by Meghan March
“Boss? Boss.”
The whispered word, in English, in a voice I recognize, has me jerking my head around. Koba. My suspicions about him roar to the forefront of my brain.
Is he with them? Coming to kill me? But if he were, why would he be whispering?
Only one way to find out.
“Get me down. Hurry,” I say, snapping out the order.
The squeaking footsteps come closer, and I pray to anyone who will listen that he’s not here to stab me in the back, and is only making himself known so that I’ll be aware of who killed me.
I brought him to Prague to keep an eye on him. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
That decision could be my downfall.
Instead of a knife between my shoulder blades, he slices through the zip ties binding my feet. I stretch them out and try to touch the floor, but I can’t reach.
“I followed them. I was in the stairwell when they carried you out. I hid behind a fire door on the floor below and had to wait for them to leave. There’s only one here right now.”
The story sounds like it could be true, but I’m not exactly in the most trusting mood at present.
“My arms. Hurry up.”
Cold steel touches my skin as Koba cuts the plastic bindings, and as soon as they break, I fall into him as my knees give way when my feet hit the floor. Koba grips my shoulders, and thousands of invisible pins and needles jab into me as blood rushes back into my limbs. Clenching my teeth, I try to steady my legs.
“Fuck. You okay, boss?” Koba whips the bag off my head.
Thank fuck. I blink in the dim light of the room, and the black spots finally disappear from my vision.
“Fine. Time to get the fuck out of here.”
Koba’s head bobs. “I got a car outside, in the alley across the street. We just have to make it there.”
“Gun?” I ask, partly because I need a way to fight back, and partly to see if he’s willing to give me one. If he’s working against me, he wouldn’t free me and then arm me.
When he pulls a pistol from his waistband and offers it to me, I make a snap decision. I was wrong. Koba isn’t here to kill me. His next words seal it.
“I only have one. Would’ve shot them when they were taking you, but I didn’t want to risk—”
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”
“This way.” Koba leads me out of the cooler, palming a knife at his side. He presses against the door, opening it slowly.
I probably should offer to give the gun back because he’s in the lead, but there’s no way in hell I want to be unarmed. Not now.
“Clear,” he whispers, and together we move out of the cooler down a dingy concrete hallway.
I have no fucking clue where we are, but my mind is fixed on what needs to happen right now. Get the fuck out of here. Get back to Indy. Make sure she’s safe. Get us the fuck out of this country.
Those are my priorities, in order.
Together, we creep down the hall, and my arms and shoulders protest with every sweep of the gun. Up ahead is a set of double doors. When we reach them, Koba pauses.
“Through here, there’s another hallway, and on the right, there’s a room where they were holed up. The door to the outside isn’t far beyond it.”
“Got it. Let’s move.”
The double doors open on shrieking hinges, and if there’s a single person in the vicinity, there’s no way they could miss it. The scrape of a chair against concrete is the next sound I hear, and Koba and I lock eyes.
“Run,” we both say, and we bolt like sprinters off the line.
We pass the doorway he described just as a man appears in it, gun drawn.
I raise the pistol and fire, and he staggers backward as the bullets pierce his chest. Someone else yells, but I focus on the door only a dozen feet away. Freedom. As soon as I reach it, I kick it open.
Gunshots erupt, and Koba jumps in front of me to throw the knife he carries. It catches the second shooter in the throat, but not before another deafening barrage of bullets explode from the barrel.
“Get down!” I yell as I fire back, but it’s too late.
Koba hits the floor, the life already leaving his eyes as the door swings shut, trapping us both inside.
Fuck. Fuck. I drop to a knee beside him, but Koba shakes his head when I lift him.
“No. Just go. Go.” The words come out as a gurgle. Death rattle.
I adjust my grip, but blood trickles from the corner of his mouth as his stare goes blank.
Fuuuck.
“Goddammit.” I squeeze his hand and make a decision that guts me. I have to leave him. “I’ll get you home to your family. Somehow.”
Rising to my feet, I shoulder the door open and run outside, praying there aren’t any more of them waiting outside. My prayers go unanswered as a gunshot cracks through the darkness. I fire back at the muzzle flash, and the gunfire stops.
Wherever we are, it’s the dead of night, and the moon offers only the dimmest light. I rush across the street, which is empty, and duck behind the corner of a brick building.
More gunfire erupts from the building I just escaped.
I need to find the fucking car. Otherwise, I’m a dead man walking. Following nothing but my instincts, I run along the side of the building and look for the alley Koba described.
I won’t let your death be in vain.
I reach the opposite end of the wall and spot a dark sedan. In a sprint, I rush to the driver’s door and climb inside. The keys are in the ignition.
Thank fuck.
I fire up the engine and throw it in gear. The tires squeal as I punch the gas. With the headlights off, I haul ass down the alley and turn the corner to reach the road. A muzzle flash comes from directly in front of me just before bullets hit the windshield. It breaks, but the safety glass keeps it from shattering in my face.
