Prisoner Mine (3 page)

His head bobbed. To Greer and US Elite, and this lost girl, he was Zach Saulter.

“Friend?”

Again he nodded.

Raisa slipped her legs to the floor and stood on the obscene shoes she’d been made to wear. Her arm still draped her breasts, but her shoulders straightened. “I will help us leave.” She pronounced each word carefully, a hint of a question at the end of the statement.

“Good.”

Her eyes widened at his British lilt.

Zeke slipped the suit jacket from his shoulders and held it open for Raisa, high enough that he blocked the line of sight to her bosom. When she hesitated, he shook the coat, feeling the weight of the fifty-thousand dollars he’d stuffed into the pockets.

She stepped into the cavernous cocoon and slipped her arms into the sleeves. “Danke.”

“You’re welcome.” Zeke dropped the fabric.

Raisa turned faster than he anticipated. She reached for his watch. He held perfectly still to keep from scaring her. Intelligent eyes studied the face and ticking hands. Thin fingers clasped the band, careful not to touch his skin. She turned the timepiece toward him. Her index finger circled the numbers, completing one hour. Next she pointed to Greer, and then to her own forearm. She mimicked a syringe and injection with her other hand.

They’d drugged Greer with another dose one hour ago. She wouldn’t be any help for a while.

Zeke scooped Greer off the bed and tossed her unceremoniously over his left shoulder. He pointed to Raisa, to his side, and then to the door. “You stay close. We’re leaving.”

The young woman nodded and fortified herself with a breath before stepping to the littered bit of ground where he’d pointed.

At the door Zeke squatted for the key. When he slipped the key into the lock, Raisa wrapped the coat tight around her chest and sidled closer. He strode from the room with his head high like he had every right to be there. The clack of stilettos may as well have been a never-ending series of shrieks in the stifling space. Then again, this place had its fair share of stiletto clad feet…and shrieks. Zeke covered his lips with his index finger, and then pointed to her shoes, just to be safe.

No one occupied the long corridor, but with security, the receptionist, and ten playroom doors between them and the rear exit that could change in an instant.

Whispers of moans and grunts trickled from the thresholds, haunting Zeke with his shortcomings. Each door was a prisoner, or two, he left behind. He hadn’t bought a trailer to drag his failings along behind him. Somehow, though, they never managed to lose him for long.

Greer weighed less than the dying soldier he’d carried over the Anti-Lebanon mountain range nearly ten years ago, but damn, every shift of his hips jostled her limp form and tweaked his mending ribs. Zeke quickened his pace. Each advancing step brought them closer to freedom, and consequently, danger.

Raisa fisted a clump of his shirt and tugged in short, panicked jerks. When he spared her a glance her gaze honed on the
Security
label as though the letters themselves might leap off the door and tackle them.

“It’s okay.” Zeke reached behind, grimacing at the pain that knifed through his middle. His finger encircled her wrist and tugged her in front of him. He kept his hand on her in a gesture anyone watching would think of as possessive-though, compared to Greer over his shoulder, a little wrist-holding wouldn’t even register.

He rushed her past the ominous black door. Raisa's panted breaths ceased until they cleared the door to reception. No gun wielding ’roid-rats poured out into the hallway. Anosov didn’t pop out from the front demanding an explanation.

Two doors left at the end of the hall and they were home free. Zeke doubled his grip on both women.

Raisa sighed. A smile cracked her terrified facade.

The unmistakable whoosh of the loo blocked their path as surely as a cement wall. Twenty yards stood between them and the exit…the exit that required a security code to open.

Zeke propelled Raisa forward. He pushed his own legs against the floor, driving himself and Greer on.

Too soon the paint-chipped door on the right opened. Raisa faltered. Her feet slowed to a near stop.

His grip urged her ahead several more feet before he released his hold. He hoped she’d stay with him. But…

A muscle-fluffed guard stepped into the corridor. One of his hands shoved the end of a black T-shirt into his trousers. The other worked on fastening his belt buckle. Zeke’s thundering steps pulled the man’s gaze from his crotch.

For a full second the man stared with drawn brows. In that wasted fragment of time Zeke cleared several more feet.

The guard stumbled back a step. Zeke advanced another stride.

