Code Name - Revenge (Jameson Force Security 9)

Like right there… arched glass windows overlooking a rectangular pool, illuminated in the dark with landscape lighting, and a guest cottage at the other end. That’s an identifying feature of the house and possibly my location, although not sure how I’d ever get that info to the Jameson guys. I have to hope that the chip in my clothing is emitting a traceable signal since these goons took my watch and phone.

For now, it’s actually a good sign they did take my watch and phone. It means they suspected I might be bugged, but they didn’t take the time to determine for sure—merely tossed those items in the lot and efficiently abducted me.

We walk through a gourmet kitchen to a formal living area that’s about five times the size of my own, and I deduce by the luxury we must be in the home of someone high up in the Russian Mafia food chain. From what I remember about Ivan Borovsky’s trial, he was mid-level, related to a few of the higher-ups, and often used for “wet work”—i.e., murder. Perhaps whoever owns this home owes him some pretty big favors for the things he’s done. Borovsky was never interested in naming the person who ordered the hit on that family he murdered, so he’s owed a huge favor, I’m sure.

I make a show of struggling as they walk me through the main floor. Not that I want to bolt or get away. I couldn’t with four of them, one of me, and my hands still zip-tied. What I hope is that wherever they’re taking me, there’s one Ivan Borovsky and that the Jameson cavalry isn’t far behind.

There is no way for Jameson to know what’s happening right now. We have tech that would’ve allowed them to listen in, but nothing that was so easily camouflaged or hidden as the tracking chip. And if they had found such on me, that might have scared Borovsky away. The plan was for me to get captured and wait an appropriate length of time for Borovsky to make his way to me, or if he’s here, to give him some time to work on me. The consensus was he won’t be in for a quick kill but will want to torture Jess’s whereabouts from me. While that is something I’m absolutely not looking forward to, I’ll die before I give her up. If there’s a bit of pain in exchange for a safe, quiet life, I’m ready for it.

I’m manhandled into a large room that sits at the back of the house and overlooks the pool from a different angle. It’s in no way keeping with the Mediterranean style. Dark-paneled walls, cherry and leather furniture, and sconce lighting make it look more suited to clandestine Mafia gatherings. There’s a pool table, a poker table, a U-shaped bar with ornate carvings, and large screen TVs on the walls. It’s a man cave on steroids.

My gut tightens when I see on the far side of the pool table, just before the patio doors that lead outside, a single wooden chair under which a large swath of plastic has been spread out.

To protect the expensive carpeting.

I’m a man, and I’m committed to this, but I’m not going to lie… my blood turns to ice seeing that, and this is all suddenly very real. I’m going to be made to suffer.

Mind churning, I try to recall the last thing I said to Jessica. I told her I loved her, right?

A hand in the middle of my back shoves me forward, and I hadn’t realized I’d put the brakes on when I spied that chair.

I’m pushed again toward it where two men then force me to sit. I try to kick out, but they easily zip-tie my ankles to the spindled legs. My shoulders ache from my hands being secured behind my back, and while I can still feel the plastic digging into my wrists, I can no longer feel my hands.

Two of the men leave via the door we entered through, but two remain, including the one I had the showdown with in Jess’s front yard.

I attempt to glean some information.

“What the fuck?” I curse at him, struggling against my bonds. “Why in the hell am I here?”

Might as well play dumb. I’m hopeful they don’t know this is a setup.

“You know why you’re here,” the Russian says smugly as he bends down to leer at me. If he would just lean a little closer, I’d headbutt his face.

“How’s your friend I shot in the leg?” I taunt.

It’s a carefully loaded jab to gauge his reaction. He doesn’t get mad about it but rather smirks in silence as he straightens. “He’s a lot better than you’re going to be.”

Figured as much.

A few seconds after the men leave the room, another enters. He carries a long, thin device. I recognize it immediately—it’s a frequency detector.