Held Captive: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance, page 6
Dimitri and, so far as I can tell, every other Russian man in the city frequents their spa. I assumed it was just a front for a brothel, but it turns out it actually is a spa, and Russian men like to discuss business naked and sweating in a sauna before getting massages. Good on them. I spend my time in the waiting room on my tablet replying to emails and company inquiries, or working on whatever other project Dimitri has me on at the time.
I’m sitting on the spa sofa, tablet in hand, herbal tea on the table to my left, feet folded underneath me and my shoes tucked neatly under the table when two gentlemen in suits walk in. I don’t recognize them. When they speak to the attendant, I hear a Spanish inflection that I can’t quite place. Interesting. The attendant leads them away and returns several minutes later. I’m a familiar sight here, so no one notices, or cares, when I put the tablet down and head back myself.
The bathrooms are back here. As are the massage rooms, communal bath, changing rooms and sauna. I pause outside the sauna. I hear Dimitri’s business voice. The overly friendly ‘let’s make a deal’ tone. I hear the Spanish voices again. Unfortunately, I can’t hear much more than muffled snippets. Once I hear Dimitri say ‘shipment’ but that’s about the only clear word. I also can’t stay all day here. First off, someone could see me listening outside the door. Second, someone will notice my absence from the lobby. Begrudgingly, I continue to the bathroom and use the facilities before returning to my sofa.
About an hour later, the two men exit, talking in quiet Spanish. I hear the words for ‘girls’ as well as ‘police’ and ‘business’ as they go by. They look pensive. Interesting indeed.
Ivan appears shortly and tells me that Dimitri has other things to do but that he needs me for the rest of the day, and that Dimitri needs help this evening. He tells me to have clothes sent to Dimitri’s home. I text Deborah for a new set of business clothes and pajamas, just in case.
Ivan drives silently back to the docks. I’ve long since given up trying to figure his moods out, so I pull out my iPad and settle in, but am surprised to see Ivan open my door.
“Come, it’s too dangerous to leave you out here alone.”
Umm, what? I notice the tension on Ivan’s face.
Inside the warehouse is an odd mix of bachelor pad and storage unit, with a couple of semi trucks that are suspiciously familiar. He converses in Russian with several men. A few look at me in a manner that makes my skin crawl. Ivan growls, and I hear Dimitri’s name mentioned. Then they don’t look at me anymore.
We’re walking back to the SUV when I hear tires screech. Ivan looks up while pulling two handguns from under his jacket. I didn’t know he had two guns on him. Why that’s the detail I think of first, I’ll never know.
“Down!” he yells, shoving me behind a metal barrel. I curl up so I don’t leave any body parts that might get shot off sticking out.
You don’t grow up in Texas without knowing about guns. Still, the loud gunshots make me jump out of reflex. Several more men have come out of the warehouse, shouting in Russian. They all have rifles and are shooting back at god knows who. Jesus fuck, please be good shots. With my luck I’ll be shot by the Russians because their aim sucks.
Glancing around, I see there isn’t much else between me and the SUV. I consider running for it but decide against it because I’m mostly certain Ivan has the keys. I haven’t seen Ivan since he shoved me down here. Speaking of, there are a couple more barrels that look just like this one sitting about fifty yards away. A bullet hits one.
It bursts into flame. Oh, hell, no. Nope. Not today, Satan. I am not getting blown up in a shitty warehouse parking lot. I’ve made my peace with my new mantra when a low whistle sounds. I’ve never heard that before.
Then the warehouse blows up. Along with all the Russians I saw earlier. The gunshots stop, an odd silence broken only by the ringing in my ears follows. Fuck it. I pop up and run for the stacks of metal shipping containers on the other side of the parking lot, doing a little zigzag for good measure. I hear shouting but the wind is rushing by my ears and my heartbeat is pounding so I would never be able to hear the words.
