I wake and my hands are tied to a chair. I jolt with pure, liquid fear as I realize where I am. I’m in Afghanistan. I’m being tortured by that terrorist fucker. I suck in deep, hard breaths through my nose, trying not to hyperventilate. But as my vision clears, I realize this isn’t the war. I see the broad back of Liam bent over a table, sifting through metallic tools carefully.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” he says over his shoulder. “I’m anxious to get back and fuck that girl of yours. Was her pussy tight? She looks like she’d have a tight pussy.”

My hands clench, fingers digging painfully into my palms. “What did you do with her?”

“She’s being taken care of. For now.”

I wince as I watch him try to decide on which tool to torture me with first. My head pounds from where they hit me and my vision is blurry, but even the pain can’t distract me from the throbbing hatred and rage threatening to boil over at any minute. I strain against the ropes behind my back. The knot is tight, but I swore I would never be victim to the same shit I went through during the war and I trained my body for this. I press my thumbs to my pinkies, narrowing the size of my hand and then use the rope to dislocate the joints in my hands. The pain is blinding, but I push through it, pulling up as hard as I can until both my hands are free.

My calves are tied together at the base of the chair still, but knowing my hands are free gives me some hope of escaping. I’m in some sort of a basement and the only exit seems to be at the top of a small set of stairs. I have no idea how many men could be waiting on the other side, but I learned a long time ago to tackle impossible situations one possibility at a time. Right now, all I need to focus on is the possibility of getting out of this chair and stopping Liam from killing me or crippling me to the point that I can’t help Makayla. More importantly, I need to try to gather some kind of information from him about where she’s being held, which means I need to stall as much as I can.

He picks up a meat cleaver after deliberating for a while, twirling it in his hand as he approaches me. I try not to think about the damage that knife could do, or what the blunted blade would feel like hacking through my flesh. Just think of Makayla. Think of how I’ll make this up to her when I get out of here and find a way to free her. Think of how I’ll never make the mistake of letting her go again. I clench my teeth together, fighting the urge to reach out and snatch the cleaver from Liam as soon as he’s within my reach. I need to get information if I can.

“I was thinking I could start with that famous cock of yours. It would almost be worth letting you go, cockless and neutered, just knowing Jesse fucking Slade would have to live out the rest of his life without a cock.”

I glare at him. “Where is she?” It’s not the most subtle line of questioning, but I don’t have much time.

“Oh, don’t you worry. She’s on standby. They may have scarred the shit out of me after you left me for dead, but they did leave me with a functioning cock, which is more than I can say for you if you make it out of here.”

He lifts the knife, looking at it curiously. “You know, I’ve heard a man can easily bleed out from losing his cock. Maybe I should chop you up a little before I risk losing you. That can be the finalé. I’ll bring Makayla a piece of you every day to remind her how pathetic you were in the end.”

So she’s within twelve hours of where he’s keeping me if he thinks he could bring pieces of me to her every day and get back here in time to keep it up. It’s not much at all, but it’s something. Assuming the psycho sleeps, that means she’s within more like six or eight hours. If she’s that close, chances are she’s really close. Still, I’m going to need a hell of a lot more than that.

“So you’re keeping her at your place?” I ask.

He laughs. “You’re still trying to gather information? It’s sad, really. I don’t think you’ve ever really experienced what it’s like to lose. You don’t realize it’s over. You still fucking think you’ll find a way out of this and save her?” He leans in close, pressing the blade of the cleaver to my cheek. I can smell his hot, sour breath as he breathes the words in my face. “Everybody loses eventually. And now it’s your turn, Slade.”

His phone rings from his pocket. He holds my gaze for a moment before sighing and stepping away to answer it. “This had better be fucking good.”

A pause. I see his knuckles turn white as he grips the phone. He raises it over his head and slams it on the ground, shattering it. “Fuck!” he yells, kneeling and clenching both fists. “Fuck!” He holds the cleaver to my face. “Your fucking bitch girlfriend escaped. Change of plans. I was going to take my time, but now I’m going to fuck her and then bring you the pieces of her day after day.”

I realize this is my last chance and I act. My hand flashes out, grabbing his wrist and squeezing. I rip the cleaver free while he’s distracted and slam it in his chest. It all happens in a split second and he has no idea it’s coming. His eyebrows dart up and his eyes widen as he looks down at his chest. Blood drizzles from the wound, splattering to the floor. I rip the cleaver free and he falls to his knees. I bend, using the edge of the blade to saw the ropes holding my legs in place free. Once standing, I look down at Liam. Blood is seeping from the corners of his mouth and he’s still looking down at his chest in shock.

“Where were you keeping her?” I ask.

He finds the strength to laugh, but the sound is cut short as he coughs up more blood. “Fuck you,” he says.

“I made the mistake of letting you go once,” I say. “Not again,” I growl as I slide the cleaver’s blade across his throat, bathing my hand in hot blood. My face contorts in disgust as I search his spasming body, finding car keys and his gun. I leave him, gurgling and bleeding to death. I climb the stairs and cautiously step out of the door, surprised to see a grassy field and a gravel road. His BMW is parked a few yards from the door. I turn to see a bunker-like entrance to what must be his torture cell. Sick fuck.

I search through his car. I’m surprised when I open his glove compartment and my phone tumbles out. I tap the home button and frown in confusion when I see a text from an unknown number.

931-555-2133 (4:31 p.m.): It’s Makayla. I’m with Kennedy. Got out. Called cops to find you. Hold tight. I love you.

My eyebrows draw down in confusion. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t just heard Liam admit she had escaped, but how could she already be with Kennedy? Maybe his men were afraid to call him when she first escaped and waited until they were sure they couldn’t find her? Shit. I don’t know why, but my heart is hammering in my chest. I want to believe it’s true so badly, but I’m afraid of latching on to the fantasy and finding out it’s false.

I throw the car in gear and look through my phone’s memory for Kennedy’s address. I stored it when I first took the job, always getting as much information as I possibly can has paid off in the past, and it looks like this time is no exception. It’s about fifteen minutes away, but I plan to make the drive in half that time.