5
I wake to a sudden jolt with tires screeching under me, and my head whips forward.
G-force throws me back against a cushy surface, making me moan on impact.
For a second, I don’t know anything. It’s all so foggy. My ears are buzzing, neck straining, and my calves cramp like there are blisters in my muscles. In fact, every muscle in my body strains and aches.
From battle.
It comes back to me in bursts of moments, and I remember that I lost the fight. Now, I have no i-fucking-dea where I am. I could be anywhere! A thousand miles from James and even Charlie—and he was coming for me.
Charlie was coming for me.
The need to cry rushes through me so fast it catches my breath, making my throat swell. I try to ignore it, desperate to come around from the fog and figure things out.
My head flops from side to side, aching and throbbing. I blink in a vague state, seeing nothing but blackness. My lashes are squished under a tight length of material tied over my eyes. I try to reach for it, but my hands are flaccid. I weakly squeeze the surface I’m sitting on. The seat is rough, cold leather. My hand twitches against a bulky...bag? I feel the buttoned-up pockets. It’s definitely a bag with a long strap. My right shoulder is pressed against a door. I think I’m in a car. It smells of oil, so strong I can taste it at the back of my tongue, tickling my throat.
I blow out a heavy breath and give in to the fog, to let my body rest from whatever Robert had his man inject me with. Wasn’t heroin. I don’t feel high or fidgety, and I’ve got a rotten headache. I feel lethargic and hollow, fatigue clinging to my senses.
The seat under me rocks with heavy motions like someone is moving about. My system comes to attention and I tense my face trying to come around quicker.
“Sa gjatë?” I hear in the front somewhere, then another gruff voice talks in a foreign language I don’t understand. I think it’s Albanian. They sound like Robert.
I try again to remove whatever’s covering my eyes, droopily scratching at the material. I manage to yank it from my matted hair, drop it on the floor at my feet, and squint to see where the fuck I am.
Fuzziness. Shapes. My vision gradually comes into focus with colors and then the whole image. I am in a car. It’s heavily tinted, cascading me in shadows. There are two masked men in the front. They’re so big their elbows are mashed against each other’s, and the tops of their heads nearly touch the car ceiling.
“What’s going—” I cough in a fisted hand, finding my voice to ask what the hell is going on and where I am. It makes my head pound harder, as if my brain is swelling out of my skull.
The passenger glances back at me, deep onyx eyes in the balaclava-mask holes. I relax against the seat in submission, questions dangling on my lips but I don’t utter a single one. He’s dark. I can sense it in him. And I’m too pathetic to fight right now.
“You are awake,” he grouses, his accent thick and hoarse like he smokes too many cigarettes.
I nod, eyes trained on him and his partner.
He reaches over with a big, hairy hand, groaning to grab my door handle. He shoves it open, letting in a channel of light. It makes my eyes sting, pain shooting through my head. A frosty breeze touches the side of my face, causing hairs all over my body to stand on end. I huddle in my long hair, teeth chattering. I squint, blinking to adjust to the daylight. It’s then I realize I’m still wearing the black sports trousers and the long-sleeved sweater Robert gave me. He’s added the addition of horrid pink trainers.
Trainers. Fuck, if Robert didn’t have James hostage, I could run—or try to run. I doubt I’d get very far in this state though.
“You have one week to fulfill Robert’s requests,” the Albanian mumbles while grabbing the bag on the seat next to me. He tosses it out of the car, explaining that I’m ordered to make Decena lift all the sanctions and retrieve the body. “Should you fail on your mission, there will be consequences.”
“The body?” I ask, and my eyes are like saucers with understanding. “You’re sending me back to Charlie, now?”
He nods.
My stomach flips. We must be in England—it’s too cold to be Mexico. I scan the outside of the car, seeing clustering trees off a bumpy country lane. A burning pink sky hangs over the branches, evidence of dawn.
Nearly home. Nearly there.
“You understand your instructions, girl?” the Albanian breaks our silence.
“What do you mean, make?” I question, rubbing my temples to ease the ache in my head. “How am I supposed to make Charlie lift the sanctions?” I ask thinking Robert might have a trick up his sleeve to help me bend Charlie to my will. He might admit he loves me or whatever, but bargaining a deal like this is going to take more than magnetism. He’s going to want to punish his enemy.
“Perhaps I should show you a visual of your friend suffering, rather than an audio?” the Albanian teases wickedly. “Perhaps that will help you make Decena lift the sanctions?”
I snarl at him, lips curling over my teeth. I should tear off his fucking face for even daring to harm my brother.
“Didn’t think so.” He chuckles in his gravelly twang, nodding at my open door. “In the bag, there are pills for if you become ill, and they will also help with the headache you’re suffering.”
How does he know I’ve got a headache?
He grins at me. “Happens to us all after a heroin bender, regardless of the withdrawal process being over. You will be all right in a week or so. Robert says to take it easy on how many pills you pop. Don’t want you overdosing.”
I snort, openly insulted by his mockery. I am not taking the drugs.
“There are also clothes and a cell phone in the bag,” he says, still amused. “One number in the call list. The password to speak with Robert is sekret. Do not call until you have made Decena lift the sanctions. As I mentioned, you have one week. Robert trusts you will evade Decena should he resist letting you go.”
That’s not a problem. Charlie let me go home to Maksim before. And even if he did refuse to send me back, I’d escape anyway.
The Albanian shoves my shoulder, making me gasp in surprise, and I tumble out of the car. I scrape my palms landing on all fours, webbed in my hair.
