by Evelyn Glass
“I understand,” I mutter.
“Good. Dismissed, soldier.”
“Sir.” I stop at the door, half-turn.
“Yes?”
“Can I see her? Just to say goodbye?”
Mr. Black’s cheeks tremble for less than a second. I see rage rise and fall in his face. He swallows it. He really does need me, I think.
“Of course,” Mr. Black says, smiling.
You stupid bastard. Do you really think seeing her will make me want to let her go?
Don’t you get it yet? I love her.
“Thank you, sir.”
I leave the office.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Felicity
Daniel licks his lips, which tremble like a nervous child’s. “I can’t . . .” He sucks in a deep breath and I can tell he’s trying to steel himself up to push me away. But this is a man—a boy, really—who has never had a woman throw herself at him before. I can see it in the way his eyes flit to his feet, to my face, to his feet again. “Are you serious?” he breathes.
“Look,” I say.
I step back from the slit and he leans forward, peering into the cell. Feeling sick, but knowing that I have to do what is necessary, I begin to dance. I dance like I did on the yacht when giving Roma a lap dance. I move my hips and spin around, shaking my ass at him.
“Oh my God,” he mutters, his voice one of disbelief. “You’re so . . .”
“Don’t you want it?” I moan. “Don’t you want it, Daniel?”
“I want it,” he admits, voice hoarse. “Yes, I want it.”
I stop dancing and return to the slit. “Then stop umming and ahhing and get in here. I’ll ride you like no woman ever has before.”
“Are you . . .” His forehead creases. “Are you a nymphomaniac?”
I stifle a laugh and look at him with complete seriousness. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I’m a nymphomaniac.”
“How bad do you want it?” he sighs.
“So, so, so bad,” I moan. “You’re too sexy. Please, don’t make me wait any longer.”
He nods shortly and then reaches into his pocket. “I’m hard,” he says, his voice sheepish.
I have to fight the urge to laugh a second time.
He fumbles into his pocket, pulls out the key, and drops it. “Dammit,” he says.
“Come on, baby,” I say. I sound like a fool. I sound like a wannabe porn star. I ignore the ridiculousness of it and push on. “Come on, don’t keep me waiting. I’m so wet.”
“Fuck, fuck, okay,” he breathes, voice shaking. “Okay.” He picks up the key and pushes it into the slot. It turns, clicks, and I step back as the door swings open.
Standing in full view now, I see how young he really is. I guess around eighteen, a teenager who’s never been talked to like this by a woman before. His chest rises and falls rapidly and beads of sweat drip down his forehead. I watch the gun at his hip, waiting for him to come into the cell.
He steps in on shaky legs, his eyes moving up and down my body, lingering on my legs. “I want it,” he says.
“Then come and get it,” I say, stepping back against the wall as though I want nothing more than for him to lift me off my feet and take me here. I’m amazed that this is working, that he is truly this foolish, but if there’s one thing I learned on the Russian yacht, it’s that certain types of men rarely think when it comes to women. They’re overtaken with lust and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. “Come on, baby. What’re you waiting for?”
He lets out a long sigh and then walks deep into the cell toward me. He fiddles with the buckle of his pants clumsily and I feel bile rise in my throat, acidic. He undoes the belt and loosens it and then goes for his buttons.
“Can I do it from behind?” he asks, almost on me now. “I really want to see that ass.”
“You can have it any way you like,” I say, tensing my arms, readying my body.
“Can I put it in your ass?” he says, like a boy in a toy shop. “Can I?”
“Of course,” I say.
He drops his belt to the floor and pulls his pants down around his thighs. I see with a sick feeling that he’s hard.
“Let’s get to it, then,” he says.
I open my arms. “Come here if you want it.”
He steps forward. This is my chance. If I miss, something terrible will happen. He’ll get so angry that he’ll beat me—or worse. He’ll get so angry that he’ll lose control. There are fewer things more dangerous than a man who thinks he’s entitled to a woman, than a man who feels as though he’s been lead on.
I open my arms—and close them in a clapping motion on either side of his head. “Uh,” he grunts, stepping back. He trips over his pants and stumbles toward the bed. I don’t wait. I don’t think. I pounce.
My fists fly at his face. I feel absurdly guilty about striking him, but this is survival and I won’t stop. I punch him five or six times in the face. On the last strike, his eyes flutter and fall closed, his neck goes slack, and his head droops forward, his chin resting on his chest.
I reach down and grab his gun, stuff it into my waistband. Okay, step one complete, I think. I’m about to flee from the cell when a thought occurs to me. If the next guard comes for his shift and finds the cell open and Daniel knocked out, they’ll know I’m missing. There’s no sense in letting them know any sooner than they need to. I find the key to the cell in his pocket and drop it into my own. Then I grab him under the armpits and drag him into the hallway. It’s long and thin, with cells lining it, all of which are empty. It is eerily silent. I look down one length of the hallway and see the elevator, down the other and see what looks like a storage cupboard.
