by Zoe Blake
So this explained why, after a year and a half of silence, the chatter about the Columbians searching for Yelena had turned into such a frenzy. I thought it was because she had become active again in some of the major races.
It had nothing to do with her.
This was about me.
Santiago was getting his revenge against me.
He must have learned of my connection to Yelena.
They had probably been tracking me this entire trip.
They had taken a chance I might use the helicopter, and I had played right into their fucking hands.
It would only be a matter of time before he realized her part in the Pick Six scheme which had been robbing his tracks blind these past three years.
Fuck.
John appeared in the doorway. “Cops are at the front gate. I have a buddy holding them back but not for much longer.”
“You got a way out of here?”
He nodded.
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
He smiled. “I know what I signed up for. Bird is gassed and ready when you are.” He gave a pointed look to the moaning man at my feet before leaving.
His boss sniveled, “I told you what you wanted to know. You don’t have to kill me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” I fired a single shot straight into his temple.
He had to die.
They would all die.
Anyone who harmed my Yelena was about to find out how I earned the nickname Demon.
Chapter 30
Yelena
The fear and adrenaline pumping through my veins made my head spin. I wrapped my arms tightly around my middle, clutching my stomach, scared I would throw up as the helicopter raced over the tops of the city’s skyscrapers.
Through the window, I could see the cold, grey waters of Lake Michigan. Whitecaps churned as the waves crashed against the rocky shore.
Should I try and jump?
It would be my death but that would be preferable to what probably awaited me when we landed. I had heard the gruesome stories from my stepfather and his cronies. Sitting around my mother’s old kitchen table, letting their cigarette butts burn nasty char marks in the varnish as their sweaty cheap beer cans left hazy water marks, they would compare notes on who was more ruthless — the Russians or the Columbians.
As a little girl, the things I overheard gave me nightmares.
No. I had to stop thinking this way.
Damien would rescue me.
He would move heaven and hell to get to me.
I was sure of it.
I'd never trusted a man in my life before now, but I trusted Damien.
I more than trusted him.
I love him.
The man drove me crazy. He was such a typical Scorpio, far too controlling and pushy and — according to my sign — we shouldn’t be the least bit compatible but none of that mattered.
I love him.
I loved how he had the same sarcastic sense of humor as me. I loved that he loved classical music. Or how despite being this big thug Russian with tattoos, he could rattle off all the most popular high-end Parisian designers. I loved how he kept a photo of his old school friend in his wallet and how he and his brother did everything they could to try and save her from herself.
Just like he tried to save me from myself the night of Nadia’s birthday party.
I should have listened to him then. I should have taken a risk and trusted that maybe, for once, someone was trying to help me instead of hurt me. Maybe then I wouldn’t have dragged poor Samara from city to city and country to country these last few years, convincing her to stay by my side because I was too afraid to face life on my own.
Damien was dangerous and lived in a world I desperately wanted to leave behind but I no longer cared about any of that.
He was also sexy and funny, and for the first time in my life, I felt safe and protected in his arms. Right at this moment, I wanted nothing more than to feel those strong arms around me. Wanted to feel his lips against my forehead as he called me his angel. Wanted to hear him gruffly tell me everything was going to be okay.
I had to hold on to the feeling that he was coming for me.
No matter what happened.
I had to stay alive.
I owed him that much.
I owed him my trust that he would save me.
We left the city behind. Soon there was nothing but large suburban housing developments and strip malls below. Then even those were left behind for large sweeping fields of corn and grass. We must be heading west, deeper into the farmlands of Illinois.
The helicopter slowed and hovered over one such property. It had a large white manor house and a classic red barn. There was also a horse paddock and a long rectangular structure which looked to be a horse stable.
The helicopter kicked up a cloud of dirt and sand as it landed in a field nearby. Several horses in the paddock started to stomp their hooves and race about in a frenetic circle.
A group of men with automatic weapons strapped to their shoulders hunched down and ran toward us. The door swung open. A gloved hand wrapped around my upper arm and dragged me out.
I tripped and fell. The small stones dug into my palms, scraping them. Cursing in Spanish, a man pulled me back to my feet by my ponytail.
Balling my right hand into a fist, I swung out, clocking him on the jaw. The man by his side approached. I kicked out, catching him in the stomach.
That was as far as I got before two men snatched my arms from behind.
I coughed on the cloud of dust and dirt as I was dragged across the open field to a pair of large hunter green wooden doors with white trim.
Both swung open as we approached.
I had to squint as my eyes adjusted from blinding sunlight to the shady interior. It smelled musty, like moldy hay and horse manure. I was forced to march forward, and we stopped before a short, well-groomed man. He stood before me in a rather garish off-the-rack, purple pin-striped suit. At first, he didn’t say a word, just spun the gold ring on his pinkie finger.
After inhaling a breath through his small, rat-like nose, he finally spoke in a heavy Spanish accent. “Yelena Nikitina. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard many… interesting things… about you and your prowess at the track.”
I remained silent.
