I move to one of the wooden chairs and sit. The man moves to the counter, then places the gun there before picking up the rope. “This gun is in easy reach. You so much as breath wrong, I will use it. I’ve got orders to eliminate you both if you give me any trouble. You should know, whatever I do going forward, I’ll sleep easy tonight.”
I believe him. He doesn’t have an ounce of remorse in the tone of his voice or his expression.
So I sit still and let the man tie me up. My arms are pulled behind the chair and tied at the wrist, then the rope is secured to the outer braces of the chair near my hips.
When he’s done, the Russian takes the gun and tucks in into the back waistband of his jeans. He trudges over to Griff, then gives him a hard kick in the back. I grimace, my heart shredding over the abuse, but Griff doesn’t make a sound. It makes me relieved he didn’t feel that blow.
Seemingly satisfied he’s clearly incapacitated, the enormous man squats and hooks his arms under Griff’s. With a mighty heave, he lifts him and waddles backward to the chair beside me. He manages to turn and dump Griff’s weight there. Sagging to the side, his shoulder bumps up against the counter and his legs splay outward. I can see the blood trickling down the back of his neck, and my fingers actually stretch out toward him in a vain attempt to touch him. To reassure myself he’s still warm and at least alive.
I watch silently as the Russian places the gun on the counter again, then proceeds to tie Griff to the chair. He doesn’t move at all, but I take comfort in seeing the rise and fall of his chest.
That comfort flees the moment the Russian tightens the last knot and moves away from Griff.
From the corner of the kitchen, deep in the shadows where the light above doesn’t reach, movement catches my eye.
A man steps forward, hands clasped placidly in front of his body and his lips curved upward in a leering grin.
Anatoly Bogachev.
My stomach clenches in a tight mixture of fear, disgust, and shame for what he did to me.
All of it.
The servitude, the rape, and the ruination of my life.
Yes, I made bad choices for which I’ve atoned and paid the price. But this man took everything from me. In this moment, I want nothing more than to be the one to kill him.CHAPTER 24GriffinConsciousness comes slowly and only because the pain in the back of my head won’t let me continue to sleep. It’s sharp and pounding… Boom, boom, boom.
My eyes flutter open, but there’s a bright light, causing the pain to intensify. I immediately shut them again, confused over everything.
Why do I hurt?
Where am I?
What day is it?
Where is Bebe?
Bebe!
My eyes fly open, ignoring the bright light and torment going on inside my head.
“Griff?” I hear her voice from my left, realizing I’m slumped over and leaning up against something cold.
I try to straighten, but my arms won’t move.
“Are you okay?” Bebe asks, and she sounds terrified.
It gives me energy and purpose, and I lift my head enough to turn it toward her voice.
She’s right beside me, and my gut tightens when I see the terror in her eyes. My entire body lurches toward her, still not understanding why it can’t quite move the way I’m commanding. It goes nowhere, but the pain slicing through my head almost makes me pass out. I struggle to keep my eyes focused on Bebe, grimacing through the hurt and confusion.
Her eyes stay locked on me before moving just slightly past me to my right. I see resignation in her gaze, and it scares me.
Twisting in the opposite direction to take in my surroundings, I get the sense I’m in a commercial kitchen. Memories flood as I remember the explosion, the Russian guy taking us to a building, and then blackness.
And then I spot Anatoly Bogachev casually leaning against a stainless-steel counter just a mere three feet from me. It’s the same counter I’m currently slumped against, and Bogachev towers over me.
His smile is triumphant and bitterly cold. “Hello, Griffin Moore.”
The pain and the fuzziness in my head abate. It strikes me immediately he said my real name, which means he knows I’m FBI. And since he has effectively kidnapped a federal agent, I realize he has no intention of letting me out of here alive. The same probably goes for Bebe.
“Go take care of the van,” Bogachev says quietly while still staring at me. The order confuses me. Perhaps I’m not as clearheaded as I thought.
But there’s movement behind Bogachev, and the Russian comes into view. He gives a curt nod at his boss before quietly exiting the double doors we had entered earlier.