Moving Target (Target #3)(10)

“You are too precious to our boss to treat any other way,” one of them says, his accent thick.

“Why?”

He answers me, but my mind chooses that exact moment to focus on a shiny piece of metal hanging from the ceiling. Oh wait, that’s a light. It swings wildly, but then I realize I’m the one swaying, falling.

“There she goes again.”

“We should carry her,” the other says.

They speak in English for me because I don’t speak Russian and they don’t want me to be scared. I want to ask them why they’re keeping me drugged up, but I think they’ve already answered that too.

I squeeze my eyes shut and think real hard. “Ah-ha!” It’s so I don’t panic.

See, nicest kidnappers ever.

“What about my momma? I think she’ll miss me if I don’t—”

“I texted her for you. A little lie, but it will keep your mother happy.”

“And not call the cops.” I giggle snort. The sane part of me slaps her hand on her forehead.

Or I could just be high and imagining it.

“You will be where you belong soon.”

“In America? I have a really awesome mattress. It’s got numbers and everything. I’m a twenty.”

“I thought she was thirty.”

“Do we have the wrong woman?”

“No, I’m thirty. My bed is twenty.”

“She is sentimental. Konstantin will be proud.”

I dig in my heels, but they keep dragging me along, like my shoes have wheels. “Whoa. I’m going to see Keanu Reeves?”

“No, zaika, you’re going to see your father.”

Clarity returns. My father is dead. He died not long after meeting my mother. “You’re going to kill me.” I start to struggle against them. “I don’t want to die.”

A door opens and that asshole who led me away from the dance floor appears. “I refuse to die.”

He cocks his head to one side. “Has she been like this all morning?”

“Not until we told her that she was going to see her father.”

“Ti durak,” he says, his dark eyes burning with fury as he continues, now in English. “The car is here. Put her in it and let us be on our way.”

“No,” I scream.

“Shut her up.”

The man with sorrowful blue eyes turns to me, pulling back his meaty arm. “I’m sorry, zaika. This is going to hurt, but not as much as it will me when he finds out.”

His fist connects with my cheek, pain radiating out. Blackness fills my vision.

Not again, is my last thought before I pass out.



I wake up with my face smashed against metal.

My first thought is I’ve been buried alive.

My second thought is I have to pee.

My third is—I’m unceremoniously rolled to the other side and bang my head against another piece of metal.

I gasp in pain and rub my forehead. It feels a bit slick, but I’m not sure if it’s blood or sweat because it’s hot as Hades in here.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I began to see light. I also make out a bottle of water. It’s full, so is my bladder, but my mouth is parched. While I get my bearings, I grab the bottle and practically rip the top off before gulping it down.

Bad move, Riggs.

Now I really have to pee.

My metal tomb goes still.

Wait, I’m not in a tomb. I’m in trunk.

Oh my God. I’m alive.

I kick at the sides, shouting and screaming for someone to help me. For reasons known only to the guys who put me in here, my arms and legs have been left free.

The unmistakable sound of the trunk clicking makes my heart slam into my chest. I don’t care if it’s my kidnappers.

“Please,” I croak. “I have to use the bathroom.” It’s true and it’s probably more reasonable than to beg them to let me go free.

The trunk is ripped open wide. I shut my eyes to the light, putting one hand over my face. I take a deep breath of clean air and nearly pass out from it. Never has air been so dang good.

“Please,” I say once more, moving my hand a little. “I have to use the bathroom.”

My kidnapper says nothing. He does nothing.

So I move my hand completely out of the way. At first, it looks like an aura surrounds his body, but then my vision returns to normal and his dark suit comes into focus.

Damn it. It’s that asshole who kidnapped me in the first place. Pretty sure he’d rather— “Fuck.” Then he starts growling in Russian, except I’m pretty sure he’s cursing someone out. “Why are you in my trunk?”

I let my gaze travel up to his face and I gasp. “Dima?” Excitement and relief races through me, giving me the strength to push up and attempt to sit. “How? What… oh God. You’re a kidnapper?”

He looks around, then grabs me by my arms and hauls me out of the trunk. My knees give out on me, but he jerks me to him at the last minute. His sharp gaze is still that beautiful green color I dream about. His face is even sexier now. His hair—what in the world?

“Why is your hair black?” I ask stupidly. That should not be my first question to him after asking if he’s a kidnapper.

“I dyed it for this job. It’s not permanent.” He runs one of his free hands through it, making the strands stand up. “How did you get the bruise on your face?”