The Negotiator (Professionals 7)

“I’m afraid it isn’t up to you,” Atanas told him, words icy.

“What are you hoping to accomplish here, Mr. Chernev?” I asked, untangling myself from Christopher, trying to gather the sheets to cover my naked body as I sat up in the bed. “Making him suffer,” he decided, teeth clenched. “And you,” he added, shooting me disdainful eyes. “Come over here,” he demanded.

There were two schools of thought here.

Christopher’s and mine.

I didn’t have to ask him to know he thought me getting anywhere near the man was a giant mistake.

But mine said that getting close meant I could maybe get control of his gun. Or, if nothing else, distract him enough to allow Christopher to go for his gun and put an end to all of this.

Taking a steadying breath, I decided to opt for distraction.

Stomach rolling, I slid out from under the sheets, getting off the side of the bed, keeping my gaze on Atanas as I moved around the bed, stark ass naked.

“Is this what you wanted, Atanas?” I asked. I couldn’t muster the suggestive tone I knew I should be using, feeling a little too sick at this whole interaction to be at the top of my game.

He said nothing.

He didn’t even glance my way.

Not even when I stood right beside him.

His gaze stayed on Christopher.

Until, in a blink, it was on me. But only because his hand was on my neck. And the gun was pressing into my skull.

I could hear the hiss of breath from Christopher over the pounding of my own heartbeat.

I closed my eyes tight, seeking some sort of inner calm, trying to conjure up memories of self-defense classes, of sparring with Smith and the guys to make sure we were all capable of escaping several basic holds.

“Knock over that nightstand with your foot, Adamos,” Chernev demanded, wanting to get the gun away from him without him being able to pull a fast one on him.

Though I was pretty sure Christopher wouldn’t risk it. He had to know as well as I did that if he tried, I would be dead before he would be able to aim the gun.

Eyes closed, I heard the clamor of my nightstand hitting the floor.

“Look at me, you bitch,” Atanas demanded, hot breath on my face.

Swallowing hard, my eyes fluttered open.

“You thought you had some power over me, yes?” he asked, pressing the gun a little harder into my temple. “Now I will show you who has the power. Get on your knees.”

“That is not going to happen, Chernev,” Christopher growled.

“It’s not?” Atanas asked, cocking the gun, making my stomach lurch. One finger slip and I was dead. “I think it is.”

They were both right.

And both wrong.

I would get on my knees. Hell, I was doing it even as I thought the words.

But I would bite off his cock before I’d do what he wanted me to do with it.

If he didn’t think I was perfectly capable of that, he vastly underestimated my desire to never have a man use his power against me again.

My knees met the cold floor of my bedroom as I let my eyes glance around, trying to figure out my next move.

“It will all work out,” I said.

Not to Atanas.

To Christopher.

It wasn’t the reassurance it sounded like.

It was part of the code I had worked out with him two nights before, one I wanted him to share with his brother and his men in case anyone ever found themselves in a bad situation again, and needed to communicate very specific things.

I didn’t think it would come in handy so soon.

And I was praying his memory was as good as I was banking on.

“It will all work out” was a phrase Smith had trained all of us to use to express that we were about to make a move. It was meant to be interpreted as “Are you ready?”

“It will,” Christopher agreed, repeating the phase I’d taught him. It meant he was ready. If he said “I don’t know about that” it meant there were too many variables, to wait it out, to be safe. If he said “I hope so,” it meant there was already a plan in place, to wait it out.

“That’s up to me to decide,” Atanas declared.

He was too distracted by his sick fantasy, by his power trip to figure there was any way around things turning out exactly how he wanted them to.

I took a slow, steadying breath, raising my hand sup so he would think I was going to undo his slacks, so he wouldn’t react to my arms lifting.

By the time he realized my intention, it was too late.

My head ducked to the side of his thigh as both my hands grabbed for his wrist, turning with every bit of strength I had, hearing a hiss, a curse, a crack.