by Jo Davis
Sloane flinched almost imperceptibly. Perhaps at the mention of Anna back with Joaquin rather than Sloane. “We’ll try to minimize your participation, but yeah. They’ll probably figure it out. But he did harm to a woman, someone you care for. That will hold a lot of weight with the other families. Mess with their women and your life isn’t worth shit.”
“True.” For the first time since leaving the hospital just hours after waking up there, he felt real hope.
“Are you in?”
Joaquin studied both men, took a deep breath. “To have Anna returned safely, I’d give all that I own, every last dime. Of course I’m in.”
Both the agents looked relieved. Sloane, however, wasn’t finished. “Good. But if this goes south and you double-cross us, get any of our men or Anna hurt, I’ll save the public a trial. We clear?”
“Perfectly.” He gave Sloane a cold smile. “Same goes. Double-cross me or get Anna hurt and there won’t be anywhere on the planet you can hide from me. Got that?”
“Yeah. We understand each other.”
“I’ll keep trying to contact Santos. He’s enjoying this, but he’ll get tired of waiting soon enough.”
“Do that. And by the way, Simon and I will be your guests until this is over. This is the perfect place to lie low.”
“Fine,” Joaquin said, barely hiding his annoyance. “Have Henry show you to a couple of rooms.”
After the men left the office, Rio shut the door behind them and studied his brother in worry. “You shouldn’t have left the hospital. You look like death warmed over.”
“I feel worse than that, believe me. But there’s not any way I’d stay, not when Anna’s with those animals, probably afraid.” Lowering himself to a sofa, he stared absently at a painting on the wall. “Do you think he’s given her to Petrov? That the bastard is hurting her?”
Moving over to him, Rio squeezed his shoulder. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet. She’s his leverage, as you said.”
“I hope you’re right.” God, Anna.
“I am.”
Slowly, he raised his gaze to his brother’s face. “The FBI is never going to get the chance to send Santos to prison. You know that, right?”
Rio understood what he was—and wasn’t—saying. “Yeah. I know, and I’ve got your back all the way.”
Relief swamped him, along with a wave of sick fatigue. “It’s as good as done.”
The train was in motion, rolling downhill, and not even Deno Santos would be able to stop it now. He was going to die.
For taking Anna, the motherfucker was going to die slowly.
And Joaquin’s face would be the last one he’d ever see.
2
The stay at the “safe house” had been unpleasant to say the least. Filthy inside, her mattress in the corner stained with God knows what, no running water. No food. Her stomach had rumbled for almost twenty-four hours as they ate greasy hamburgers in front of her, snickering.
And now, despite the improvement in the scenery, Anna was sure her circumstances hadn’t changed much.
Shoved from behind, Anna stumbled into the foyer of the opulent mansion, shocked beyond belief that Santos had her brought right through the front of the house. The arrogance of the bastard in flaunting his crime made her blood boil and stopped her knees from shaking. Anger was a good thing, and she held on to that. She sensed the torment would be worse if the mobster observed her falling apart.
“Up there.”
One of the lackeys pushed her toward the grand staircase, and she started up. A middle-aged woman in a maid’s uniform passed her and avoided Anna’s attempt to catch her eye, and her heart sank. What had she expected? Santos clearly ruled with an iron fist, and no one here was going to stand against him.
Swallowing her fear, she climbed to the top and paused on the second floor landing, unsure where to go next.
“That way, bitch. Third door on the right.”
Another hard shove, and she barely kept from falling on her face as she staggered to the door. Once there, she pointedly met the man’s gaze, hating his smirk. Hating him, Santos, Petrov, and her entire situation. If it weren’t for the tape over her mouth, she’d let him know what dickless pissants they all were.
Reaching past her, Petrov turned the knob and pushed open the door. Taking her arm, he guided her inside, and she felt a jolt of surprise. Rather than being rough and bruising, his touch was almost . . . gentle. That was strange, in direct conflict with his terrifying words from earlier.
