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I really fucking need to punch through something, or someone. Controlling myself when the door opens will be the greatest challenge I’ve ever faced.
Because they grabbed Layla. Scared her. Maybe hurt her.
If they fucking hurt her, I’ll make them regret the day they were fucking born.
The elevator doors open silently, and I step out onto the landing. A second later, a gun is shoved into my face.
Big fucking surprise.
The guy pats me down one-handed, checking for weapons, but he finds nothing, like I knew he wouldn’t.
“This way,” he says, his face shadowed by dark stubble, his clothes unremarkable and dark enough I don’t see any stains.
I let him prod me through an open door into a dimly-lit apartment with the drapes drawn. With my hearing aid, I feel confident enough to close my eyes for a moment, drawing in air, listening for sounds—like screams and sobbing.
Sniffing for smells—like blood and fear.
Nothing, apart from muffled male voices behind another door and a faint odor of sweat emanating from the guy pointing the gun at my bac
k.
“Where’s Layla?” I grind out.
“She’s not here,” he says. “She’s just been released nearby where your friend is waiting in his car.” He prods me with the gun. “Is he still waiting there, huh?”
I turn around. His gun is a semi-automatic. “Layla is here.” I know it my gut. Nothing else would make sense. “Set her free, and you won’t get hurt.”
He starts to laugh. It begins with a low snigger which turns into a loud guffaw. “You still don’t get it, do you? What the Organization is. How powerful it is. You think you can walk in and make demands. You think we’d hesitate to kill you.”
I calmly walk toward him, toward the gun. Oh I’m calm. Calm like the eye of the storm. “You’re not the fucking boss of this operation. You have no clearance to kill me. Take me to Layla.”
My chest is all but pressed to the muzzle of the gun, and this gamble will pay off or death will be swift, at least.
Fuck.
Then a familiar deep voice says from behind me—like déjà vu, dammit:
“Welcome back, Mr. Fleming.”
***
Sandivar.
“I thought you’d have fled town,” I say, turning around. He can’t see my new earpiece, and I want to keep the advantage for as long as possible. “You should have.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“Where is Layla?”
He sighs as if I’m tiring him. He waves a hand. “Bring out the girls and tie him up.”
Girls? Plural?
More guys enter from another room, ropes in their hands, and I need to keep them away from me.
“Why didn’t you leave?” I press, taking a step toward Sandivar—and away from his goons. “You could be in Brazil by now. Or Europe.”
“Nah, I like it here.”