I’m just about to round the corner of a container when my hair is grabbed, and I’m snatched clear off the ground. I fall on my ass, my scalp throbbing and tears in my eyes.
I struggle to get air back into my lungs. A man walks into view, upside down since I’m still staring straight up and he came from somewhere near my head. He’s beefy, with shaggy blond hair. He’s wearing tactical pants and has a rifle hanging on a sling high across his chest.
“Who the hell are you?” he says with an accent that makes the ‘you’ more of a ‘ye.’ He shouts something I can’t understand over his shoulder. Another man appears. Blondie turns slightly to face him. That was dumb. I roll over, pop to my feet, and throw the handful of gravel I grabbed into his face. Then I run.
More shouting, more of the language I can’t understand. I weave in and out of the containers. I can hear the voices getting closer. Fuck.
I turn to the closest container and haul myself onto it. I press flat on my belly, willing my heart and breathing to slow down. I hear them moving around, fanning out, shouting. What language is that? While I’m asking rhetorical questions, how about what the hell just happened? I keep my musings to myself and focus on slow breathing in and out and on keeping the trembling from starting. You can freak the fuck out later.
I wait forever. Then I wait a little bit longer. It’s been quiet for a long time.
I peek over the edge of the container. No one. I sit up a little and look around. I’m alone. I crawl down the container, banging my knee and shin in the process. Biting back the curse, I slowly creep toward the entrance of the parking lot. I’d rather go out the back, but the lot is surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence with razor wire. I can’t begin to climb it.
It occurs to me that a building burst into flames and a gun fight broke out and I haven’t seen a cop or firefighter yet. Odd, even in an industrial area. Someone had to notice. I’m too exhausted to think about it right now though.
I’m crouched behind the last container. It blocks most of my view. There is nothing I can see between the container and the gate except the shot-up black SUV we arrived in. And some bodies. I debate the relative merits of staying in place until the cops show up. Then I dismiss the thought. I’m not sure why they aren’t here, but I doubt they’re coming. I stand up, take a deep breath, and run.
I make it about ten feet before I’m tackled from behind. This is so not happening to me right now.
A heavy weight is on my back. A human. I jerk my head back, crashing the back of my skull into his face. It hurts like hell, my damaged scalp screaming. He howls and curses, and his weight shifts.
I roll to my back. Blood is dripping from his mouth, landing on my chest. Hiya, blondie. He’s shifted down and the majority of his weight is on my hips, arms braced by my torso. I can work with that. I reach my arm across my body, trapping his. Using my thighs I arch my hips up and roll my body toward his trapped arm. Suddenly, I’m on top, his arm is trapped, and I’m popping his elbow out of place. He screams. I scoot back, pop up, and run.
Right into a very angry man, holding a gun, pointed right at me. He’s dressed like blondie, also with the tactical pants and boots. He’s shaved his head and has a thick red beard. He’s also not alone, with more men flanking him and circling behind me.
“Stop,” he commands.
My hair gets yanked again, which makes me whimper. I’m not going to cry, because fuck him, that’s why.
“You little bitch.” Blondie pulls my head back and spits a mouthful of bloody saliva in my face. I do take at least some pleasure in seeing his other arm dangling unnaturally from the elbow down.
I stomp on his foot. He has boots on, so I’m sure it doesn’t hurt, but it’s the principle of the matter.
I see Red coming toward me. The gun is gone, but I realize he’s holding thick black zip ties. Blondie twists me so my back is toward Red. I feel his rough hands on my wrists. I feel the plastic wrapping around them. Trapped between the two men, I have nowhere to go. The zip ties tighten painfully. Any more and I’ll lose circulation.
Blondie bends forward and throws me over his shoulder. I start to kick and thrash. He spanks his remaining hand over my ass. Someone grabs my ankles. More zip ties. Fuck.
Blondie starts walking; I see the ground going by under his boots. I hear a car door open. Suddenly I’m thrown into the back seat, bounce, and land on the floorboard. My head cracks against the metal rail where the seat connects to the floor.
