His Queen of Clubs (Vegas Underground 6)

Mika studies me intently, as if measuring the truth of my words. Then he nods.

Outside, I hear the gravel crunch as a large truck pulls up. I go to the window to look out. The driver pulls in, then backs up to turn. He must be an idiot, because he backs up way too quickly and totally smashes into one of the cars in the circular drive.

The men on the porch yell. Security guys pour out from all sides, swarming around the vehicle. I watch for a moment, fascinated, thinking this would make an excellent Trojan horse style invasion.

And then it occurs to me.

I don’t need armed men to pour out of the truck. All I need is this distraction. No one is guarding the front door right now.

Mika’s standing up to look out the window, as well. “Go get Vlad,” I order him.

The moment he’s out of sight, I shove my feet in my sneakers and dart for the door.

It’s some kind of miracle—no one notices. They’re all gathered around the accident, yammering. Vlad’s already out there, too. He must’ve exited from a different door. I duck behind the hedges and move swiftly, keeping close to the mansion until I hit the edge, then I dart for the trees.

Vlad’s place is out in the country. I will have to hike quite a ways, which sucks with my kidney condition because I get short of breath. But maybe once I hit the main road, I can flag down a car. Not speaking Russian is another serious hitch in my plan, but I’ve memorized the word for help in Russian—pomogite—and I’ll just keep saying it until they figure out how to help me.

A half an hour later, I’m sweaty and tired but on the main road. I don’t dare stop moving. Panting from the exertion, I wave my hand at every car that goes by, trying to flag one down as I jog along the road.

I’m hoping I’ll look desperate and out of place and that will make someone stop to find out what in the hell is wrong with me.

And then I’m totally in luck because a Russian police car pulls up and two men get out.

“Thank God,” I say. “Pomogite. Pomogite.”

They jabber at me in Russian, dour sounds coming from harsh, angry faces.

I point down the road toward Vlad’s place. “Zaklyuchennyy.” It’s the word for prisoner. At least I hope I’m saying it right. It’s another one I memorized in case of escape.

They repeat it back. “Zaklyuchennyy?”

“Da!” I bob my head and point frantically toward Vlad’s mansion. “Zaklyuchennyy.” We need to get the hell off this highway before Vlad figures out I’m gone and comes looking for me.

They speak rapidly to each other in Russian, and then one of them gets on the radio on his phone.

“Yes, let’s go.” I go to their car and throw open the back door, climbing in the back seat.

“Nyet, blah blah blah,” one of them scolds me in Russian.

“Da,” I insist.

They speak together again in Russian, then the officer next to me leans his face down and nods his head, saying something. He slams the door shut and leans against it.

Come, the fuck on.

Get in the car and drive me to the station. We need to call my brothers. Get me on a plane off this continent. Quickly.

I knock on the window.

The cop ignores me, his backside pressed against the freaking window. I can’t even open the door now to get his attention. I tap again.

No answer.

Shit. Cops are probably owned by the bratva in Russia. Which means I’m screwed.

I try to open the door, but the cop’s body blocks me. I slide over to the other side and, surprise, surprise, the other cop has that one blocked, too.

Another vehicle approaches, then screams to a stop, wheels squealing.

Fuck. That has to be Vlad.

I hear Vlad’s angry voice and then the cop moves.

Oh hell.

The door flies open.

I stare up at a very angry Russian.

“Come.” He beckons to me.

I appreciate that he doesn’t manhandle me much anymore, but I’m not going to make this easy on him.

Just in case he doesn’t own the cops and I misread the situation, I shriek, “Zaklyuchennyy!” again, as loud as I can.

Vlad gives me a withering look. “Who do you think called me, zaika?”

Right. I figured.

“Now get out. If I have to lift you out, your punishment will be far worse.”

My stomach flutters at the word punishment.

I’m half dizzy from the adrenaline. My hands shake as I reach for the door handle to boost myself out.

I’m scared, for sure. I’m not sure what Vlad will do to me.

I’m not terrified, though. He’s not cruel. I’m sure of that.

The moment I’m on my feet, Vlad throws me up over his shoulder and carries me to the car. I claw at his back with my nails, not because I think it will do any good, but because I’m not going to go like a limp fucking doll. Especially not in front of the good-for-nothing corrupt police assholes who sent me back to him.