Broken Honor (11 page)

But he hadn’t even fought to stay with her. He’d let them just…drag him off, and she had a sinking sensation in her heart that, one way or another, he was always going to leave her.

Exhaustion dragged her to the floor. It would be so easy to just lie down and give up hope. She was alone in this, and the weight of that realization crushed her, very nearly broke her. In fact, if it wasn’t for her baby, she was pretty sure it would have.

But, no, that was the old Mara. The one her stepfather dominated, the one who let everyone walk all over her without a peep of protest. That Mara was gone, because her baby needed her to be strong. Needed her to keep going, keep hoping, keep trying, even without Travis.

So she would.

Mara grabbed the spoon from the floor and hauled herself to her feet as she contemplated the window. It was a daunting task, considering how long it had taken her to work the first nail free, but she wouldn’t think about that. Nor would she think about the eight feet down if she did manage to pry the window open.

One nail. That’s all she needed. And then one more. She’d keep at it until her fingers bled if she had to. Because she was so over being the meek little mouse everyone—including Travis—pushed around. Nobody else was going to look out for her. Nobody else was going to rescue her.

If she wanted to be rescued, she’d damn well do it herself.

Chapter Twelve

When Quinn’s brain clicked online again, his first thought was,
did Mara notice the blackout?
They’d been talking—no, fighting. Or on the verge of it. Shit. If they had been fighting, then she’d definitely noticed.

He should have expected the blackout. Prepared for it. Stress triggered the migraines and more often than not, the migraines triggered a blackout event. At very least, he should have warned Mara about—

Wait.

He wasn’t with her anymore.

Backseat of a car. Hands bound. And he was still shirtless.

Fuck, how had he gotten here?

He scooted around in the seat to look out the back window. Zaryanko stood on the street, talking to Pyotr and Alexei, and he did not look happy.

No Mara.

Quinn’s hands were zip-tied behind his back, but even in his blackout state, his training had still kicked in, thank Christ. He’d clutched his fists when the ties were applied, making his wrists bigger, and now with his hands relaxed, he had some wiggle room. Enough to slip free.

He began working his top hand loose while keeping an eye on Zaryanko in the rearview mirror. Bastard seemed worried, antsy, talking fast with a lot of hand motions and scanning the street as if he expected an attack at any moment. With good reason. If he had hurt Mara in any way, Quinn would end him. Right here, right now, and in the bloodiest way imaginable.

Quinn’s thumb popped loose of the tie, and it was quick work to free the rest of his hand after that. Still, he didn’t move from the seat. He used his thumbnail to release the catch on the zip tie. Now he had a weapon.

Had to time this right if it was going to work.

In the rearview, he spotted an old cable car trundling down the center of the street. A half block back, a cargo van pulled away from the curb and followed. Alexei left the conversation and circled to the passenger seat.

Quinn still didn’t move.

Alexei cranked down the window and lit a cigarette. Muttering to himself, distracted by his own thoughts, he didn’t view Quinn as any kind of a threat.

Good.

The cable car let out an unholy screech as it slowed for a stop at the next corner, and Quinn took full advantage of the noise. He looped the zip tie around Alexei’s neck and yanked it tight. The guy gagged and flailed, his feet making a dull metallic thumping sound in the foot well. But he didn’t have a lot of fight in him, and when he slipped into unconsciousness, Quinn lunged across the seat, grabbed his gun, and pressed the barrel to his temple. The blast was deafening in the close confines of the car and left Quinn’s ears ringing.

One down, two to go.

He shoved open the door and rolled out onto the street, keeping low to avoid putting himself in Pyotr’s line of fire. Still, a lucky shot blasted through the car’s window, raining bits of broken glass on him and coming way too fucking close to his head for comfort. Zaryanko screamed at Pyotr, most likely telling him to stop shooting at the golden goose, but Pyotr was in a rage now and there was no stopping him.

Good. Angry people made mistakes.

One bullet tore through the flimsy door Quinn was hiding behind, and he felt the heat as it skimmed by his neck.

Fuck.

Just as he was about to say a Hail Mary and leave cover to return fire, the cargo van he’d spotted earlier pulled up alongside him and the back doors flung open.

“Quinn!”

Jean-Luc? No. He had to be hallucinating, because he couldn’t possibly be that lucky…

Could he?

But he definitely knew that voice, and as Pyotr peppered the pavement around him with bullets, he crouched, readying to surge to his feet at the first lull—and froze. Across the street, under the statue of Lenin, was a ghost. Liam Miller made a gun with his forefinger and thumb and aimed it at Quinn. Smiling, he pretended to shoot.

Holy Christ. How could he be alive?

“Q, c’mon, move your ass!”

A bullet ripped through the car inches from his neck and, yeah, he couldn’t stick around any longer. He took a running leap for the van. Jean-Luc and Jesse caught him by the arms and hauled him inside, then Jesse returned fire.

For a moment, with the bullets continuing to fly and his guys shouting orders at each other, Quinn could do nothing but lie on the floor, shocked into immobility. Had he actually seen Liam, or was his fucked-up brain playing tricks?

Jean-Luc tried to pull the swinging door shut and almost got a bullet through his hand for the effort. He cursed in a livid string that ended with the word “mama.”

“Did you just insult Zaryanko’s mother in Russian?” Seth’s voice called from the driver’s seat.

One of Jesse’s bullets blew through Pyotr’s left cheek and the gunfire came to an abrupt end.

Jean-Luc finally caught the door and yanked it shut. “The Russians know how to do two things well, grasshopper: make vodka and swear. I told him his mother sucks cow dicks.”

Christ
, Quinn thought and finally let himself relax. He loved these guys. He really did.

Jesse lowered his weapon and glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s Mara?”