And then everything goes black.
CHAPTER 15
Sean
“What the hell happened?” I look at Patrick. We’re in my office, both of us holding a glass of whisky. He rubs his hands over his bald head and down his signature red beard before responding.
“The assault went off fine, didn’t take any major losses on our side, lots on theirs, and the building is blown to hell. Popov wasn’t there of course, but we didn’t think he would be.”
I nod. The decision to hit their warehouse wasn’t one taken lightly. However, Popov has been escalating lately, encroaching on territory and trying to weasel into the arms trade business. It was bound to create a problem eventually, and it did a few days ago, which resulted in two of my men getting hurt. They aren’t high in the organization, but it doesn’t matter. Popov spilled Irish blood. My retribution will be severe.
“What about the woman?” I take a sip of the whisky, watching the ice melt and swirl in the brown liquor.
Patrick snorts. “A real handful, that one. Outran us once, hid from us, and to top it all off, she laid Jimmy out pretty good. Had to pop his elbow back in meself. He’s awfully sore about the whole thing.”
I’ll bet he is. “Who is she?” I ask.
“Not a bloody clue. The Bratva isn’t known for having women in their ranks.” He pulls something out of his pocket. “This is the only thing I can find.”
He hands over a surveillance photo. Dimitri Popov and a pretty woman with long dark hair walking into a posh restaurant. “There’s a few more like that,” Patrick says, taking a drink of his own. “Her and him at his office. Going to that spa he owns.”
“A girlfriend?” I ask. Seems unlikely. Popov is known for being a true sadist. The stories I’ve heard are nothing short of disturbing. He’s also never been known to take them into public, and this girl has been all over the place with him.
“I don’t know. But she fights like a cornered banshee. Where ya suppose a lass learns something like that?” Patrick muses.
“Where is she now?”
“Tied up in the basement.” He smiles.
“Here?”
“Aye. Figured we ought to keep the ranks closed for a bit since Popov’s bound to be pissed. Didn’t want to have to leave men guarding her at some other location.”
It’s a good decision, and I tell him so. “Figure out who she is.”
He finishes his whisky and leaves.
CHAPTER 16
Rocky
My head pounds painfully to the beat of my pulse and I’m freezing. I open my eyes and regret it immediately. There isn’t much light, but what is there is causing the throbbing to intensify. A wave of nausea hits me, and I try to get on my hands and knees to throw up, only to discover that I’m still zip tied.
“Fuck me,” I mutter. Instead I pull myself into an upright position, my legs folded to the side like a mermaid. I’m close enough to a wall to lean my head against it and take deep breaths until the nausea passes. I do a little systems check. My head hurts; I’ve probably got a concussion. My neck and scalp are sore from being yanked around by my hair. Assorted bumps and bruises. A man’s disgusting dried blood and spit on my face. My clothes are in place and the zip ties make me think I probably wasn’t raped while I was out, which I appreciate. My mouth is dry.
I look at my environment. I’m on a dusty concrete floor. I see a water heater, a filtration system, an a/c system, and a washer/dryer. I’m at a house? Does that make any sense? There is no bed or blankets, which is probably why I’m freezing. There is a horizontal crack of light at the top of a few stairs. A door. Interesting. I realize the two shadows are feet. Someone is guarding the door. Zip ties and a guard? I must have really pissed them off. I grin a little thinking about the shocked face of the guy whose arm I broke. Surprise, fuck face. After Nicole, I took every self defense class NYU offered. I was a very dedicated student.
I hear noise at the door. I’m not ready to deal with people just yet and would honestly prefer they think I’m unconscious for a bit longer. I fall back to the floor and close my eyes. I hear loud footsteps coming down the stairs. Boots. They come closer and stop.
“I know yer awake, so ye might as well stop the act.”
Reasonable. I open my eyes and roll to face him. It’s Red. Well, I suppose that’s better than Blondie. I don’t think he likes me very much.
