Last Hit (Hitman) (27 page)

When he runs his thumb across the screen and unlocks it, displaying the pretty floral wallpaper and the D8Z under the time, I realize it is
my
phone.

This rattles my unnatural calm. "How did you…"

"The blonde
blyad
, she gets scared, and she sings like a canary,
da
? A little rope on the wrists, a little gun to the face, and she is very scared." His eyes are so cold. "And you will never see her whole if you do not come with me. I will mail her to Nick in pieces. Would you like that?"

I stare at my phone in his hand, trembling. This man has Regan. Happy, carefree Regan who has been nothing but good to me. Who thinks of herself as my older sister and just looks out for my happiness. This is my fault. "Where is she?"

"She is in the back of my car." He gestures out the glass doors. "You may join her if you do not fight, little one. But if you do, it will be very bad for her."

My father has trained me for a hostage situation. I know the stupidest thing I can do is give in to what they are demanding.

But Regan is the one who will pay the price, and it doesn't seem fair. I don't know what to do.

I stare at the man, at my phone in his hand. "How do I know you didn't just take that from Regan and kill her?" My voice is so calm, like it belongs to someone else.

"So suspicious," he says, and chuckles even as he glances back at the store room, waiting for the other man to appear again, and his eyes are narrowed with anger even though he is laughing. He flicks his thumb on my phone—the phone Nick bought for me—and then turns it back to me. "Is proof,
da
?"

There's something on the screen, but I'm too far away to see it. "That could be anything."

"Suspicious. I like that in you. Suspicious but innocent. I see why Nikolai is so obsessed. Your cunt must be tight indeed." He lowers the phone to the floor and then kicks it down an aisle nearby.

I tremble. Nick is Nikolai to this man and not to me? I step closer to the phone. I'll have to sprint for it; it's only halfway down the aisle. I should leave it.

But I have to know. I have to.

Clutching the Taser tightly, I run for the phone. If he comes after me, I will stun him like I did the other man.

He heads for me as I scoop up the phone. I knew he would. I've made a stupid mistake, and now I will pay. I raise the stun gun as he rushes me, but he's too fast. His arm slams mine into a nearby shelf. Cans fly as my hand makes contact; the Taser tumbles out of my hand.

I don't even reach my phone.

He mutters something in Russian I don't catch, and his hand tightens on my wrist. I struggle against him; I'm dead now that he's got me. I know this, so I fight. I kick and scratch and claw at him with my free hand, ignoring that it feels as if he's breaking the wrist of my other with his tight grip.

The man reaches back, and that's the only warning I get before his hand slams into my face. The world tilts as black stars explode behind my eyes, followed by pain. I reel and stagger, trying to remain upright, remain conscious.

A hard hand grasps me under my chin, forcing me to stare into icy eyes. "Now we do things my way."

The man drags me out
to his car, parked at the far end of the gas station, where the cameras' view doesn't quite go. It's almost as if he knows exactly how far their range is and has avoided it.

My head is reeling from his blow, and it's hard for me to focus. Now that he has me in his grasp, my struggles are futile. He's so much stronger than me, this man, and I don't know what to do. I jerk at his grip a few times as he drags me outside into the rain, but when he opens the car door and shoves me in, I go.

I go because I see long blonde hair splayed over the back seat, and it terrifies me.

I nearly trip over Regan's sprawled body as I crawl into the car and he shuts the door behind me. Immediately I try the handle on the other side, but the child locks are in place and it won't open. So I focus on Regan instead, my fingers brushing over her cheek. There's a massive bruise there, obvious even in the darkness, and her eyes are open wide and terrified. There's duct-tape over her mouth, and her hands and feet are zip-tied together. Tears stream out of her eyes.

My poor friend. "I'm sorry," I whisper to her. This is somehow my fault. This is happening because these men want to hurt my Nick, and they came after me.

I sit her up as much as I can, and I put my arms around her, stroking her hair with my hands to soothe the sobs that come, muffled, from behind her gag. I should take it off of her, but I don't know what these men will do to her—or me—if I do. For once, our roles are reversed; I am the calm, knowing one. She is the small, terrified one. I have lived my life waiting for it to end in violence, and now that it is here, I'm so, so calm.