Unlike the other lackey, Petrov was coolly professional. That scared her much more than the other asshole’s snarky, gloating demeanor. That man was a tool—Petrov was the real deal. A killer.
“Yeah, I can’t wait to see what Santos has in store for you,” the smaller man practically crowed. “Our boy Petrov here is going to carve out your liver—”
“You are dismissed,” the killer interrupted coldly. His piercing stare halted the other man’s words, and the guy paled.
“I was just—”
“Leave.” Petrov’s smile and the gleam in his eyes were frightening. “Unless you’d like to join her.”
“You can’t do that,” he stammered. “The boss only wants her.”
“Santos gave me carte blanche. I can do as I like. You want to question him?”
The lackey stepped back, rethinking his position. “Naw, we’re good. Later.” After casting Anna a venomous glare—like his dressing down was her fault—he fled like the coward he was.
Dismissing the other man completely, Petrov turned, regarding her for a long moment. She stared back, resisting the urge to squirm under that emotionless gaze. Finally the man reached toward her face, and she forced herself not to flinch. He grasped the edge of the tape and ripped.
“Ow!” It felt like the tape had taken some skin along with it. Wiping her mouth, she scowled at him.
“You would rather I left it on?”
“Of course not. But under the circumstances, I’m hardly going to thank you.”
“Good, because I didn’t do it for your thanks. You’ll have meals brought to you during your stay, and it is difficult to eat with your mouth sealed.” He shrugged. “And you could scream, but nobody here will lift a finger to help you.”
She suppressed a shiver at that, and focused instead on what he said about food. “What, no bread and water? Now I’m going to be fed like I’m staying at the Hilton? Charming.”
“You watch too much television, Miss Claire.”
“Me? You were the one who said you were going to torture and kill me.”
“If you’re good, I will skip the torture and simply put a bullet in your brain.”
She blinked at him, gut churning. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”
“You can consider yourself lucky—most of my targets don’t get a chance to express themselves. But then, they do not have time to know fear. So maybe they are the lucky ones after all, eh?”
Before she could respond, the knob rattled and the door opened. The unrest in her stomach became a heavy, oily sickness as Deno Santos strode into the room, straight to her and his right-hand man.
“Anna, we meet again,” he said pleasantly. “Though not as happily as before.”
Quickly, her gaze flicked to Petrov, and she could have sworn a brief expression of distaste crossed his handsome face, quickly masked. It was probably her imagination.
“That’s not saying much, as I don’t recall either of our previous meetings as being all that joyous. In fact, when we were first introduced in the restaurant at Joaquin’s casino, I thought you were a snake, and you’ve proven me right.”
Anger flashed in his eyes, and he paused, visibly controlling himself. “Your opinion weighs less than nothing with me. As you’ve no doubt guessed, you’re a means to an end. When I have what I want from your
lover, I’ll allow you to go free.”
From his statement, two things hit her at once, and she couldn’t keep the relief from her voice. “Joaquin’s alive?”
“He is, and now that he’s had a demonstration of the consequences of crossing me, he’ll be more than willing to cooperate.”
“If you think that, you don’t know him very well,” she said evenly. Not wanting to give him more fuel for rebuttal, she didn’t elaborate. But it gave her a lot of pleasure to think of Santos having his heart torn out with Joaquin’s bare hands.
Santos scoffed at that. “I’ve known him since he was a boy, and his father before that. You’re just a woman, and a soft, spoiled one at that. What do you know of our ways? Nothing.”
“Fuck. You.” That felt damned good to say, but only for a moment. He gave her a predatory smile, and she cursed herself inwardly for letting him bait her. Seething, she watched him pull a vibrating cell phone from his coat pocket.
He consulted the tiny screen for a moment, looking satisfied. “Eleven missed calls since I last checked, plus five new messages. All from Delacruz. He must be losing his mind. As much as I enjoy tormenting him, it’s in my best interest to keep things moving.”