Five meaty fingers reached across his torso. The guard palmed his pistol.

Zeke dropped his right shoulder and pushed harder.

His 235 pounds, combined with Greer’s 135—give or take a couple—plowed into the man’s sternum. Zeke used him as padding against the metal door frame. A deep thud and nasty crack broke the relative quiet.

Zeke gripped Greer’s thighs with his right hand, planted his feet, and righted them. The guard slid down the wall and collapsed into a clump on the stained concrete floor.

A strangled scream left Raisa's throat. It pierced his ear like a fucking gold loop. If she wanted freedom, it came at a cost. One unconscious man was an easy price to pay, especially since she didn’t have to do the knocking out. But if she kept up the screech, there would be significantly more bloodletting, and it just might be theirs.

He wheeled around ready to cement his hand over her mouth. She wasn’t where she was supposed to be. Raisa stood ten feet back, next to the other door they’d passed. Her cry became strangled. More accurately, someone strangled her cry.

Three men clogged the hall. One clamped a hand around Raisa's throat and lifted. The ugly points of her plastic shoes dangled an inch from the floor, seeking it with frenzied kicks. Fear distorted her pretty face. The other two men crouched with their hands up, ready to smash in his skull, while the man with Raisa on the far right of the hall faded back a step.

No talking his way out of this one.

Their guns and walkie talkies remained fixed in their belts. The receptionist’s door remained closed.

One corner of Zeke’s mouth quirked.

The two straightened ever so slightly.

Zeke hurled Greer at the one on the left. Instinctively the man’s arms opened wide to receive her. Zeke launched himself at the one in the middle, whose gaze followed Greer’s impact. Her dead weight toppled Leftie about the time Middle-man realized that the devil knocked on his door.

The bloke’s fists drew high and tight in defense. Zeke packed all his momentum into a punch. It connected with the man’s ribs. One cracked under his fist. The slack of bone giving way smarted pain in his own side. The guard’s elbows dropped, covering his middle too late, leaving his jaw exposed.

Zeke’s left hook covered it. Middle joined the growing pile on the floor. He wouldn’t get up for a while either.

Leftie wiggled under Greer, stuck by the wall on the left and his unconscious comrade on the right. Zeke stepped toward the asshole who’d retreated a few more steps with Raisa.

The bastard groped for his gun, or maybe walkie talkie. Both hung on his right side. Poor Rightie was a rightie and had grabbed Raisa with his dominant hand. No way could he reach the comms clipped to his back pocket.

Zeke wouldn’t give him the opportunity to get to his gun. His fist clenched, ready to center the arse’s temple.

A blow rang Zeke’s bell. The point of impact radiated from the back of his skull to the front. It snapped his head forward. The dim hallway tunneled to a small circular window.

Raisa's red face knitted in rage. Her knee shot forward. It sank into Rightie’s crotch.

Zeke closed his eyes. He dropped to a knee.

He pivoted and punched.

A groan wheezed from Leftie’s lungs. When his eyes opened the man’s cheeks had paled several shades. The bloke clutched his stomach. Zeke sailed an upper-cut into his jaw. He didn’t watch the man fall.

Zeke whirled to Raisa, ignoring the stars that shot past his widening field of vision. She needed his help…only…she didn’t.

Raisa cradled her throat with one hand. The other braced the wall while she rammed the scuffed points of her stilettos into the bastard’s lower torso again and again. The man hunched into the fetal position like the pussy he was, cupping his balls.

They had no time to revel in the quick beating they’d given the four men. Nor was there time to wait until the stars stopped shimmying in his periphery. The longer they stayed the more chance they had of getting shot.

Zeke scooped Greer off the floor and then tugged Raisa's wrist. He urged her toward the door, squatted, retrieved the pussy’s gun and walkie, and then ran for freedom.

Stark panic paled Raisa's cheeks. She stabbed a finger toward the security pad on the door. Zeke foisted the weapons and radio into her hands, and then grabbed the edge of the suit coat still wrapped around Raisa. She gasped, but didn’t budge while he fished forty thousand from the jacket pockets and tossed it onto the unconscious guard next to the door.

Raisa canted her head to the side.