Will Nick find out what happens to me? I wonder this even as I make soothing noises in my throat to ease Regan's terror.

The man stalks away from the car and returns to the gas station, no doubt to check on his friend. He is so confident we can't escape from the back seat of the car that he abandons us. I study the back seat; there is a window partition that will not allow me to get to the front seat. I can kick out the back seat—maybe—but that will only lead to the trunk. What will I do in there? I try the doors again, but they don't respond.

The men return a moment later; the younger one is limping. He looks furious, and when they slide into the front seat, he pulls out his gun and waves it at me, cussing wildly in Russian.

The other man slaps it out of his hand and barks something harsh. He looks as if he barely tolerates the other man. The younger glares and puts his gun down, but he gives me another ugly look.

He's mad at me, more than the other. He's going to make me regret using my stun gun on him, I just know it.

But until that moment comes, I smooth my hand on Regan's hair and hold her against me. "It's going to be all right," I lie to her.

The windows in the back
seat of the car are so heavily tinted—and the darkness so black outside that I can't tell where we're headed. We seem to drive for hours, but when the car stops, my stomach clenches in fear. It looks like we are in the middle of nowhere. Have they driven us out here to dispose of us? I think about the thriller movie Regan made me watch a few weekends ago in which the hero was driven out to the desert and shot. I shudder.

The back door opens. "Get out of the car," the bigger, meaner one says to me.

I do; there's no point in antagonizing him. As I do, I see a massive building in the distance that I can't make out. There are small lights on the ground.

On the other side of the car, the younger man slices the cuffs on Regan's legs so she can walk, but does not remove her gag. We're dragged across the grounds just as massive doors open and a small plane comes out.

We are flying somewhere?

Sure enough, they force us onto the plane and we are seated in what should be the lap of luxury. Regan's eyes are wide with fear and her breathing is ragged behind the gag. "We're going to be okay," I try to reassure her.

The larger one swings around. "Talk again and we'll shoot you in the leg. Maybe you heal from that. Maybe you don't." Tears leak out of Regan's and I can feel my face wetten as well but I shut up.

Leather seats and plush couches line the interior of the plane, and there are televisions set into the wall. I've never flown, but even to my naïve eye, this looks expensive. There's a door in the back, and it looks as if it leads to another room. I can see a bed in the back, and I'm suddenly terrified of what that means.

The bigger man tosses me down into the first chair available. "Buckle in."

I fumble to do so. If I'm sitting here, I'm not in the back room with that ominous bed. I quickly belt myself in, and because Regan's hands are still cuffed as she sits next to me, I reach across and do hers, too. The men situate themselves nearby and relax, talking and laughing in Russian as the plane begins to accelerate and take off.

I look at Regan's silently begging eyes, at the bruise coloring her cheek, and I have no answers.

I don't know where we're going.

I don't know why we've been taken.

I only know two Russians with guns have come after me because of my relationship with Nick. And I'm terrified, but I'm frightened for him, too. What if they hurt him? He's so careful to keep me safe; this will devastate him.

I suspect that is the point.

"Where are we going?" I ask once the plane has leveled off and the roar of the engines dulls a bit. My voice sounds braver than I feel. Next to me, Regan tenses.

The younger man—Yury—laughs and says something to the older one. He gets up and heads over to us, my phone in his hand. "I think we will take some photos to send to Nikolai," Yury says, and he looks at me. His fingers curve over my cheek, caress my chin.

I remain still. I want to jerk away but acknowledging that he's bothering me will only make it worse. So I stare blankly ahead and hold tight to Regan's arm.

Yury's thumb moves over my lips. "I bet you suck a good cock, eh?"

I recoil, staring up at him in horror.

He presses his thumb to my mouth again, and I shudder backward, even as he asks once more. "Do you suck a good cock? Is that why Nikolai risks everything for you?"

If I open my mouth to answer, his thumb's going to be inside it. I want to push his hand away, but there's a dangerous glint in his eyes that scares me.