Answering the phone, he put the device on speaker. “Delacruz. I can’t say this is a surprise.”
Joaquin’s angry voice lashed out. “Santos, you motherfucker! Where’s Anna? Answer me!”
She opened her mouth, but Petrov grabbed her arm and shook his head in warning. Ignoring him, she shouted, “I’m here! Joaquin, don’t listen to—”
Grabbing her, Petrov clapped a hand tightly over her mouth. “Don’t make me regret removing the tape,” he rumbled in her ear. “Be still.”
Santos went on, affecting a tone of perfect concern. “As you heard, she is here with me, as my guest. What else was I supposed to do when my men found her wandering outside your hotel, lost and confused? She is tired and must rest.”
“What have you done to her?” he demanded.
“Nothing except show her to a very comfortable room and ordered her dinner—so far. The rest is up to you.”
“What do you want from me, Deno?”
“I think you know.”
“Colombia and Italy,” he stated. Anna figured those were codes for whatever Santos was blackmailing out of Joaquin. Part of her still wanted Joaquin to tell the bastard to go to hell.
“That’s correct. I take complete ownership. We’ll meet with our attorneys in forty-eight hours to sign the paperwork.”
“That doesn’t give me much time.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
Joaquin paused. “And then you’ll release Anna to me. I want your word.”
“Yes, and you have it.”
Anna thought Joaquin must know Santos’s word wasn’t worth a wad of toilet paper. So why bother to extract it? Perhaps to keep him on the phone as long as possible. In any case, it didn’t work.
“Now, let me talk to Anna.”
“You heard her and you know she’s alive, Delacruz. That’s enough for now. I’ll let you know the exact time and place for our transaction.” Santos ended the call and replaced the phone in his pocket. “Get comfortable, Miss Claire. Forty-eight hours can be a very long time.”
That brought her recollection back to the second point she’d thought of. “Or not long enough. I don’t believe you’re going to let me go. In fact, your psycho-for-hire indicated how much fun he’ll have killing me when you’re done.”
Santos glanced at Petrov. “Don’t mind him. He tends to be thorough, but he still answers to me.”
Anna didn’t think Petrov was used to answering to anyone, but kept silent. Santos slipped out, and Anna studied the other man. Her heart leapt into her throat when he extracted a knife from his pocket and switched open the blade. Taking a step back, she searched frantically for an escape route.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m merely going to cut the bindings off your wrists.”
True to his word, he moved behind her and sliced at the tape. It stung as he ripped it off in the same manner as before, but then the relief was immediate. She rubbed her wrists and stretched her arms to get the circulation going again, watching warily as he came around in front of her again.
Brows drawing together, he took one of her hands and turned her arm this way and that, examining the abrasions caused by the other lackeys dragging her from the van onto the pavement.
“Idiots,” he said in a low voice.
His concern, that simple word from him, did something funny to her insides. Something was off about this man, and she was too tired and scared to think what it might be at the moment. When he led her into the adjoining bathroom, she let him tend to the scratches, washing each arm to clean away the dirt and then dabbing them with alcohol. It burned and she hissed, but was grateful he’d seen to her care when Santos obviously hadn’t given it a thought.
Grateful? Jesus, what’s the matter with me? Why did Petrov bother, anyway?
A knock sounded, and he called out for the person to enter. The maid from the stairs came in and placed a tray of steaming food on a nearby table. The aroma was tantalizing, and Anna’s mouth watered. With a quick look at Anna, the woman left again. Anna approached the table, sat, and took note of her meal.
Some sort of stroganoff over noodles, green beans, a small salad, a roll, and a slice of chocolate cake. Her stomach twisted with hunger. And then an image of Joaquin collapsing, struggling to breathe, assaulted her, and she sat back in her chair.
“What is the matter? Is the food not to your liking?” Petrov’s question seemed genuine, not mocking.