Mara.

He bolted upright. “We gotta go back. She’s still in the hotel.” As far as he knew. Unless they had moved her, too. Fuck, he wished he could remember. “Seth, turn around!”

Jesse cursed a blue streak that rivaled Jean-Luc’s. “We can’t. Zaryanko’s on alert now.”

Of course he was right. Going back without a solid plan was akin to suicide and wouldn’t help Mara.

But still. “Guys, we can’t leave her. She’s pregnant.”

“We know,” Jesse muttered.

The van slowed, then rolled to a stop on an empty side street. Seth shifted it into park and glanced through the metal door that separated the front from the cargo area. “Someone take over up here.” He grabbed the bag that contained his sniper rifle. “I’ll find Ian and Marcus and we’ll keep the hotel under surveillance until we can come up with a plan of attack. If they move her, we’ll know.”

Jesse stepped over Quinn without as much as a glance in his direction. “Go,” he said to Seth. “Keep in touch.”

“Copy that.”

The van lurched forward again with Jesse at the wheel. Quinn leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. Guilt churned in his stomach. If he hadn’t blacked out on Mara, leaving her to fend for herself, maybe they’d both be safe now.

Jean-Luc squeezed his shoulder. “Cajuns have a saying,
lâche pas la patate
. Translated literally, it means ‘don’t drop the potato.’ But it’s commonly understood to mean ‘don’t give up.’ So
lâche pas la patate
. We’ll find her and bring her back to you.”

Quinn met the linguist’s intense blue eyes, and emotion surged, blocking up his throat. This team, as dysfunctional as it sometimes seemed, was one of the best he’d ever had the privilege to work with.

He reached up and clasped Jean-Luc’s shoulder in return. “I know we will.”

…

The door burst open a second time, banging hard into the wall, and Mara fumbled the spoon. It landed on the floor with a soft
clink
, and she kicked it up against th
e baseboard, doing her best to hide it with her sneaker as she turned to face Zaryanko.

If he noticed the spoon, he didn’t acknowledge it. He was livid, and maybe even a bit shaken. Blood spattered one side of his face.

Mara’s heart lodged in her throat. “What did you do to Travis?”

He crossed the room in several long strides and grabbed her by the arm.

“No!” She ducked out of his reach. “Where. Is. Travis?”

“You wish to know what kind of coward he is?” Zaryanko sneered and withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the blood. “He escaped. Saved his own ass and left you here without a second thought. Some savior he turned out to be, yes? So now you will go to Dubai and work off all the money he cost me on your back. And when your child is born, it will work, too. You will never again know the taste of freedom.”

A strange sense of peace settled over Mara, calming her racing heart. If Zaryanko was telling the truth, if Travis had escaped, he’d come back for her. He’d probably walk away later when she was safe, but as long as she was in danger, he’d always come back. She knew it with every fiber in her being. Travis was a lot of things, and not all of them were good, but he wasn’t a coward.

And neither was she. Not anymore.

She planted her feet. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Zaryanko’s eyes all but spit fire at her. She had never seen such hatred before and recoiled despite her intentions to remain steady.

“You don’t have a choice.” He snapped out a command in Russian and a thug—not Alexei or Pyotr, but a new one—strode into the room. This guy was built like a pit bull and looked about as mean as a half-starved one trained to fight. The last thing she saw was his meaty fist on a collision course with her face…

Until a blast of cold air shocked her awake.

How long had she been unconscious? Seconds? Minutes? She wasn’t sure, but she was outside the hotel now, draped over the pit bull’s shoulder, and her jaw ached. She squirmed, and he dropped her to the pavement like she was nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

Maybe to him, that was all she was worth.

Her hands and knees took the brunt of the fall, and she bit her tongue at the jarring impact. Tasted the copper tang of her own blood. And her fear.

She wasn’t a coward, but oh, God, was she frightened.

“Are you willing to behave now?” Zaryanko asked.

She gazed up and found herself face-to-face with the license plate of a car. T219AX. She stared hard at it, committed the number to memory.

“Well?” Zaryanko demanded.

She spit out the blood pooling in her mouth. Told herself she would not cry the tears blurring her vision in front of this animal of a man. “Yes.”

“Yes what,
cyka
?”

“Yes, I’ll behave.”

“Then get the fuck in the car and keep your mouth shut.”

Swallowing back a surge of bile, she wobbled to her feet and used the car to steady her progress toward the door Zaryanko pulled open. She slid into the backseat and something jabbed her side.

The seat belt?

No, someone had shoved all of the buckles down into the seat. So what—?

Cell phone. The one Travis had stolen off Pyotr. He’d put it in his coat pocket, and she was still wearing his coat.

Zaryanko had gone back into the hotel, and his thug was walking around the hood of the car toward the driver’s seat. She only had a tiny window of opportunity to get out a call for help. Had to make it count. She slid the phone out and positioned it between her thigh and the door. Hopefully they’d just think she was cowering. She opened a new text message and plugged in the only number she knew off the top of her head besides her mother’s: Travis’s cell phone. She’d dialed the number over and over again after Lanie gave it to her, and all those failed attempts to call him had left his number burned into her memory.

She stuffed the phone back into her pocket before the pit bull was fully settled in the driver’s seat, but he didn’t so much as glance back at her. He started the car, cranked on the music, and began humming along as if he wasn’t driving a woman somewhere against her will.

Mara slipped her hands into both pockets as if she was cold. Which, she was, but the move was more about disguising the fact that she was hiding something in one pocket than it was about keeping warm. She dragged a finger over the old flip phone’s number pad, trying to remember which letter corresponded with each number.

Oh, she hoped she was right.

Slowly, precisely, she began to type out a text.