“Where are my manners?” he said genially, as if we were at a party and he had neglected to introduce me to the host. “My name is Santiago Garcia, and I believe you and I have a mutual acquaintance.”
I thrust my chin out and spoke brazenly, with more bravado than I felt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He smiled; one of his teeth was gold-capped. It made his demeanor seem even more false, more caricature than man. “Let me show you my babies.”
With a firm grip on both of my upper arms, I was forced to walk behind him deeper into the stable.
He gestured to the various horses stalled on either side. They were all beautiful. All with glossy black or chestnut coats. Several with shocks of white on their noses. All obviously expensive thoroughbred stock.
He leaned over one stall to pet the nose of a horse that poked its head out to greet him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a few sugar cubes and held them on his flat palm for the horse to eagerly lap them up. “Isn’t she gorgeous? This beauty is going to win me a nice purse in the Sham Stakes this year.”
I looked at the horse with sympathy. The poor thing. More than likely, he was pumping her full of steroids and then, on race day, he would force a milkshake down her nose. It was an awful practice of forcing a tube into a horse’s nose and then down into its stomach where they would pump a mixture of bicarbonate soda, sugar, water, and electrolytes into it. It prevented the buildup of lactic acid in the muscles so the horse would literally run itself to injury or worse, death. I should know. My bastard stepfather was one of the men who used to torture horses with the concoction as part of his side job to fix rac
es.
Santiago continued deeper into the darkness of the stable.
As we approached the last stall, I could hear a man groaning.
My stomach twisted.
Oh my God.
Damien.
Please God tell me they hadn’t captured Damien.
My steps faltered but the men holding me kept me marching forward.
Right before we reached the stall, there was another pitiful groan.
A few more steps, and we were standing at the opening to the stall. I closed my eyes, unable to bear looking.
“Ms. Nikitina, may I introduce Geraldo Gomez.”
My eyes flew open.
My knees almost buckled. Thank God it wasn’t Damien. The man lying on his side among the dirty hay and filth looked like no more than a pile of rags. Dried blood was matted in his hair and one eye was swollen shut. As he rose onto his knees, it was clear the way his left hand hung limply at his side that either it or his arm had been broken.
“Please, Mr. Garcia. I’ll pay it all back. I swear! Please!”
Once more twirling the large gold signet ring on his pinkie finger, Santiago turned to me. “Like you, Mr. Gomez here thought I wouldn’t mind him stealing money from my pocket. He thought I wouldn’t notice a few fixed races off the books.”
“I never stole anything. I never fixed any races!” I objected.
Santiago stepped close. I hissed as he rubbed the back of his hand down my cheek. The ring on his finger was cold against my skin. “You will only anger me by denying what we both know is true. I would advise against that,” he said softly. “Things will get… ugly… if you anger me further.”
Goosebumps rose on my flesh.
Santiago stepped back and motioned to some of his men who were standing nearby. Swinging their rifles to their backs, they stepped inside the stall and grabbed Geraldo by the arms. He cried out in pain when the one touched his broken left arm. They hefted him high and pulled him backwards till he was propped against the far wall. Another henchman stepped forward and handed Santiago a large, ominous-looking power tool.
“So many people think that stealing from a racetrack is a victimless crime,” he said, shaking his head. Lifting the power tool, he aimed it at Geraldo and pulled the trigger.
With horror, I realized it was a nail gun. A long steel nail hit Geraldo in the fleshy part of his right underarm. Pinning him to the back of the wood stall wall.
I tried to turn my head away but one of the men holding me snatched my ponytail and forced my head up and straight.
“They do not think about the cost to me and my family.”
He fired the gun again and then again. Each time striking Geraldo in the arms or legs. The man’s screams almost drowned out Santiago’s next words.
“You must understand, Ms. Nikitina, I am only a humble businessman trying to make a… small profit.”
Geraldo was sobbing as the nails pierced his limbs. By now, so many had struck him that the two henchmen no longer needed to support him. He was being held up by the nails in his own flesh.
“This is something Damien Ivanov did not understand when he cheated me on a recent transaction of ours. I don’t appreciate being cheated, Ms. Nikitina. It sets a bad example to my men… and makes me very angry.”
So, this wasn’t just about me. It was about Damien as well. This was bad, really bad. I realized with a sick feeling that the best thing would be for Damien not to find me. He would only be risking his own death if he tried.
I wet my dry lips. Santiago had said he was a businessman. Maybe I could make a deal with him.
I inhaled a shaky breath. “I’ll tell you all you need to know. I’ll teach you my betting scheme. It’s really just a simple category forecasting algorithm. You won’t need to bother with fixing races anymore. I’ll tell you everything, just don’t hurt Damien.”
Santiago grasped the end of my ponytail. For several agonizing minutes, he didn’t say anything. Just stroked my hair. I swallowed the bile in my throat, repressing the urge to pull away from his slimy touch.
“You really are a beauty. Damien Ivanov was a lucky man.”
“Please. We can make a deal.”