“He poisoned Joaquin,” she pointed out. “How do I know he’s not planning to do the same to me?”
After a brief hesitation, the man walked over and picked up her fork. He stabbed a piece of meat and popped it into his mouth. Chewed. Then he wiped her fork on the napkin provided and swallowed. A minute ticked by slowly.
“Is good,” he stated in his heavy Russian accent. “Nothing wrong with the food.”
“You’re crazy. What if he had poisoned it?”
“Then I would be dead.” This said simply, as though of no import.
She stared at him, at a loss.
“Rest if you can. I will return.”
“Can’t wait,” she muttered.
At that, his lips curved upward ever so slightly. There was a sparkle in his eyes that was almost normal. Then he was gone.
The strangest thing was, she had actually found his presence reassuring in the end, and couldn’t fathom why. She ate in silence until finally the events began to catch up with her and her hand began to shake. A couple of tears escaped to roll down her face, and for a few moments she let herself fall quietly apart.
But she dried them soon enough. No way in hell would she let them see her cry. Santos was going to get what was coming to him, sooner or later.
And she hoped she had a ringside seat.
***
“She’s alive,” Joaquin said hoarsely as he laid his cell phone on his desk.
Grayson studied his nemesis, allowing the man the smallest bit of leeway. Delacruz really was as upset by Anna’s abduction as Gray himself. But they couldn’t afford to let their fear for Anna get in the way of recovering her successfully. Fucking up could mean her death.
“I heard,” he said. “As I thought, she’s his leverage. He won’t hurt her.”
“Yet.”
“That’s why we’re bringing in a team of agents. We’re going to make sure that whatever he has planned, he doesn’t get the chance to implement it.”
“Now what?” Joaquin ran a hand through his black hair.
“We should try to get some sleep. Anna needs us to be as sharp as possible the day after tomorrow.”
The other man nodded and rose from behind
his desk. “I’ll see you in the morning. And Sloane . . . thanks.”
Gray didn’t bother to point out again that he wasn’t doing this for Delacruz. Instead, he accepted the peace offering at face value. “You’re welcome.”
Turning, he left the office with Simon on his heels and made his way upstairs to his room. Outside the door to his assigned bedroom, his friend caught his arm.
“We’re going to get Santos and bring Anna home, don’t worry.”
Gray gave his friend a sad smile. “I know. But the question is, where is Anna’s home these days? Here?”
Simon’s expression softened in sympathy. “I don’t know. But I don’t think for a second that you should just step aside this time and let Delacruz win by default. When Anna left you, she was disillusioned, angry. She’s had time to process what happened between you and she knows you were doing your job.”
“That’s not the part she had the problem with,” he reminded Simon.
“But there were real feelings involved. Don’t forget that, and don’t let her forget it, either.”
“I won’t.” But whatever happened, someone was going to get hurt. That was unavoidable.
Bidding Simon good night, he stepped into his bedroom and shut the door, locking it behind him. Then he checked his weapon and laid it on the nightstand close at hand. Never hurt to be cautious. Stripping off his suit, he tossed it into a nearby chair with pleasure. That was one area of being an FBI agent he could do without—wearing a damned suit.
Normally he would sleep naked, but he wasn’t at ease here, in Delacruz’s mansion. His enemy, under any other circumstances. He needed to be ready for anything. Leaving on his boxers, he padded to the window, pulled back the curtains, and looked out at the night.
It was clear, stars shining. An absurd scene popped into his head: a cartoon mouse singing “Somewhere Out There,” lamenting the loss of his loved ones and wondering whether he’d ever see them again. Gray shook his head at his own stupidity. He must be really fucking tired.
Even so, he couldn’t help but turn to stare at his suitcase, thinking of the item within. Walking over, he opened the top of the case and thought it must be some form of self-torture that he kept this close by. It served as a reminder of how badly he’d screwed things up with Anna. His heartbreak.