Panting with the effort—Daniel’s heavier than he looks—I drag him toward the storage cupboard. I prop it open with my bum and drag him inside, laying him flat against the wall. He breathes shallowly, but he’s alive. I find that I’m glad. I want to be free, but I don’t want to kill anybody. Would you, if it came to it? a voice whispers. I swallow, surprised to find I’m not sure.
I leave the storage cupboard and close it behind me. I’ll lock the cell and hope that the next guard doesn’t bother looking inside. Hope that he just assumes I’m in there, behind the locked door. Even if he doesn’t, he might waste time looking for Daniel. What if Daniel wakes up?
I shake my head, shaking away these thoughts. One step at a time, I tell myself. Think about all of it and you’ll go crazy. One step at a time!
I’m at my cell door when the elevator beeps from down the hallway.
Dammit!
If it’s one of Mr. Black’s guards, I’m screwed. I’ll be no match with a pistol against theirs. The only defense I have is that Mr. Black wants me alive, but if these men are as hardened as they seem, they’ll have no problem shooting me in the leg, the arm, somewhere non-lethal. The elevator beeps again and I realize the doors are sliding open.
I jump into my cell and close the door behind me, but not locking it. Then I go to the other side of the cell and stand with my back against the wall, staring at the door. I need to act. I can’t think. I need to fight. If I don’t get out of here, they’ll use me as bait, and Dad will die. I won’t let Dad die because of me. I will never let that happen.
Footsteps sound from down the hallway. Clip-clip-clip-clip-clip. I swallow, my mouth so dry my tongue sticks to my teeth. Fear courses through me and I wonder if this is it, the day I die. Or worse, the day one of Mr. Black’s psychopathic goons loses control and unleashes himself upon me. I imagine the man walking down the hallway, all the horrors he’s committed throughout his career, the women he’s killed, the women he’s . . . I won’t let that happen, I tell myself.
The steps are relentless.
Clip-clip-clip-clip . . .
And growing louder and faster.
Clipclipclipclipclipclipclipclip!
I steel myself, psyching myself up, though I don’t know what for, not yet. A fight? To kill a man? Maybe I will have to kill the guard.
But won’t others hear the gunshot? Perhaps I could seduce him, just like I seduced Daniel? But I doubt that will work. Daniel is a boy; Mr. Black’s men are just that, men.
Screw it, I think, the footsteps outside of my cell now.
I take the gun from my waistband and aim it at the door, but I don’t dare touch the trigger. What if it goes off by mistake? A thousand traitorous thoughts pound into my head, spreading self-doubt throughout me like a poison. The gun shakes and no matter how hard I try to make it keep still, it won’t.
I have to kill him, I think.
Then the door swings open and my breath catches.
Roma, bruised and cut, but Roma nonetheless. Roma, unguarded. Roma, who betrayed me. Roma, the man I felt an explosion of emotion for and then a wrenching betrayal.
His mouth falls open when he sees me. I think I see pride in his eyes. Pride at my disarming the guard, I realize. He has the gall to be proud of me after what he’s done. It makes me sick. But despite that, when I look at him, I feel . . .
No, I tell myself. You don’t feel anything for him! You don’t!
“Felicity,” he says, voice oddly quiet. He takes a step into the cell.
“Don’t come any closer,” I breathe. “I’ll shoot. I swear to God, Roma, I’ll shoot you right in the fucking head.”
Rage, pain, heartache, and a desire to drop the gun and throw myself into his arms all war inside of me.
“You won’t shoot me,” he says, but he doesn’t sound certain.
He’s right, I think.
Without thinking, I swing the gun away from Roma and aim it at my own head.
“Maybe not,” I growl through gritted teeth. “But I won’t be used as bait. Come any closer and I’ll blow my own fucking brains out!”
Chapter Thirty
Roma
As I walk through the facility toward the elevator which leads to Felicity’s holding cell, I’m stuck in my own head. I keep thinking about Mr. Black, about whether or not he really needs me. It seems strange that a man like Mr. Black needs anybody. He’s the boss, the man in charge, and it’s always startling when the man in charge needs somebody else. But then, I reflect, the man in charge is only in charge as long there are people he can boss around. The man in charge is nothing without the men under him.
And then I think of Felicity. I’ll have to talk to her with a guard watching. I wonder if we’ll be able to speak our minds. The guards are mean bastards. If I told Felicity what I’m aching to tell her—I love her, despite the circumstances, despite everything I truly love her—he’ll probably snigger and I’ll lose my cool. Lay him out flat. And then what? It’s not like I have backup.
I’m thinking this when I get to the elevator door. The guard who stands beside the door is huge, even bigger than the rest. He has a big bushy black beard and fine black hair. He’s missing an eye and . . .
“Bear?” I hiss, when I reach him. The hair has been dyed jet-black and his face is covered with nasty scars, but it’s Bear, I’m sure of it.
