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Most of the time, I don’t bother with underwear, but today I grab panties and a bra, and slip them on before getting dressed. My heart starts to race when I realize I have no idea if I have any shoes here. I’ve only worn sandals once since I came to the island, the rest of the time I’ve been barefoot.
Searching the closet, I curse. There’re no shoes anywhere on display, but there must be some somewhere. How the fuck can I not know if I have shoes? Even homeless, I always had two pairs of shoes, just in case one got stolen. I’ve gotten soft since my men kidnapped me, so soft that I don’t even have an escape plan for when things go south.
I’ve been so consumed with how isolated we are here, that the thought of someone coming here to hurt us never even crossed my mind. Opening each cupboard and drawer, I eventually find a rotating shoe cupboard filled full of delicate sandals and heels. At the back is a pair of rubber slides and I grab them, shoving my feet in them, before heading downstairs.
I don’t know where command is, so I go in search of Roza, hoping she’ll be able to point me in the right direction. Instead of Roza, I find Tanya in the dining room, her eyes wide and filled with fear.
“Come on. Mr. Lev sent me to find you, there are people trying to get onto the island, they have guns. We have to get to the evacuation point,” she pants, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the kitchen.
“Where is he? I need to find him,” I argue, trying to pull my arm free of her hold.
“He’s fighting, they’re on the beach, he told me to get you to safety. He made me promise. Come on, Mama and Papa are waiting, there’s a boat there for us. Protocol is to get into open water, then wait for a signal to either head to the next island, or come home. But we have to go, please.”
Eyeing the doors that lead out to the beach, I consider making a run for it. But her grip tightens.
“Please, Mrs. Belova, please, I promised him I’ll get you to safety.” Tears fill her eyes as she pleads with me.
“Okay, let’s go,” I agree, letting her pull me out of the kitchen door and across the manicured lawns.
I’ve never been to this side of the house before, we mainly wander along the beach if we’re going out for a walk, but the grass is short and easy to run across as we head down a path that curls into the trees that surround the front of the grounds.
“This way?” I ask.
“Yes, there’s a shed that’s actually a hidden boathouse, Mama and Papa are there already, Papa can drive the boat until we get the signal.”
We run along the path for five minutes until the trees separate and we’re standing in front of a wooden shed, the doors open enough for me to see a small boat inside. There’s no real shore or beach here, the water just butts up to the land and the shed is sheltered by trees that obscure it on both sides. Ahead of us is ocean as far as the eye can see, the perfect hidden spot to escape from if you need to.
Shooing me forward, she pushes me into the dimly lit shed and onto the floating walkway around the boat.
I know something is wrong the moment I step inside, but Tanya follows me in, closing the door behind her and blocking the exit.
“Get into the boat, Alabama,” she spits, all traces of fear gone and replaced with angry disdain.
“No.” I shake my head.
Reaching her hand behind her, she pulls a handgun from the back of her jeans and holds it out, pointing at me. “Don’t make me shoot you. You’re worthless to me dead,” she snarls, waving the gun and gesturing for me to step into the deck of the boat.
Glancing at the water, I question if I can jump in and swim to safety, but although I can now at least swim enough to save me from drowning in calm water, the sea is rough around the island. I’d sink in minutes if I had to survive in the angry waves that hit a few hundred feet from shore.
“Get in the fucking boat,” she screams.
Keeping my eyes on hers, I side step onto the boat. By the time I realize we’re not the only people in here, it’s already too late.
CHAPTER 32
dimitri
Being stuck in the air with no way of contacting Lev and Alabama is a fucking nightmare. We got word late last night from Russia that the jet we were supposed to meet was full of Bratva foot soldiers sent to kill us, and that Orlov had been seen boarding another plane toward South America.
We left some of our men behind to take care of the plane. We’re still going to blow it up, unfortunately it just won’t have the man we planned to destroy on it. Turning, I look at Vik, watching as he continues to hit redial on his cell, frantically trying to get in touch with Lev.
Someone has blocked the cell signal to the island, and we can’t speak to them or warn them that they might be at risk. That island has been our safe haven for years and the thought of it being found, or my brother and our wife being in danger in the one place in the world we promised her she’d be safe, makes me feel sick.
We’ve been flying all night, not bothering to hide our journey, so panicked and desperate to get back to our family that we’ve ignored all of our usual safety measures. We’re an hour from landing in Brazil when my cell lets out an ear piercing shriek.
“What the hell is that?” Vik asks, looking up from his cell for the first time in hours.
“It’s Alabama’s tracker,” I choke out.