He smiled. His gold-capped tooth glinted even in the dim light of the stable. “You don’t understand the rules of business very well, Ms. Nikitina. There is no reason for me to make a deal. I will already be taking whatever I want from you,” he said as he pulled painfully on my hair and stared at my mouth.
Just then, a groomer approached with a horse. “You asked for Satan’s Spawn to be brought out, Mr. Garcia?”
“Yes, put him in the stall,” ordered Santiago without taking his snake eyes off me.
The man moved the horse into the stall. Shifting it around till he was facing us with his hind quarters crowding against the pitiful limp form of Geraldo who still whimpered and pleaded for his life.
Santiago placed his hand under my chin, painfully digging his fingers into my jaw. “You are about to see what I have planned for your beloved Mr. Ivanov.”
One of his men stepped forward. Taking a stiletto knife out of his pocket, he flicked it open then stabbed the poor horse in the flank with the sharp blade. The horse whinnied and shrieked. First, it reared up on its hind legs but then it began to kick its back legs in anger and pain.
My eyes were wide with terror as I screamed and fought Santiago’s grip. Both he and his men held firm.
The sickening sound of bones cracking echoed around the stable as the horse’s back hooves pounded over and over into Geraldo’s already damaged body. Santiago shifted position, dragging me with him so that I was forced to stare upon the bloody mess that used to be a human being.
The force of the beating had torn his body off the nails. It now was nothing more than a trampled heap of blood and bones on the stall floor. Pounded into the dirt and shit.
Just as I thought I might faint from the horrible sight, Santiago viciously slapped me across the face. My ears rang with the echoes of the dying man’s screams.
“It’s best you prepare yourself now. Soon that will be Damien Ivanov lying in there,” he viciously taunted.
Just the thought of my handsome, strong Damien being kicked to death by a horse and left to die among the piles of dung made me want to die, too. My stomach lurched. I gagged. This time I didn’t even try to stop it. Surging forward, I choked out bile onto his shiny alligator shoes.
Disgusted, Santiago stepped back. “Take the bitch away. Lock her in one of the stalls.”
I was dragged off to a nearby empty stall and tossed onto a pile of moldy hay, where they wrenched my left arm high. Clapping handcuffs around my wrist, they then attached the second cuff to an iron ring secured to a cement column set in the wooden wall.
Both men stood over me. One gave my leg a hard kick. I stifled a groan.
“Think the boss will give us a go at her once he’s done with her?”
The other one laughed and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “By the time the boss is done with her, you won’t want anything to do with her, trust me.”
They both laughed.
Leaving the stall, they closed and locked the high gated door.
I curled my knees into my chest and rested my forehead on my knees. Tears ran down my cheeks. Misery washed over me. Part of me wished I could feel Damien’s arms around me right now. And another part of me desperately wished I'd never lay eyes on him again. At least that way, I knew he would be safe.
I thought of Damien’s dark sapphire eyes and how they always shone with stubborn resolve.
A spark of hope lighted deep inside of me.
I had forgotten. He was a Scorpio. The bad boy of the zodiac signs.
Intense and extremely powerful, nothing and no one ever got the better of a fiercely determined Scorpio. Especially not my Russian Badass Scorpio.
Feeling my feisty Sagittarius nature start to come back to the fore, I took a deep calming breath.
Despite the pain in my cheek from S
antiago’s slap, I managed a slight smile.
Suddenly, I was a little sorry for Santiago and his men.
They had no idea the hellfire that was about to rain down on them once Demon Damien Ivanov found me. And he would find me. I had no doubt. All I had to do was hang on till then.
Chapter 31
Damien
Five hours, twenty-six minutes, and forty-two seconds.
That was how long Yelena had been held captive.
It was five hours, twenty-six minutes, and forty-two seconds too long.
“Target confirmed,” said Dimitri as he handed me the high-powered binoculars.
We were about seven hundred yards away on a high ridge which looked down into the sheltered valley where Santiago Garcia’s Los Infieles controlled a thoroughbred farm. Looking through the binoculars, I couldn’t spot Dimitri and Vaska’s stolen red and black Enstrom 280FX Shark helicopter but that didn’t matter. I had called in a few favors, and Russian military satellite footage confirmed the helicopter had been here less than an hour ago. Only the pilot was seen departing which meant Yelena should still be on property.
Based on the number of armed guards stationed around the stable, it was our best guess she was being held there.
I prayed to God she was still alive.
Either way, anyone responsible for her kidnapping was dying today.
Vaska pulled his Barret M82 sniper rifle out of its case. He opened the base and arranged several sandbags to stabilize it. It was an anti-material rifle whose ammunition could take down any small aircraft. It could also penetrate through a concrete wall. He connected the ten-round detachable magazine and placed several back up within easy reach. He checked the scope then nodded to us both.
Pulling out my two Glock 17s, I clicked a double-stack, thirty-three round high-capacity magazine into each gun and chambered the first round. I then tucked four more magazines into the lower leg pockets of my black cargo pants. Dimitri did the same. Since we would be coming in hot, we needed a gun that was reliable and light with semi-automatic, striker-fire capability. There was none better than the Glock 17.