"
Nyet
, Yury," the other man says in a weary voice. He says something else in Russian that I wish I understood.

Yury pushes his thumb against my lips again and then gestures at Regan and says something.

The other man shrugs.

"So. We take picture for Nikolai, so he knows we mean business." Yury gives me a cold smile. The thumb goes back to my mouth, and he pushes it hard against my lips. "I want him to see you suck on this."

I keep my lips firmly shut and glare up at him.

"Suck on this, or it will be my cock next," he says, and he glances at the other man for approval. When he's not told to leave me alone, his smile grows triumphant, and he gives me a smug look. "So, little
pizda
, which one do you want to suck?"

That is no choice. I part my lips and let him push his thumb into my mouth, feeling violated already. Hot, angry tears brim in my eyes, and I hate when they spill over my cheeks, even as Yury pumps his thumb in and out of my mouth in a gross mockery of what I'd been so eager to share with Nick only a few days ago.

"Beautiful. Nikolai will not be able to take his eyes off the sight." The camera flashes in my face, and he grins and tosses it back to the other man. "Is done. Now can I have the blonde?"

"Do what you like," the other says. "Just drug her so she doesn't fight and bruise herself more."

Yury laughs. "Long live Sergei Petrovich."

The other gives a disgusted sigh and waves a hand as if he is mentally done with his companion.

Yury grabs Regan, and I hear her muffled scream of fear behind her gag.

"No!" I fumble with my seatbelt, even as Yury unhooks Regan's and drags her to her feet. She casts me a helpless look as Yury pulls her across the plane toward the bedroom. "Leave her alone!"

"Sit down," the other man commands me. He grabs my wrist when I pass by. "Sit down and shut the fuck up, or I will have to drug you, too.  If I drug you, I cannot control what Yury does to you. Understand?"

Terror shoots through me. I want to save Regan, but I don't know what to do. The hand on my wrist tightens, becomes bruising, and I collapse back in my seat, watching my best friend disappear into the back bedroom with awful, horrible Yury. The door shuts.

It is silent. Awful, awful and silent.

"Has he mentioned us to you?"

I drag my gaze from the bedroom door to the big, scary blond man seated across from me. "Huh?"

"Nikolai. Has he mentioned us to you?"

"I don't know who you are," I whisper.

He makes a hmphing sound that might be impressed. "I am Vasily. That is Yury. We are
Bratva
." He watches my face to see if it rings a bell. When it doesn't, his eyebrows flick up in surprise. "So. He has not. This is very interesting to me. I never thought he would truly get out, but perhaps it is so."

"Where are we going?"

"Moscow, of course. But do not worry. Nikolai will come after you. Of that, I have no doubt. And if you behave, you might even be alive to see him." The smile Vasily levels at me is weary. "If not, I am sure we will keep parts of you to make him think you are alive until he figures out otherwise. It is how things are done."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is this how things are done?"

He shrugs, and for a moment, that weariness threatens his features again. It's quickly masked once more. "I do not give orders, little one. I simply take them."

"Why take me? Why take Regan?"

"Your friend was in way. Is wrong place, wrong time." He shrugs his enormous shoulders. "Such is the way of things. Yury likes her, so she comes with us. When he gets tired of her, she will fetch a nice price on the black market." He points at me, wagging a finger. "You, however. You, Sergei will use to flush the snake out of grass."

"If he won't come to you, he must have a reason," I say desperately. I'm trying not to stare at the bedroom door. Oh, Regan. My poor friend. I want to weep. I want to go in there and rescue her, but that cold, tired look in Vasily's eyes dares me to do something.

And I am frozen in place. None of my father's training has prepared me for what to do if the bad guys don't leave.

He gestures with his hand, and I notice it is tattooed, much like Nick's.

I stare at that hand, riveted.

Vasily looks interested in my response. "Aha. Now do you see?" He shows me his neck, the dagger on his throat there, as if it should mean something to me. Nick has tattoos, too. But so do a lot of people. But it's the ones on his hand that look familiar.

That, and the cold, dead look that comes over Vasily's expression from time to time.