I flip on the headlights and floor the accelerator. You shot at the wrong guy, motherfucker.
He lays down more fire, and bullets punch through the car as I careen toward him. He tries to run, but he’s too slow. With a thump, I slam into him from behind and his body bounces up on the hood, his face pressing against the spiderwebbed windshield.
I put the car in reverse, expecting another hail of bullets, but none come. I throw the car in park and jump out.
It might cost me my life, but if I live, I need to know who the fuck to hunt down for this, or neither Indy or I will ever be able to go a day without looking over our shoulders. That’s not a life I want for her.
I drag the man’s body off the car and crouch over it. He’s as dead as he’ll ever be, and I feel no shame or recrimination as I dig through his pockets, taking his wallet, his phone, and his gun. With a backward glance at the warehouse, I dart to the driver’s door and slide inside.
Squinting to see through the demolished windshield, I shift gears and punch the accelerator.
I’m coming, Ace. Nothing is going to keep me from you. Now, where the hell are you?
10
India
Kostya continues making calls, trying to find information about where Jericho is being held, and Goliath and I wait in strained silence.
After the marathon of a day playing poker and the shock that followed, I’m starting to droop, but there’s no way in hell I’m closing my eyes for even a second. Not until we have something concrete. I stifle a yawn as my clutch vibrates.
No. Not my clutch. My phone.
Kidnappers? Maybe trying to ransom him to me while they wait for an answer from Federov?
Goliath’s attention cuts from my father and his men to me as I snap open the clutch and stare at the screen of my phone.
It reads Unknown Number.
Chills skitter down my spine, just like they did every time Summer’s kidnappers called.
“What is it? Who is calling?” Federov asks.
With my heart hammering, I flash the screen at him.
“I will answer,” he says.
<
br /> I shake my head. “I can do this.”
With a shaking finger, I tap the screen and lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Sweet fucking Christ, I needed to hear your voice.”
The connection crackles and the words cut out, but every hair on my body stands on end.
“Jericho? Oh my God. Is that you?”
The phone goes silent, and I yank it away from my ear to stare at the screen. Call failed.
“No!”
“Was it Forge?” Federov asks, reaching across the table for the phone, but I clutch it to my chest.
My gaze darts from the phone to him and back again. “I think so,” I whisper. My heart hammers as I question myself. Was it him? It was him. Right?
It vibrates again, and I answer it on the first ring.
“Jericho?”
“Yeah, Ace. It’s me.”
“Thank God.” Sweet relief, the likes of which I’ve never known, settles over me, and everyone else in the room seems to hold their breath as I talk. “Are you okay? Where are you? Are you safe?”
As soon as I rattle off the questions, Jericho laughs, and with every second, I fear the call will drop again. I bite down on my lip as my eyes burn with tears.
“That’s what I was going to ask you.”
“I’m fine. I’m . . . with my father and Goliath. We left the hotel, but we’re safe. Where are you?”
“Trying to get to you. I thought G was dead. Thank fuck, he’s not.”
“The others . . .” My voice shakes as I try to tell him. I swallow and spit it out. “They’re dead.”
“I heard shots before they knocked me out.” Jericho’s tone sounds just as grim as mine. “Koba is too.”
I sit up straighter. “How? He disappeared from the hotel. We thought . . . We thought he was part of it.”
“He saved me. Didn’t make it out. But that’s all for later. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting to you. Can I talk to Goliath for a second? We need a plan.”
The last thing in the world I want to do is give up that phone, but if it gets me what I want most—to see Jericho, safe and sound—I’ll do it.
“Okay. Here he is.” I hand the phone off, and Goliath speaks in a language I don’t recognize.
Why hadn’t I asked Jericho what it was the first time I heard it? How many languages does my husband speak?
From the corner of my eye, I can see my father staring at Goliath, and it’s clear from his clenched hands and stiffened posture that he doesn’t speak the language either and hates being at a disadvantage.
The conversation is short, and Goliath hands the phone back to me only thirty seconds later.
“Ace?”
“I’m here.” My heart swells with joy just hearing his voice, but I try to tamp it down. I need to see him. Touch him. Hug him. Then I’ll believe he’s really okay.
“Goliath is going to have your father bring you to the private air strip where we landed. Stick close to him. Don’t leave his side. We’re getting the hell out of Prague.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice shaking enough that there’s no way Jericho misses it.
“I’ll see you soon. I promise. Everything’s going to be okay, Ace.” His voice is filled with confidence, and I want to believe him.
The words I love you hover on my lips, but I can’t get them out, because something in me wants to say them to him in person and watch his face as he hears. Not in a room full of men staring at me on the phone. As soon as I hang up, I regret that I didn’t say them.
What if I never get the chance?
I won’t think about that. Not now. The only thing that matters is getting to him.
I shoot to my feet and meet my father’s gaze. “We need a ride.”
11
Forge
Hearing Indy’s voice isn’t enough. I need to have her in my arms on the plane home before I’ll be able to breathe easy. I punch in the address of the airport in the GPS on the phone I stole from Yuri Pallovich, if the name on the license in the wallet I stole off the dead guy is real.
