trust men with mustaches.
“Let’s take this downstairs.” That gravelly voice commanded respect. Kit wondered if she could get free of him. In movies and TV, spunky heroines broke away with a well-placed kick. But his grip on her was firm, and he was probably a very good shot. A man who owned a bulletproof vest wasn’t a novice with a weapon. How far could she get before being gunned down?
The liar dragged her into the stairwell, where there were fewer witnesses. Where were the police? Had they been called? The signal on her phone had gone out, but could someone else have contacted the authorities? Could they help her?
The probability of her dying was high, and Kit didn’t have much to lose. He could shoot her on the stairs and then throw her body down fifteen flights. She had a slim chance of surviving that. She would run the first chance she had.
“If you shoot me, make sure I’m dead before you toss my body down the stairs,” she said.
“What?” he asked. He sounded annoyed. She didn’t care if he was annoyed. If she had to die, she wanted some say in the matter.
“I don’t want to be paralyzed and brain-dead and a huge problem for my family while I’m in a vegetative state. Shoot to kill. Navy SEAL me—you know, one to the heart and one to the head.”
He swore under his breath. “Please just shut up.”
The other three men followed them down the stairs. They wanted to bring her in alive. The liar might want her dead. She was better off with the people who wanted her alive. At least it would buy her an opportunity to escape.
Though he was holding her firmly, he wasn’t hurting her or jerking her around. He was almost carrying her down the stairs. When they reached the ground floor, they stepped into the narrow alley between the buildings.
“If you’re prepared to pay me, then I’m prepared to give her to you,” the liar said.
A mercenary with no moral compass except one that pointed to the highest dollar amount. What a loser. She revoked her good thoughts about how attractive he was and replaced the word attractive with louse.
“Tell me the routing and account number and the money is yours,” the other man said.
The liar shouted out a series of numbers. Kit memorized them. If she escaped him, she would rob him blind. He would make a very, very large and untraceable donation to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital.
The mercenary put his gun in the hand holding her and took out his phone to confirm the money transfer had been made. The distraction could be a chance to run for freedom. She struggled against him, but his arm was unmovable. She elbowed him in the gut and hit only his vest and the muscle beneath. He didn’t flinch or make any noise of pain. At least that would have given her some satisfaction.
“Thanks for the payout,” he said. “Trust me,” he whispered into her ear before he pushed her to the other men.
She stumbled in her heels, but one of the men grabbed her. He dragged her toward a car at the opening of the alley.
More gunshots, and Kit ducked. Were they killing the mercenary? It would serve him right. Would-be murderers had it coming.
A man with curly hair shoved her against the car and pulled her to the ground. He wasn’t moving, and he was heavy. It was hard to breathe with his weight pinning her. Several seconds passed before she realized he was dead on top of her. She kicked at him, trying to move him off her. Now was her opportunity to run for freedom.
The body gave way, and then the mercenary was hauling her to her feet. The other men were dead in the alley, blood pooling around their bodies.
Hysteria and panic clawed at her. If he would callously kill these men, he would kill her. Three more men entered the alley. They advanced on her and the mercenary. He nudged her farther down the alley in the opposite direction.
He was already shooting at the others. “Run, Princess. Get out of here.”
Confusion morphed into self-preservation. He was letting her go. She started to run and then stopped to look over her shoulder. He was fighting the three men, landing punches but taking punches, too. She wanted to run, but something held her feet in place.
Before she could decide what to do next, the mercenary had knocked out the three men. He raced toward her. “Come on. I told you to run. You need a better sense of survival.”
“I was worried about you,” she said.
He grunted. “Don’t worry about me. Focus your energy on living through this.”
He threw her on the back of a motorcycle and then climbed on. He handed her a helmet. She didn’t have it snapped and he was already taking off from the alley. As the cycle lurched, she grabbed his shoulders to steady herself.
She had too many questions. Was he planning to sell her or kill her? He had already sold her, but then had saved her. Why? What did he need her to do? What was his connection to the Locker?
The motorcycle drew to a stop on the side of a quiet street lined with boutiques closed for the night. Kit’s legs were shaking with fatigue, and her body was trembling.
He helped her off the motorcycle and she collapsed against him, unable to stand. Her dress was torn and dirty, and based on the way it was twisted, she must have looked indecent. She’d lost a shoe, and her foot hurt.
“I think there’s something in my heel,” she said, lifting it and trying to get a better look.
He set her on his motorcycle and knelt on the ground. Though his gaze dodged left and right, he examined her foot with surprising gentleness. “A piece of glass is in it.”
“Pull it out,” she said.
He held up his finger and reached into a bag on his bike. He removed a first aid kit. “Your shoe is the most impractical choice.”
“I wasn’t planning to run away from armed killers tonight,” she said.
She flinched when he removed the glass. Then he squeezed her foot and cleaned it with alcohol wipes. She held her teeth together to keep from screaming.
“It’s not too deep. We’ll have a doctor look at it later.”
What were his plans for her? If he took her to a doctor, could she find help? “Why did you save me?”
“I was sent to retrieve you.”
“You sold me to those men.”
He gave her a look that said, “Get real.” “I conned them out of two-point-five million dollars.”
“Aren’t you worried they’ll find you?” she asked. That was a lot of money to lose. Retribution would be paid.
“No.”
Just no? Not worried about it? Who was this man? She had left this confusing world years before with zero intention of returning. She hadn’t fit in then, and she didn’t fit in now. It had rules she didn’t understand. “Please let me go,” she said.
Compassion touched
