by Zoe Blake
“I’m fine. Just watch where you’re going,” she grumbled as she stormed off.
I smiled as I pocketed her wallet. “I will.”
Using cash from the woman’s wallet, I bought a Metra card. I could hop the turnstile but that would bring attention. As I walked towards the trains, I swiped a jean jacket resting across a man’s gym bag on the floor. It would be big, which was what I wanted. It would help conceal my size. I resisted the urge to look around me, as I nervously waited for the next train to pull up.
As the doors opened, and several groggy morning commuters mixed with drunken bar patrons, I pressed in to grab a spot and swiped two more wallets and a cell phone. In the scuffle, I knocked off a guy’s baseball cap and hustled to the other end of the train, putting it on as he searched the train’s floor hoping to find his missing hat untrampled among the countless pairs of random shoes.
Keeping my head low, I counted the seconds till the doors closed, scanning the platform for any signs of a large, tattooed man. If I was lucky, he would give up his pursuit. Somehow, I thought that was unlikely. He knew I'd had to leave without my bag, so he was probably lying in wait, assuming that after an hour or two, if all seemed quiet, I would return.
Too bad he was wrong.
Finally, there was the beeping warning as the doors shifted.
The doors closed, and with a jerk, the train pitched forward.
I was on my way to the airport.
If all went well, I would be in Montreal by early evening at the latest.
Once more, I thought of Damien. Of his heavy, muscled body as he pushed his fingers inside me. Owning me in that moment. I bit my lip.
Damn, it really was too bad I would never see him again.
Chapter 17
Damien
When I got my hands on her, I was going to wring her little neck.
I touched my hand to my forehead to see if I was still bleeding.
I was.
She hit me with a brick… A brick.
Getting behind the wheel of my Mercedes, I tossed the backpack Yelena had been carrying into the back seat.
I was racing to O’Hare. If I knew my girl, she was fleeing the country. If she got on a plane, it could be months before I picked up her trail. Maybe even years. But I would pick it up. A quick brick to the head was not enough to get rid of me, not by a long shot.
Reaching into the backseat as I drove, I dug around in my gym bag for a fresh t-shirt and the small first aid kit I carried. Feeling the small plastic box in my hand, I put it on my lap and lifted the lid, then sifted through the Band-Aids till I found the butterfly bandage. Tearing the package open with my teeth, I used the rearview mirror to place it on my temple right at the hairline. I would worry about the knife wound later.
In less than an hour, she had managed to give me a knife wound and a head wound.
I smiled.
I did love a challenge.
Just then my cell rang. It was Gregor. I pushed the Bluetooth button to connect it with my car stereo, as I easily navigated around the sparse Chicago early morning traffic on the highway.
“Damien, you there?”
“Yeah. Everything go as planned?
“It was Samara. I took her to the art museum event. Word should spread quickly that she’s back under my control. Saw Dimitri. He and Vaska want to meet in a few hours. It’s important. Can you make it?”
I cleared my throat. “I can’t.”
“You grab Yelena, yet?”
I touched the still bleeding wound on my head and grimaced. “On it. She wasn’t at the first two locations. I finally found her at the third.”
“Is she there with you?”
I paused. “She’s… not with me.”
“Why the hell not?”
“She got away.”
“Got away? Seriously?”
I shot back, irritated. “Yeah. She got away.”
“We’re talking about the same girl, right? Small little blonde?”
I sighed. “She hit me with a brick.”
Gregor said nothing.
“Stop laughing.”
“I’m not laughing,” he said with a laugh. “I’m just trying to picture it.”
“Apparently, some asshole must have taught her some ninja shit over the last few years,” I grumbled, still feeling that same stab of jealousy.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what it is. Well, if it makes you feel any better, Samara would have pulled a gun on me if I hadn’t taken it from her.”
“That would make me feel better if Yelena hadn’t actually pulled a gun on me.”
“Damn.”
“And a knife.”
Gregor started to laugh again. “Perhaps you should have Yelena give you some fighting pointers.”
Ignoring his brotherly taunt, I said, “I think she’ll head to the airport. That’s where I’m going now. I’m also going to send a cleaner crew to her condo. It’s a train wreck. Don’t need a nosy neighbor calling the police.”
“Sounds good. I’ll keep you posted about the meeting with Dimitri and Vaska.” Gregor paused. “And ah… Damien… do you need me to send you a couple of men? You know. For protection?”
“Fuck you,” I said over his laughter as I disconnected the phone.
As I got off the exit for O’Hare, I began to strategize how I was going to extract Yelena in the middle of a crowd full of tourists and police and—just for fun—homeland security agents, as well.
I turned up my radio. Playing on the classical music station was Aram Khachaturian’s Sabre Dance, fitting for a chase.
For the first time in three years, I felt warm. As if something deep and cold inside of me was thawing, like I was coming back to life again.
The thrill of the hunt always warmed a man’s blood, especially when he’s after fiery little demon angels with bright blue eyes the color of the ocean.