I’ve spent time in Prague, but I don’t know this maze of streets well enough to navigate them without assistance. The airport is only thirty minutes away, and according to Goliath, it shouldn’t take them much longer to get there, if he’s right about where they are. I would put money on Goliath being right, because the man has an uncanny sense of direction and can navigate a ship without radar through a narrow channel in the densest fog known to man. I would trust him with my life, and right now, I’m trusting him with Indy’s.
“Get her to me. No matter what it takes,” I told him in Afrikaans. It’s the language of his homeland, and over the years, he taught me enough to get by with the basics. It had been vital more than once when we had to speak in front of others without being understood.
I turn left, backtracking my way through the city. I drove in a circle while I was talking to Indy and Goliath, in part because I took a wrong turn, and also because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t being followed.
Thirty minutes. That’s all that stands between me and seeing her safe again.
In the back of my mind, one name rumbles over and over.
Bastien de Vere. Bastien de Vere.
If he was behind this, my death by a thousand cuts is going to be reduced to one slice.
Across his throat.
12
India
“This is not a good idea,” my father says after I repeat the instructions Jericho gave Goliath and me.
I march to the door. “No disrespect, but I wasn’t asking for your opinion. We need a ride to the airport.”
My father’s lips settle into a hard line, but I don’t care if he’s not used to being contradicted. The only thing that matters to me is getting to the airport as fast as humanly possible.
Silence hangs between us, and part of me expects him to say no, purely based on his stiff posture. But I refuse to back down. I didn’t grow up on the streets, fending for myself and my sister, just to be cowed by any man, even if he is my father. I don’t trust him, and if he ever wants to see me again, he needs to realize his actions right now will trump all his stories of regret.
“We’re wasting time. Forge will be there. He expects his wife to be there as well,” Goliath says, unable to bear the silence any longer.
“Forge—” Federov says, and I interrupt.
“Is my husband, and I’m going to him.” I cross my arms over my chest. “We’ll get there with or without you.”
My father rises and walks toward me. “I should have known you would be as stubborn as me. Fine. We will go, and I will speak to Forge directly about my concerns for your safety.”
Knock yourself out, I think. Because I don’t care what he says once we get there. I just need to see Jericho in one piece.
“Thank you.”
Federov’s two security people flank him as he walks toward the door. The blond, Kostya, reaches it first, and I step aside so he can unlock and unbolt it before swinging it open.
The ride to the airport passes as slowly as hundred-year-old honey working its way down the side of a jar. Goliath flips between a text with someone I assume is Jericho and the GPS on the screen of his phone the entire time.
Does he expect them to try to take us somewhere else? As much as I want to be able to trust my father as he asks me question after question about my life, it’s not an easy thing to do.
I just want to get back to Jericho and get the hell out of here.
That’s when it hits me—I’m the reason Donnigan, Bates, and Koba are dead. I’m the reason Jericho was kidnapped. If I hadn’t insisted on playing this grand prix, we wouldn’t have been in such a vulnerable position.
This all happened because of me. Every single bit of it.
Guilt threatens to drag me under. If something happens to Jericho before he gets to the airport, I will never be able to forgive myself. Tears burn my eyes, and all I want to do is get to him.
; I fidget in my seat, staring out the window, barely answering my father’s questions. As we get closer, runway lights glow in the sky, and my hand is poised over the latch on my seat belt.
Lev, who I’ve learned is Kostya’s bald counterpart, badges us through the gate and parks inside one of the hangars. Goliath opens the door of the SUV, and as soon as he is out of my way, I hit the ground running.
I’ve only taken two steps toward the jet before Goliath reaches out to grab my wrist. “That isn’t Forge’s plane.”
I whip my head around to face my father as the other doors of the SUV slam shut.
“I said I’d bring you to the airport, not that I’d let you leave with him.”
With my teeth bared, I stride toward him. “If you ever want to see me again, you won’t stand in my way right now. You will never stand in my way when it comes to my family. Do you understand me?”
A slash of pain shoots across the old man’s proud face before he can disguise it. “The Federov blood runs hot in your veins, just like mine. Do not shut me out of your life for wanting to keep you safe.”
“I’m safe with Jericho.” My tone leaves no room for argument.
My father opens his mouth to reply, but both Lev and Kostya raise their weapons and train them on the form of a man who steps into the shadows of the hangar.
It doesn’t matter that I can’t see him. I know exactly who it is.
“No! Put them down! If you shoot him, I’ll gut you myself.” The bloodthirsty threat comes from God only knows where, but one thing is certain—I hate having guns pointed at my husband.
Goliath takes a step forward, and I don’t know what he’s planning to do, but Federov says something in Russian. Both men lower their weapons partially as the man walks toward us, finally stepping into the light from the beams of the SUV’s headlights.
Jericho. His face is dirty and blood streaked, but it’s the most gorgeous face I’ve ever seen. He’s alive.