“What’s your name?”
I answer instantly. “Hermione Granger.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Bella Swan.”
“Don’t fucking test me.”
“Why? Would you fail? Don’t be ashamed, even smart people get test anxiety.” This is fun. I’m going to die anyway. It’s nice to let Rocky out. I’m sick of being Rebecca. Plus, I’m always a bit testy when I don’t feel well.
Red glares at me. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in right now?”
I take a breath. “Well, I’ve been chased, shot at, and almost blown up. I got zip tied, manhandled, and knocked unconscious and woke up on a concrete floor with your charming ass. Yeah, I’d say I have a pretty good idea of how much fucking trouble I’m in.”
“It can always get worse, lass.” He smiles at me. I think I’m supposed to be intimidated. But honestly, I’m just too tired to give a shit.
“Look, Red.” I kick my bound feet out straight in front of me. “I’m tired, I’m cold, my head hurts like a motherfucker, and I need to pee. If you’re going to kill me, get on with it. If not, either help me out or leave me alone.” I then make a great show of yawning, lying on my side, facing away, and curling up. I hear boot steps, a door being slammed open, then closed, and then nothing.
CHAPTER 17
Sean
Patrick bursts back into my office, face damn near as red as his beard. “She’s a cop.”
A cop? “She just out and said that to you?” It seems unlikely.
“Of course not. But she has to be. Interpol or some shite like that.” He pours himself a drink.
“What, exactly, happened down there?” I haven’t seen him this worked up in a while.
“She fucking dismissed me! Wouldn’t tell me her bloody name, insulted me, complained about her circumstances, and told me to kill her or bugger off.”
Well, that’s interesting. “And because of that you decided she’s a cop?”
“What the hell else would she be? No normal woman acts like that.” He tosses back the drink.
Interesting. “Not sure that equals cop, but unusual for sure. Let’s go have a chat with her.”
CHAPTER 18
Rocky
The door slams open. I wish I didn’t jump, but I did. Reflexes are a bitch sometimes.
Red stomps down the stairs. If looks could kill, I’d be dead already. Twice over.
“Could you make any more noise, Red? Some people are trying to rest.” I glare back at him.
“Unfuckingbelievable,” he mutters. He grabs my feet and drags me toward the middle of the room. He pulls a large knife out of a pocket and flips it open. My pulse picks up. He cuts the zip tie on my ankles and puts the knife away. He grabs a handful of my hair and yanks me to my feet. I can’t stop the scream, it hurts. And then my head spins and the nausea kicks up. If I throw up, I swear to god I’m aiming for his shoes.
“Get your pretty ass up those stairs.” He gives me a shove toward the stairs.
I wobble a little bit but don’t fall down, and given that my hands are still tied behind my back, that would really have sucked. At the top, the door opens and another angry, burly man stands there. He grabs me roughly by the upper arm and starts dragging me down the hall. Given that he’s at least a foot taller than me, I can’t keep up. I stumble and fall down, crashing onto the knee I banged on the container earlier. I give a loud hiss.
I feel a hand in my hair again. Nope, not again. My scalp has had enough. I jerk my head back and hit him in the balls. I’m rewarded with his moans of pain. New guy is still in front of me, so I realize it must have been Red’s balls that I rearranged, a fact confirmed when the man himself slaps me across the face and I feel my lip split.
Something breaks inside me. I laugh. I laugh and laugh until I’m hiccupping. It must be the concussion. I should be crying. I should be afraid. Actually, I realize, I am afraid. I’m fucking terrified. But I’m also really, really mad. I have no power to change a goddamned thing. I knew the risks of being undercover with the Bratva, or at least I thought so. But this? What the hell even is this? Who are these guys? Maybe it’s cumulative adrenaline or some odd sort of PTSD, but my anger at being absolutely powerless is overcoming my basic instinct to be afraid. So I laugh with blood running down my face and mobsters staring at me like I’ve got two heads.
