Chapter 2
Harper’s tiny apartment was three blocks away, a second-floor walk-up above a shop that sold engine parts. Harper walked fast, her breath clouding in front of her face. The streets were nearly empty, with just a few people hurrying home before full darkness.
She took the stairs two at a time, fingers fumbling with her keys. When she got the door open, she locked it behind her and engaged the deadbolt she’d installed her first week when the landlord had laughed at her request for better security.
The apartment was frigid. She flipped the heating on, listened to the ancient radiator clank and hiss.
Her laptop sat beside the remains of last night’s dinner—instant noodles gone cold in their paper tub, chopsticks balanced across the rim as if she’d only stepped away for a minute.
Harper swept the tub aside, opened the laptop, and waited for it to boot up. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her knees, took a breath. They knew where she worked. They’d just threatened her.
A sound outside.
Engines.
Harper crossed to the window, pulled aside the thin curtain. Two SUVs idled on the street below.
Her stomach gave a sick turn. She lunged for the keyboard. The screen lit her skin ghost-pale as she typed.
To: director@
From: Harper Fox
Subject: URGENT—Evidence of trafficking operation
If anything happens to me, check my clinic files for Vostok Hospitality. Thirty women, all aged nineteen to twenty-five. Repeated restraint injuries, assault trauma, missed follow-ups. Men involved may have local police protection. I have documentation that proves—
Voices sounded from the stairwell. Harper hit send.
Her front door exploded inward, the deadbolt tearing free with a shriek of metal and a burst of splintered wood. Arctic air rushed through the breach. Three men filled the doorway—the tall one with too many teeth, the shorter one from the clinic, and a third man in a balaclava.
Harper grabbed her phone and threw it at the tall man. He laughed as it bounced off his chest and smashed against the floor.
She ran to the window but fingers dug into her shoulder and yanked her backward. She twisted, drove her elbow up, and connected with something soft. A man grunted. Then there was nowhere left to go.
An arm locked around her ribs. Someone grabbed a fistful of her hair. A palm crushed over her mouth. Harper kicked and connected with a shin. A curse snapped in Russian, hot breath reeking of onion against her cheek.
“Stop fighting, bitch. You’re making this harder on yourself.”
She bit down with everything she had. Blood flooded her mouth, copper and salt.
“Fuck.” The grip released.
Harper drew a breath and screamed.
Across the hall, a door cracked open. Mrs. Orlova from number four stared out, one hand pressed to her throat. Mrs. Orlova who brought cabbage pies to the clinic and called Harper dochka when she forgot herself.
“Call the police!” Harper shouted in Russian. “Call—”
A meaty hand silenced her.
Mrs. Orlova’s eyes flicked to the men. Then away. Her door slammed shut.
No one’s coming.
Hot tears stung Harper’s eyes.
“This could have been easier.” The tall one grimaced. “We gave you a chance to walk away.” He jerked his head, and the rough hand holding her mouth released.
The tall man slapped her face, sending her reeling. Harper hit the floor, blinded by tears, the world suddenly muffled. Large hands grabbed her under the arms and yanked her to her feet, dragging her toward the door. If they got her into the van, she became one of the women in her files—
She hooked her foot around the table leg and sent her laptop crashing to the floor.
“Fuck.” The men hauled her off her feet, so she was suspended between them. She spread her legs wide, trying to catch the edges of the door frame.
A fist drove into her stomach.
Harper folded around the impact. Air vanished and her body seized around the need to breathe. The world grayed. Her feet dragged across the floor—hallway—stairs. Her legs wouldn’t work. At last she sucked in a wheezing breath.
Freezing air hit her face. The street was empty and dark.
The third man opened the rear door of the nearest SUV, and her two captors bundled her inside. The interior stank of stale coffee and wet upholstery.
One yanked the seat belt across her body and clicked it into place, not out of care. Cargo restraint. Then he wrenched her wrists together and looped a zip tie tight enough to bite. The man in the balaclava slid into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine.
The SUV lurched away from the curb.
Harper twisted against the zip tie cutting into her wrists. The town slid past in broken pieces. The engine-parts shop. The pharmacy. The clinic road disappearing behind them.
Then only darkness and empty steppe.
Memorize the route. Count the turns. Find a landmark. Anything.
A blindfold snapped across her eyes, tied too tightly at the back of her head. Harper swallowed a whimper. Her skin was slick with sweat, her breath coming too fast.
No.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
She held herself together.
That much, at least, was still hers.