“A few words for thought, Blaire-Markov,” he leans over the seat to tell me, “You will have the urge to confess to Decena who bought you, since you know he will hunt Robert, but remember what could happen to your friend, James, in the meantime.”
I swallow past a growing lump in my throat, taking his warning seriously.
“If Decena cannot get to James quick enough, he disappears”—the Albanian clicks his fingers—“and you will never see your friend again.”
I sort of already knew that, but hearing it...it means I can’t tell Charlie anything at the risk of jeopardizing James. Because I won’t ever jeopardize my brother.
Before I can respond to my enemy, the car takes off in a squeal of tires, leaving me in a gusty smog. I cough and wheeze through the fumes, harder as three tinted SUVs whizz past.
“Motherfucking mudaks,” I curse, brushing myself off. Hooking a hand into the bag arm-strap, I crawl to the side of the road and park up on my butt, rummaging through the bag for water and the mobile phone. I can use it to find my location, see how far I am from Charlie’s house.
I smile at the thought of seeing him again, tummy breaking out in a mess of flutters. It’s been so long. I miss him more than words could express. In my suffering, when I was nearly dying from the heroin withdrawals, he was the only thing I wanted and needed.
He is the only thing I want and need, and I’ll be with him soon enough.
A tramp of feet hammering at the ground pulls my attention. I look up to find a group of men sprinting toward me, coming from down the lane.
“¡Rodear la mujer!” one yells, surround the woman.
“Iisus Khristos,” I whisper to myself, shoving the bag in defeat. “This cannot be happening.”
They’re pointing machine guns in my direction, clad in heavy, black combat attire and hulking black boots. Soldiers, I presume; a private detail with blood red Zs printed on the chests of their armored vests. They don’t look British. Their faces are tan, and their eyes are dark against black hair. For a second, I think they might be Charlie’s men. But I’m not taking the chance at presuming they’re Los Zetas. I’ve never seen that symbol before.
The guy in front gestures from left to right, silently ordering his team to spread out. I lift my hands to surrender, and the main guy crouches at my feet, searching my face for whatever reason. On reflex, I snatch the gun out of his hands. I flip it around and aim, tumbling back on my butt.
“Whoa! Está bien,” he says, it’s okay, jumping to his feet while signaling at the men to stay back. “You are safe. You do not need that gun.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I hiss, straining to hold the weight of the weapon. I lean on one knee, steadying my balance. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
“My name is Tojo”—he touches his chest in a gesture—“I’m Charlie Decena’s man.”
“Charlie...where is he?” I bolt to my feet, screaming to ask, “Where is Charlie?”
“¡Telefonear, el Señor!” another calls out, his voice reverberating through the forest. That’s when I grasp we’re on Charlie’s lane. It’s a five-minute run from his house.
My heart jackhammers with nerves, palms gathering in sweat.
“Answer my damn question!” I demand while aiming through the Los Zetas, asking where is Charlie on repeat. “¿Dónde está Charlie? ¿Dónde está Charlie? Mi nombre es Blaire, Blaire-Markov!”
“Hey, I know who you are,” the main guy says, motioning for me to drop the weapon. I don’t. My grip tightens, finger clasped on the trigger. “Relax, por favor, Señorita. I told you, you’re safe.”
I’m not going to relax. If they knew who I was, why were they aiming guns at me? And if they are Los Zetas, then why haven’t I seen that Zs symbol before? I remember when they stormed the Prince’s party in London; they were not printed in symbols.
Maybe because Charlie didn’t want anyone to know he saved that girl, Arjana. He was trying to frame Maksim...
I’m so confused.
“No more talking,” I say, jabbing with the gun. “If you’re Charlie’s men, take me to him, now.”
“All right.” The main Los Zetas nods without hesitation, extending a hand. I shoulder past him and walk between the shield of armed men, as they pivot about scanning the road. My attention is on high alert, too, aware this could be a ruse. It’s too easy—and surely Robert’s minions weren’t brave enough to drop me off mere meters from Charlie’s house?
No one is that stupid.
I’m suspicious of whether Charlie is even at the house until a radio signal cuts in from one of the men’s walkie-talkies. “Where is she?!” Charlie yells, and my thought process blanks.
I try to sprint for the house, desperate to get to him. My leg cramps, and the Los Zetas soldier lunges to catch my fall, but I warn him not to touch me. “I mean it!” I yell, backing up with the gun in his face. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
“Okay,” he says, holding up his hands. “Okay. Just calm down. I’m just trying to help, Señorita.”
Still aiming, I struggle to walk on by. The huge, spike-topped iron gates come in to view, and my mouth dries. It’s a dominant visual with more combat-suited men stationed on guard. I pick up the pace, regardless of my taut muscles. Charlie...Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. His name is my mantra to keep going.
“Abres!” the man at my side shouts, and the gates buzz open. We march through, down the stony driveway toward the house I register as my home. It’s an architecture of three stories made from chalky redbrick with huge sash windows lining every floor. On the pitched roof, the chimney smokes in a cloud of white. Heat. Home.
My chest squeezes to the point of pain. My heart booms in my ears when I see him, a tall, powerfully muscular man pacing back and forth between all the cars. He’s dressed in black combat trousers and a padded black sweater marked with the red Zs, unruly, inky hair pulled away from his tan face in a ponytail.
“Charlie!” I scream his name, and he lifts his head, eyes locking on me.
“Blaire!”
Without a second thought, I toss the gun aside and bolt up the driveway, stones kicking up behind me.