He glances down the hallway. “Aye,” he says, allowing himself a small grin.
“What the . . .” I look up at him, wondering if the beating has dislodged something in my head. “How are you here?”
He watches over my shoulder as he speaks. “Mr. Black thought I died in the fire. His men were too lazy to check. But they didn’t know about my basement room. Ha, knew it would come in handy one day. Hid in that for a day and a half until the fire burnt itself out. I called some of my old contacts. Don’t make the mistake of thinking Mr. Black’s organization is as water-tight as it seems. I still have friends. Heard about the trouble you and the girl were in, and . . .”
I reach out and touch his shoulder, hardly believing any of it. “Is it really you?” I breathe. I squeeze his shoulder. It feels firm. I remember squeezing this same shoulder twenty years ago and wondering how a man could be so muscular, certain I would never grow up to be like that.
“Don’t act suspicious,” he says, his single eye roaming down the hallway. “Listen, there’s a boiler room on the northern side of the facility, just past Mr. Black’s office and up a flight of stairs. We’re on the outskirts of DC, in what looks from the outside like an abandoned warehouse. Go to the boiler room, blow the bastard up, and let me get your lady out of here.”
“But . . .”
“Roma,” he growls. He grabs me by the front of my shirt and pulls me close to his face. “I’ve successfully infiltrated Mr. Black’s base. Mr. Black, Roma. Now isn’t the time for uncertainty. Do as I say, and maybe there’s a chance for the girl to survive. Sick and tired of innocents being used like this. I can fix it. Just give me the distraction.”
“I need to see her first,” I mutter.
Bear shrugs. “Aye, if you want. Shift doesn’t change for another five or six hours anyway, and nobody’s going to bother me here.”
I press the elevator button, there’s a beep, and the elevator starts chugging toward us. I look again at Bear, awestruck that he’s here, that he’s alive.
“I was furious,” I murmur.
“Aye.” He nods, watching me. “I bet you were.”
The elevator doors open and Bear nods toward the opening. “Go and see her, but don’t take too long. Once you’ve set the explosion, I’ll get her out of here, I swear it. Let’s see any bastard dance with me on the topic.”
I hold my hand against the elevator door to stop it from closing, but I don’t get in, not yet. “Bear,” I say. “Why’d you come back? They thought you were dead. You could’ve sailed off into the goddamn sunset and lived happily ever after.”
“Why’d I come back?” Bear coughs out a laugh. He looks strange standing there in the fatigues of one of Mr. Black’s goons, his hair dyed. The only thing which doesn’t look strange is the gun on his hip. “I came back for you, lad. You and the girl. Seems to me there’s something between you Mr. Black doesn’t deserve to steal away.”
“She knows the truth, Bear,” I sigh.
Bear flinches at that. “Well, if that’s the case, you still owe it to her to get her out of here. Even if she hates you, you owe her that much.”
He’s right, I think. But then, he was always right.
“I won’t be long,” I say. “And then I’ll go to the boiler room and . . .”
“Ka-boom,” Bear grins. “Let’s see him use the girl as bait when his security forces are chasing a pointless explosion, eh?”
I shake my head in wonderment and then step into the elevator. My heart doesn’t seem to know what to do. It beats unsteadily and I’m still half-convinced I’ve imagined it all. But when Bear turns to me and winks with his one good eye, the sensation drops away.
It’s Bear, he’s back.
Then the doors close and he’s gone from sight.
Chapter Thirty-One
Roma
“You won’t shoot me,” I say, as Felicity points the gun straight at my head.
Events are battering me, throwing me around, clawing thick nails over my skin. First Bear, my mentor, my adopted father, comes back from the dead. And then I find that Felicity has stolen a gun and knocked out the guard, probably shoved him in the cupboard at the end of the hallway. I’ve got to say, I’m proud of her for that. Damn proud. The fight in her never stops being surprising. And now Felicity, the woman I love, is pointing a pistol at my head.
I wait. Judging the distance between her and the fact that Felicity isn’t a hardened killer, I reckon I could get to her before the shot pops off, but I won’t. I won’t shock-and-awe her. I won’t cause her any more pain and stress than I already have.
Her lips tremble, her cheeks bright red. Then she swings the gun away from me and at her own head.
I let out a gasp and hold my hands out toward her.
“Maybe not,” she growls. “But I won’t be used as bait. Come any closer and I’ll blow my own fucking brains out!”
“Felicity,” I say, taking a step forward. “Don’t do this. What the hell are you
doing?”
“I won’t let him use me, Roma,” she says. Her voice is suddenly firmer, more determined. That’s scarier than anything. It really sounds like she’ll pull the trigger if it comes to it.
I take baby steps forward, palms raised flat toward her in a sign of peace. “Listen to me, Felicity,” I say. “Please, just listen to me.” I’m unable to stop my voice from cracking. It’s difficult to know just how much you love somebody until you’re about to lose them, and seeing that gun pointed at her head, I realize I love her more than I ever counted on.