking Farsi.
I don’t understand every word, but I don’t need to.
Nobody sounds rushed.
Nobody sounds worried.
Which means they think they already won.
My jaw tightens instantly.
Not happening.
I shift carefully against the wall and test the rope binding my wrists.
Too tight.
No give at all.
The movement pulls sharply at my ribs and I hiss quietly through my teeth.
Okay.
Still alive.
Still conscious.
That’s enough for now.
I glance down at the bandage wrapped around my side.
Blood stains through the edges again.
Not catastrophic yet.
But not good either.
I rest my head briefly against the cold wall behind me and close my eyes for half a second.
“Stay alive,” I whisper to myself.
Because that’s the only thing that matters right now.
Stay alive long enough for—
Russ.
The thought comes instantly.
Certain.
He’s coming.
I know he is.
The realization settles strangely calm inside my chest.
Not hope.
Fact.
A sound outside the door jerks my attention up immediately.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Getting closer.
Then the door creaks open.
Light slices through the darkness hard enough to sting my eyes.
A man steps inside.
Tall.
Armed.
Watching me with the kind of confidence men get when they think someone’s already beaten.
Big mistake.
I stare right back at him.
No fear.
No pleading.
His eyes narrow slightly.
He says something in Farsi first.
I don’t answer.
Don’t blink either.
After a second, he switches to rough English.
“You are doctor.”
Not a question.
“Last I checked.”
My voice comes out rough from dehydration and dust.
Still steady.
Always steady.
He studies me another second before stepping closer.
“You help them,” he says slowly. “Now you help us.”
A humorless laugh almost escapes me.
Almost.
“Not happening.”
There it is.
The reaction he wanted.
His expression hardens instantly.
Good.
Angry people make mistakes.
He crouches in front of me and grips my chin hard enough to force my face upward.
Not painful.
Just controlling.
I hate that more.
“Your friends,” he says carefully. “They come for you.”
My pulse doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yeah,” I answer quietly. “They will.”
Something cold slides into his smile.
Wrong enough to make my stomach tighten.
“We are waiting.”
The words settle heavy in the room.
And suddenly I understand.
This wasn’t random.
Wasn’t desperation.
They took me on purpose.
Not because they needed a doctor.
Because they needed bait.
And I walked right into their hands.