Page 85 of Night Shift

We were beside a warehouse, the kind frequently found on the outskirts of cities, forgotten and rarely visited. Unceremoniously, I was led inside, our footsteps echoing eerily in the vast open space. My captors—the two men from the van and one who’d met us when we arrived—all had stern faces and unemotional eyes. None of them cared about my fear or the swelling of my face.

In the center of the warehouse stood a man who seemed distinctly out of place in the dilapidated surroundings. He was dressed in a tailored suit that spoke of power and control. He scrutinized me with eyes as black as night. His icy stare sliced through the air and right into my soul, chilling me to the bone. The air around him practically crackled with authority, and it was clear that he was the epicenter of power within this grim setting.

As I was brought before him, one of his companions, a man who had a particularly cruel glint in his eye, leaned in and said maliciously, “Perhaps we should teach her a lesson before we send her off, Pakhan. Make sure she knows her place.”

“It would appear that Igor already has,” the leader whispered in an unnervingly calm voice just before he fired his gun—a gun I hadn’t even noticed he was holding, so transfixed was I by his cruel gaze. My ears rang, and I suddenly felt the moisture of the man’s blood on my face. The man who’d held a death grip on my arm was now lifeless on the ground next to me.

The other man beside me stood still, unwavering in his stoicism. I, on the other hand, began shaking uncontrollably.

“We are not barbarians,” the leader said. “She is valuable, and I had given you explicit orders not to harm her. Now look at that face… Are we clear on this now?”

“Yes, sir,” the other man said as he shifted behind me.

The leader then turned his attention back to me. “You are Samantha, yes?” I nodded. “Your father has caused me trouble, the kind of trouble that has unfortunately brought you here.” Although his English was good, it was tinged with a heavy Russian accent that made his words all the more intimidating.

My fear rendered me unable to speak. The boss seemed to consider my silence for a moment before continuing. “You will come with us, Samantha. It is not personal, you understand. Simply business.”

The dismissive tone he used as he spoke about my fate, treating me as if I were just a piece of property, was demeaning. However, his order for my protection provided me with a sliver of hope that I might survive this.

I couldn’t keep my thoughts to myself any longer. “Who are you people? And why have you taken me?!” I demanded to know, my voice wavering from exhaustion and fright.

“Milen’kaya devochka…my sweet girl, you are in the presence of The Wolf.” He paused, and a grin that was menacing yet enthralling appeared on his face. “And we are the Volkovi Nochi.”

He dragged his thumb across his lips, scanning me from head to toe, appraising my worth as though I were a prized pig on display at the fair.

He signaled his men, tilting his head subtly in my direction. One of them gently grasped my elbow and guided me toward a dark SUV parked within the warehouse’s dim interior, while another strode ahead to swing open the door to the backseat. Just as I was about to step in, The Wolf issued another command.

“Ensure she’s comfortable,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for challenge. “And remember, any harm to her will see you sharing Igor’s fate.”

The directive seemed to be more for my benefit than that of his men, signaling I was, for now, shielded from physical violence. Yet, the underlying threat lingered; my safety hinged on the whims of a man who didn’t think twice about killing his own.

A surge of self-preservation hit me. The thought of never seeing Atticus again, of the life we might have had together being snuffed out by these horrible men, sparked a fierce will to survive within me. The fear of losing him dwarfed my fear of enduring the Volkovi Nochi’s wrath.

My hands remained bound behind my back, the zip ties biting into my wrists with each movement. The car pulled away from the warehouse, and our industrial surroundings soon gave way to urban sprawl. A chilling realization settled over me. Each passing second might be leading me further away from ever returning to Atticus.

As the SUV slid into the shadowy confines of a warehouse along a waterway within the Port of Tacoma, my heart jumped. I vaguely recognized where they had taken me. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was, but the looming cranes and the scent of saltwater were unmistakable markers of the port’s industrial heart. The men yanked me out, gripping me with a caution that was almost laughable. They were unyielding yet careful not to hurt me, a contradiction born from fear of their leader’s wrath. They didn’t want to end up like Igor, who had learned the hard way what happens when you disobey. He had made the mistake of punching me in the mouth and slapping me across the face earlier, and let’s just say he wouldn’t be making that mistake again. The Wolf’s command had given me a bizarre form of protection, but it was also clear that my safety hung by a thread.

Inside the grim portside warehouse, the air was thick, smelling of oil and chemicals. The goons were in the process of dragging me toward the back, but then, like a gift from the gods, they slipped up.

One of them got a call, and for a second—just a second—their attention faltered. That was all I needed. With a twist and a shove, I broke free from the guy on my right. The sheer audacity of my maneuver was apparently so surprising to them that they paused, stunned, giving me a heartbeat’s lead.

I bolted, a cocktail of terror and desperation fueling my legs. The warehouse was a labyrinth, crates and containers casting long shadows. It was perfect for a game of hide-and-seek—a game I couldn’t afford to lose.

“Shit, she’s getting away!” one of them yelled.

I didn’t look back. Dodging between crates, I pushed my body to its limits. Each breath was a sharp dagger in my side. Their boots slapped heavily against the concrete behind me, a reminder that they were hot on my heels.

Up ahead, I spotted an open container. The darkness inside it promised concealment, so without slowing, I dove in, tucking myself behind a stack of boxes. My heart hammered against my ribs.

The shuffle of footsteps grew closer, and then my pursuers split up, their cursing painting a vivid picture of their frustration. I dared not move. As they continued to search, I barely breathed.

For a moment, the world narrowed down to the sound of my heartbeat and the distant murmur of the port. Then, as suddenly as it had all started, silence fell. Had they given up? Or was it a trap? Were they baiting me so I would reveal myself?

I waited, counting each second.

And then, a voice cut through the silence. “Find her, or answer to The Wolf.”

The game was far from over.

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