“They won’t look for us as hard with the money,” he whispered as he punched in the security code. He didn’t expect her to understand, but maybe his tone would communicate something.

When the light turned green Raisa shoved the door open with her hip, then held it wide for him and Greer. Zeke hustled out the door and to the car. The clack of Raisa's shoes stayed on his heels.

He wrenched the back door wide and eased Greer into the seat. Sweat-damp hair clung to her face. It stayed there. Her seatbelt was more important. He reclined the seat slightly to keep her from slumping and pulled the strap across her chest.

Zeke stood and motioned Raisa into the car. When she didn’t leap inside he found her gaze…right above the barrel of the guard’s gun.

Her chest rose and fell on choppy breaths. The hunk of black metal shimmied with every gasp. Wide brown eyes danced left and right, searching for...escape? She’d trusted him enough to get her out of the whore house, but apparently not much further.

Hands at his side, Zeke softened his gaze, but held his ground.

Raisa's gaze danced from him to Greer to the back door of the night club several times, and finally landed on him.

“Friend.” He held out his hand for the gun.

Her gaze narrowed.

Zeke pushed back the need to take control of the situation. He let her decide how they’d proceed.

After several stilted seconds Raisa's breathing slowed. The quiver of her hands tapered. She eased the barrel to the ground and stepped to Zeke. Chagrin quirked her mouth as she released the gun. The cool barrel and heated grip weighted his palm. She set the radio next to the gun and dove into the backseat.

Thank fuck for the unracked slide.

Without it he wouldn't have been so gentle. Shot on accident was still shot.

Zeke jumped in behind the wheel, stowed the guard’s stuff in the center console, and drove. He drove through Queens, dodged traffic in Manhattan, and crossed into Jersey. In Newark he dropped off the interstate, weaved through city streets to a garage in a sketchy part of town.

He depressed a button and the bay door receded. They rolled into the dark. Another tap of the button closed the door behind them.

“Just a minute.” Zeke opened the door, retrieved the gun from the center console, stuffed it into his waist band, and then walked five paces. His hand roved the rough brick wall until he found the lever.

When he slid the metal rod to the upright position, lights blinded him for a fraction of a second. At the far parking spot slick black paint gleamed off the 1970 Barracuda he’d rebuilt from the ground up. A notch loosened on his nerves. Not a good thing when relaxed usually meant dead.

“Come on.” Zeke clipped any hint of ease from his demeanor. He had a hell of way to go to clear his teammates and fix his mistakes.

Raisa crawled from the car like a mouse at the mouth of its flooding burrow with a hawk circling overhead. While she examined her options Zeke moved the bags from the Royce’s trunk into his. He waffled at the trunk, but only for a second before pulling a pair of gym shorts with a draw string, a T-shirt, and a white business card with a single phone number in blunt black print at its center from his bag.

The young woman clutched the top of the open car door. Her gaze shifted from a tour of the garage to Greer. When he closed the trunk she jumped. Those plastic shoes scuffed against the oil stained concrete. That scared, yet brave, dark brown gaze met his.

Zeke walked to the back end of the Rolls and set the clothes—along with the key fob for the ridiculous car—on the Royce’s trunk. He patted his pockets and then pointed to the jacket.

Raisa's head tilted in question.

“On the inside pocket there is money.” Again he repeated the gesture, trying to compensate for the language barrier.

She tugged the top of the jacket together, covering a hint of exposed cleavage before slipping her other hand beneath the fabric. When she pulled it out a single stack of hundreds lay in her palm. Raisa's throat worked on a swallow. Her hand trembled ever so slightly. The shoes danced from one sole to the other. After a ragged breath she extended the cash toward him.

“No. It’s for you.” Zeke raised his hands. “Just for you.”

That soulful brown gaze skittered to Greer.

“I’m taking her.”

The space between Raisa's brows furrowed.

Zeke held the business card between his first two fingers and waited for Raisa to look at it. “You stay. Hide from Stas. In two weeks. Today is Friday. After Friday and another Friday, after two weeks hiding, call this number for help.”

Shit, he hoped it would be over by then.

Raisa looked at him as though he spoke a Martian language with his tongue hanging out his mouth to one side. He may as well have been, but damned if he could remember the days of the week in Russian.