Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
At least he won’t touch me tonight. Hasn’t since he found out the truth.
Petrov stands facing me again. He lifts my hair off my shoulder.
“After the good doctor has his turn, he will be in the next room. If you cause any trouble, he will administer the injection. No questions asked. Understood?”
“You’re going to let him—” I try to instill steel into my words but my voice breaks.
He mutters a curse in Russian then asks again if I understand.
I nod. Because it’s not just my voice that’s breaking. It’s me. And I’m still scared.
“Sir.” A soldier peers his head through the door. “Service elevator is here.”
“What’s wrong with the normal elevator?”
“Out of order,” the soldier says.
“Fine,” Petrov answers, irritated. He appreciates appearances and taking the service elevator is beneath him. He looks back at me for what I guess is the last time. “So pretty still. It really is too bad,” he says. He turns and walks out the door and for one brief, stupid moment, I entertain the idea that he means it. That he’s sorry I’m not who he thought I was. That he’s sorry to have to do what he’s about to do. Because that’s the strange thing when you’re kidnapped. When there is a single person in your life who controls every aspect of it. Who decides whether you eat or go hungry. Whether you live or die. In a way, you want to please them. You feel safer with them. It’s utterly idiotic, I know this. Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe it’s because this monster you at least know.
I shake my head, snap myself out of it. Because he’s gone and the lights are dimmed, and I watch in disgust as the doctor steps toward me.
1
Dante
Energy crackles around me. I’m ready. We all are. Ready for the kill.
The elevator doors slide open, and I look up at the camera, smiling wide. I flip my middle finger up. I want to be sure Petrov knows it was me who took her. I want him to have no doubt. And I want him to know I’ll be coming for him next.
Classical music comes from inside the penthouse. I wonder if that’s to make what’s going on inside seem civilized. Elegant even. I’m sure what’s happening to her is anything but. I hear laughter, glasses clinking together. Sounds like a fucking party. But I guess for them, it is.
It takes the two men standing just inside the suite a moment to stop staring at me and realize we’re not invited guests. It takes them another to register the weapons we’re carrying as my men fan out and the sound of silenced automatic rifles disrupts the classical music. Guns are drawn, bullets flying.
I shift my gaze to two of the guests standing by the window, drinks in hand just waiting their turn at her. Something about them, in particular, pisses me off. Maybe it’s their casual stance, their relaxed manner. Maybe it’s their pleased, smiling faces. Whatever it is, I veer off plan. I’m supposed to go straight to the bedroom. Grab her. Get out.
But I can’t.
Maybe it’s that I want their blood on my hands. Maybe it’s just that I like the kill.
Either way, tonight, they die.
For a moment I wonder if the sick fucks are father and son. They share that same weak chin. When the younger one sees me coming, his smile morphs into an expression of terror. Dad’s faster. His gun is in his hand, but not before I’ve taken aim between his eyes and pulled the trigger. His body jerks, the tumbler of whiskey slipping from his hand. Shattering against the polished hardwood floor.
The younger one looks in shock from me, to him, and back. He takes a step backward. I take one forward. Lowering my gun, I reach for the dagger at my hip. He opens his mouth to scream like a little girl when I push it into his gut and draw up with one swift tug of my hand.
The scream turns into a grunt or gurgle or some combination of both. His hands close around mine, body hunching forward as I give one more tug before shoving him backward and pulling my knife from his stomach. He’s down, bleeding out next to dear ole dad. I wipe the blade on his pant leg before replacing it in its holster. I should wash my hands.
But then I hear it. The muffled scream. Her scream.
And something pulls at me like I’m tuned into it. Into the girl who has become my obsession.
I turn toward the sound coming from behind a closed door, and for one moment, I can’t move. Just for a moment. Then I’m stalking toward what must be a bedroom.
She screams again, louder this time as I kick the door down surprising the soldier with the hard on. He’s watching the man looming over the slight woman on the bed. That man has got his pants down around his knees. I don’t waste time on the soldier. I just put a bullet between his eyes, and he drops instantly.