Desire
A bucket of cold water hits me, and I suck in a sharp breath, coming to. The water soaks the dried blood on my split forehead, and the sticky mixture floods my eyes. Blinking away the red haze, I focus on the two idiots in front of me.
“Awake, you son of a bitch?” The bigger one grins.
The second one looks pathetic. His jaw—the one I shattered with my elbow—is wrapped tight in elastic bandages, fixing his chin to his skull.
His face is twisted, and bloody fluid seeps from under the bandage.
Unable to contain himself, he punches me in the face.
My head snaps back, and I spit salty blood onto the pitted concrete floor.
“Not so hard.” The bigger one pulls him back. “We’re not ordered to kill him. Not yet.”
I look around. Looks like an abandoned warehouse or factory on the outskirts: broken windows showing a wall of dark forest and a crimson sunset fading outside. My princess must be worried about me.
“You’ve clearly got a death wish,” I growl, testing the restraints.
They’ve tied me up thoroughly. Each wrist is handcuffed to the back legs of a heavy chair, my ankles bound to the front. These thugs have clearly read the manuals on immobilization. They’re both wearing holsters.
The big one grabs my hair, forcing my head back. “Don’t play games with us, Sterling …”
“Oh, so you know who I am?” I twist my lips into a mocking smirk. They’re definitely Jefferson’s dogs; why else mention London before I blacked out? “Then you know the family will shoot out your knees first, then feed you to the lions alive.”
“Li-lions?” the one with the broken jaw wheezes. He’s forcing the words out through clenched teeth, choking on his own saliva. “Thi-this bastard’s c-completely lost his m-mind …”
The big one lets go of my hair, wiping his hand on his pants in disgust. “Good timing, bringing up the family, Sterling. Now listen carefully: you’re going to fulfill the contract with the organization and take the first flight to London.
Tonight. That’s your only chance of surviving until tomorrow. ”
“Oh, so this is just a warning?” I laugh, loud, ringing, the echo bouncing off the warehouse rafters.
The thugs exchange glances, irritation flickering in their eyes.
“Definitely cr-crazy …,” the bandaged one slurs.
“What’s so funny?!” the big one growls, clenching his right fist.
“The fact that you’re not allowed to kill me. Hell, you can’t even cripple me—you’ve been ordered to scare me.” I bare my bloody teeth. “While nothing is holding me back.”
“The handcuffs are holding you back, dumbass …,” the big one pipes up.
“Maybe we can’t kill you, but the order didn’t say anything about the girl you were driving to see.
We followed you from Savannah. We know her address.
Want us to move her into the next hangar and bring you one of her fingers at a time until you go all soft? ”
A bloody haze clouds my vision, rage flaring up like crimson flame, but I force myself into an icy trance. A meditative exercise—pulse under control. I don’t need emotions. I need surgical precision.
“I’ve got a better idea.” My voice is eerily calm. “Those fingers will be yours.”
“What the fu—” The bandaged one steps closer, and his voice is cut off by a wet crunch: I force my thumbs out of their sockets and skin my hands raw slipping my wrists out of the steel bracelets.
My ankles are chained to the chair legs, so I just shove off from the backrest, lunging forward with the whole chair.
I throw my fist, slamming it right into the bandaged bastard’s jaw.
My dislocated thumb explodes in agony, but the thug is a hundred times worse off.
He howls and flies backward, and I—stumbling over the heavy chair—crash down on top of the big one with my full weight.
He’s reaching for his gun, but I knock him off his feet.
He’s wiry and lean, but I’m bigger and wearing armor made of pure rage.
I grab the back of his head and smash his face into the concrete floor twice, turning out the lights.
Clenching my teeth, I snap my right thumb back into place with a sharp movement. I yank the gun from the unconscious big guy’s holster and, without even looking, purely on instinct, fire twice at the bandaged one, who was raising his weapon. He slumps down.
I smash the butt of the gun into the unconscious man’s face for good measure.
After grabbing the key ring from his belt, I free my ankles from the fucking cuffs.
Only when I stand to my full height do I realize I’m bleeding out.
Strangely, I don’t feel the pain from the new wounds, just the sticky warmth soaking through my clothes.
Looking closer, I see crude stitches. The shards from the car window riddled me during the crash, and these thugs patched me up so I wouldn’t bleed to death.
The family would never have forgiven Jefferson for the dead heir.
I’m sure they won’t forgive him for the kidnapping either, but he took the risk—as if London was worth it. Soon, he’ll regret going all in.
“How nice of you to take care of me.” I walk over to the big guy, who’s coming to. He’s awake and groaning, covering his bloodied face with his hands. “I believe we were talking about fingers?”
I squat beside him and yank his right hand away from his head.
A shot through the wrist turns his hand into a bloody mess and makes him howl in a high pitch, but the echo doesn’t have time to bounce off the rafters—I put a second bullet in his forehead.
I would have loved to play with him longer, but I don’t have much time before blood loss does its work.
I search the bandaged, dead man’s pockets and find keys with a BMW logo and a phone. I unlock it by pressing the dead man’s finger to the sensor and step out of the warehouse. The car is waiting below. I collapse into the driver’s seat, hit the gas, and dial Laurent’s number from memory.
“It’s me.”
“Where are you?” My brother’s voice is calm.
“Somewhere in Pennsylvania.” I glance at a roadside sign that flashes by. A giant chocolate bar and a slogan: Visit Hershey—the sweetest place on Earth. My vision blurs. “Hershey should be nearby. I’m covered in cuts. Losing blood. I’m going to pass out soon.”
“Find a hospital,” Laurent says.
“Thanks, I wouldn’t have thought of that myself.” I snort.
“You’re calling from a smartphone, right? Turn on location and send it to me.”
“This piece of shit doesn’t have any messengers,” I growl.
The haze thickens; consciousness is slipping away. I manage to hit the brakes, steering the car onto the gravel shoulder. The BMW smashes into a road sign and stalls. Darkness. Good thing I have the habit of always wearing my seatbelt.