Chapter 18
Yelena
The doors opened. I stood back and waited for a few people to get off the train, so I could blend in. Plus, I wanted a moment to survey the crowd. All I saw were tourists with suitcases and annoyed business travelers with laptop bags.
Which reminded me, I needed to procure a suitcase. TSA found it suspicious when you booked international flights without any baggage. Or maybe I'd just swipe some sunglasses and play the sobbing, jilted bride going on her honeymoon alone. That should work for a first-class upgrade, too. And usually stopped people from asking too many questions, like why you don’t look exactly like your photo and where is your luggage?
I knew there was a flight in two hours. I just needed to get a ticket, get past security, and then lay low till I was on the plane.
I stepped off the train and headed toward the double escalators to my left.
As soon as I was through security, I headed straight to McDonald’s. I was starving. Maybe I would get lucky and see Samara there. I knew Samara especially would want a mocha fix this early in the morning. That is, if she'd broken free of Gregor and decided to fly.
Once again, my mind turned to Damien. He was just so… big! In every way possible.
I needed to stop thinking about that scary overbearing man and start focusing.
Once I got to the gate I would…
I never finished the thought.
Everything went black.
Chapter 19
Yelena
I couldn’t move my arms.
My skin felt hot, and my breathing accelerated as I panicked.
Oh God. Damien had warned me about this. About how the Columbians could just snatch me at any time, even in broad daylight.
The last thing I remembered was heading toward the escalator at the airport and then nothing. Everything went black. Not wanting to alert my kidnapper that I was now awake, I kept my head down and barely opened my eyes.
I could see carpeting and what looked to be the legs of a dining room table. Shifting in my seat, I could tell I was in a wooden chair and my wrists were bound by th
e hard metal of handcuffs. Moving my fingers, I felt along the spindle back of the chair.
Okay… okay… don’t panic.
I know I’m handcuffed to a chair.
I can work with this.
I listened carefully.
Someone was moving around in the other room.
I strained to hear anything else.
It sounded like they were singing, but I couldn’t make out if it was a male or female voice. It was more like humming.
Risking it, I picked my head up slightly and looked around the room. On top of the dining room table was a Glock 9mm.
So, I had a weapon near me. I just needed to get out of these handcuffs.
Shifting my hips back, I pressed my ass against the spindles of the chair. I wiggled the fingers of my right hand into my pocket, searching for the bobby pin and paperclip I kept there. Every pocket I owned in every outfit had a bobby pin and a paperclip because, well, you just never knew when you'd want to pick a lock. I'd learned that the hard way after the umpteenth time my stepfather had locked me in a closet or tried to handcuff me to the radiator as punishment.
My fingertip touched the thin metal of the bobby pin. Slowly I pulled it along till I had it in my hand. Keeping my head down, I paused to listen. There was still humming and the sound of metal hitting glass. Kitchen noises?
Using both hands, I straightened the bobby pin. I scraped the edge with my thumbnail till the small protective plastic nub popped off the end. Now came the hard part. Careful not to rattle my cuffs, I felt along the smooth metal for the keyhole. Once I found it, I placed the tip of the bobby pin in and bent it sharply to the left, then to the right to create a ninety-degree angle. I then pushed the bobby pin edge down till I felt the ratchet release. The jaws of the handcuff on my left wrist opened. Releasing my hand, I brought my arms forward. The handcuffs still dangled from my right wrist, but I would take care of that later.
I rubbed my wrist slowly as I stood up and circled the dining room table. Picking up the gun, I surveyed the space. Walking over to the windows, I pushed the curtain aside and looked out. I didn’t recognize this part of town, but I was at least seven stories up. Too high to jump. The clank of a metal pan on a stove had me turning sharply again toward the kitchen.
I only had one choice...
Edging around the dining room table, I made my way to what I thought was the kitchen.
Peering around the doorjamb, I saw a large man dressed only in jeans standing in front of the stove.
Both arms were covered in tattoos.
Sonofabitch!
I raised the gun.
“Not loaded,” sing-songed Damien over his shoulder. “How do you like your eggs?”
Just out of spite, I pulled the trigger anyway. It made a loud snapping sound but nothing more.
Damien turned and walked over to the refrigerator. “Not that I’m complaining, but that is the second time you’ve tried to shoot me… today.”
Taking out a carton of eggs, he returned to the stove.
He had a small bandage on his side and a butterfly bandage on his head.
I had no words.
I couldn’t believe this was happening.
And I absolutely refused to feel guilty about the bandages marring his incredible, sexy, washboard ab stomach.
He winked at me. “No preference? Scrambled, it is. I thought you’d never wake up, then I heard you rattling those handcuffs enough to wake the dead.”
My eyes narrowed as I stormed into the kitchen. Tossing the useless gun on the counter, I confronted him. “The hell you did! I didn’t make a sound!”
Damien turned. Taking his finger, he tapped me on the nose. “Despite that rather homicidal temper of yours, you really are cute. And yes, I’m sure everyone in the building could hear your ham-fisted attempt to get out of those handcuffs.”
“Listen,” I said as I raised my right arm to point at him. The handcuffs rattled as they dangled from my wrist. I quickly put my arm down. “I hate scrambled eggs,” I grumbled.
“Too bad. Now sit down like a good girl so you can eat,” he ordered, motioning to the small, two-seat kitchen table with his head.
Reluctantly, I took a seat as he put a plate of eggs and slightly burnt toast in front of me. Damien took the seat next to me.
Toying with my fork, I asked, “Is there ketchup?”
“Ketchup?”
“Yes, ketchup. You know, the red stuff.”
“Why?”
“To put on my eggs.”
“Who puts ketchup on their eggs?”
“Me! Americans!”
Grumbling something in Russian, Damien rose from the table to rummage in the refrigerator before returning with a small bottle of ketchup. He didn’t even try to hide his grimace as I tipped the plastic bottle and squirted a generous amount all over my eggs. I put on more than I usually like just to annoy him.
Picking up his own fork, he gave me a sideways glance. “Tell me about this Pick Six racket.”
I shrugged. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“How much do you know about horse racing?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“But the Ivanovs bet huge amounts on the races each week. I used to hear my stepfather talk about it.”
He shrugged. “It’s a convenient way to launder money but I have… accountants to take care of such things. We never got involved in fixing the races. Too messy and cruel. Your stepfather, shall we say, freelanced his services as far as fixing the races was concerned. That wasn’t on my orders. We only bet on races we knew were fixed by others as a sure thing for the accountants to clean the money.”
I nodded and gave him an exaggerated wink. “Sure… accountants.”
“Eat your gross eggs,” he quipped.
After taking a few bites, I took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “Oh my God, that’s sweet.”
“What? I made it the way I like it,” objected Damien as he took the cup from me and took a sip to test it.
I stared down at the heavily sugared and creamed concoction. It was so sweet, the liquid was a light tan. “You take your coffee like a sixteen-year-old girl.”
“And you eat your eggs like a toddler,” he fired back with another wink.
I rose to dump out my cup of coffee. Reaching for the pot to pour another one, I explained. “The Pick Six is what’s called an exotic bet. To win you have to pick the winners in six successive races.”
“And that’s hard?”
I nodded. “It’s rare.”
Damien pivoted to face me where I remained standing by the sink. He leaned an arm over his chair. The position put his naked chest and strong, heavily tattooed muscles on casual display as if he wasn’t sitting there looking like a scary gangster god in blue jeans. “Rare but not impossible. Don’t they offer those at every race?”
“Yep.”
“So, what raised so many red flags with your bets?”
“I got greedy. I was anxious to leave home and needed money, so I placed three bets in one week. Up until that point, I had only been placing the occasional bet over a span of several months to try out my system.”
Not wanting to meet his gaze, I stared down at the black liquid in my cup. I didn’t usually drink it completely black but the strong bitterness grounded me this morning. I needed to keep my wits around Damien. “I heard he’s dead.” I didn’t bother saying his name or why I was so anxious to escape. We both knew why.
Damien cleared his throat and reached for his coffee. “I was rectifying a past mistake.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant but knew I didn’t want to talk about it further. I had wasted enough of my life on my stepfather. “Thank you,” I said simply.
He nodded.
I took a deep breath and continued. “It wasn’t just that I won three times in a row. It’s that a single bettor won on a single ticket.”
His brow furrowed. �
��Explain.”
I returned to the table and sat. “Pick Sixes are complicated bets with countless possible combinations. Usually, gamblers pool their money and go for it. It’s viewed almost like a lottery ticket. A large pool of gamblers purchase a large number of tickets with tons of combinations in the hopes they’ll hit on the right combination and win big.”
He began to spin his now empty coffee mug on the table. I watched as his strong fingers played with the porcelain handle. I bit my lip, remembering the feel of those same strong hands on my body just a few hours ago.
He shook his head. “That still doesn’t explain why you pissed off the Italians and the Columbians so badly. You went to three different racetracks. I watched the security tapes; you were careful with how you cashed in the ticket. You played it really smart. Your only mistake was rushing it, but I can’t see how any of this would have cost those two families any money as they claim.”
I felt a twinge of pride that he seemed to appreciate my plan.
I sat and thought about it for a minute. Then said, “The track takes a cut of the pool.”
His intense gaze swung to me. “What?”
“At the end of each race, if no one wins, and usually no one does, the track takes fifteen percent off the top and carries the remaining pool over to the next race. If no one wins for months at a time the pool can get really big.”
Damien sat back in his chair. “With the track skimming straight off the top each day. That’s found money. Those two families control those tracks. We only use the races occasionally to launder money. It is a much larger revenue source for the Italians and Columbians. Interesting. If we were to take control of the tracks, combined with your betting algorithm….”
A chill ran over my body.
The speculative light in his eyes. The thoughtful tone of voice. The curious glances in my direction. I knew all the signs. I had seen it plenty of times with my stepfather. It was the look men gave you when they realized you could be useful to them.