Page 90 of Night Shift

All too soon, the man slung open the door. “Let’s go,” he said, standing there looking annoyed as hell.

I followed him back down the hallway a little ways until we came to another one of the closed doors. He knocked three times. “Enter,” Viktor said from within. The man opened it and shoved me inside. Stumbling, I fell against the desk. He leaned back and smirked, clasping his hands behind his head. “Have a seat.”

I started to sit in the chair across from him, but before my ass hit the wood, he shot a hand out, wagging his finger at me. “No, not there. Here.” He hammered his index finger on the center of the desk.

Resisting the urge to frown, I scooted the small desk lamp to the side and perched my hip on the edge of his desk.

“Don’t start playing shy now,” he said. “Your reaction to my kiss told me everything I need to know.”

He got up, removed his jacket, folded it in half, and placed it carefully on the back of his chair. Next, he rolled up his sleeves.

Shit, shit, shit, this was getting all too real—too fast. My heart hammered in my chest. But I could do this. I could do whatever it took to stay alive. The oh-too-familiar claws of panic threatened to choke me. Swallowing hard, I focused on my breathing—breathe in, one, two, three—breathe out, one, two, three.

With a swift scrape of his arm over the surface of his desk, everything went flying, hitting the ground with a loud clatter. Before I could blink, his hands were around my waist, dragging me across the desk and flipping me around to face him.

He clutched the hem of my shirt and then, in one powerful motion, jerked it up and off me, tossing it aside. Then he smiled broadly, bouncing his brows. “Yes, this trade will work out quite well after all.” Leaning in, he gave me a quick, hard kiss and pulled me off the desk in front of him. Slowly he ran his hands down along my sides to the band of my pants. Hooking his thumbs under the edge, he yanked them down to my knees, leaving me bare to his gaze. “Mmm, what a pretty little pussy you have,” he growled. Without warning, he lifted me up and slammed me back down on his desk, causing me to fall back, nearly knocking the breath out of me.

He leaned forward on one hand while the fingers of the other traced a line from the notch between my collarbones and down over the valley of my bra, then moved lower to my belly button. As his middle finger dipped in, he drew little circles around its edge. My body shuddered violently in panic. I wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face, but that would only result in him punishing me in ways I couldn’t allow myself to think about. Squeezing my eyes shut, I clenched my fist against the surface of the desk. He laughed darkly and then dragged a fingernail down, lower and lower, to my cleft.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Shots rang out distantly, somewhere near the pier.

Viktor reached into the top desk drawer and pulled out a sleek, dark steel handgun. The weapon had a long barrel topped with a silencer, which meant it would be as quiet as it was deadly. “Stay here!” he shouted before darting out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

I jumped off the desk, jerked up my pants, and scrambled to find my top and throw it on. Frantically, I tried the doorknob, but to no avail. Of course, it was locked from the outside. This was my chance. I’d never get an opportunity like this again, and I had to figure out how to get out of this damn room.

I punched the door. “Think Sam, think!” I screamed.

That was when I saw them—the door hinges. They were on my side of the door. Now, if I could just find something to pry the pins out, maybe I could escape. Whirling around, I scanned the office. It was fairly barren.

A frantic search through the desk drawers yielded nothing but a few old pens and stacks of neglected paperwork, but then I spotted it—a toolbox tucked away under the desk, almost hidden in the shadows. Finally, I thought, a spark of hope igniting within me. Maybe my luck’s about to change.

I dove for the toolbox, my fingers nervously trembling as I flipped the clasp and threw it open. Inside it, I discovered a hammer, a screwdriver, and pliers. It was like finding treasure. I couldn’t suppress a grin—I had gotten lucky.

Wasting no time, I grabbed the screwdriver and positioned its pointed shank at the bottom of the first hinge. With the hammer, I tapped the screwdriver firmly, nudging the pin upwards. It took a few solid hits before the pin gave way, but finally it emerged, clinking softly as it hit the floor. “One down,” I whispered to myself as adrenaline coursed through me.

The second hinge proved trickier, the pin stubbornly resisting my efforts. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but I persisted, hammering away until, at last, with a gratifying slide, the pin popped free. Repeating the same procedure, I swiftly freed the pin from the third hinge.

Heaving a quick sigh, I wiped my clammy hands on my pants. More and more gunfire rang out, reverberating against the door. I had to ignore what was happening and focus on what I needed to do—open the door itself. Carefully I wedged the head of the screwdriver between the floor and the door’s bottom edge. It was a tight fit, but after a bit of wiggling, the screwdriver caught the bottom edge securely. The pliers were next—I clamped them around the screwdriver’s shank for a better grip.

I hammered against the pliers, but the door wouldn’t budge. In frustration, I gave one last knock with all my strength. With a crack, the door popped open just enough for me to peek out.

Peering through the gap, I held my breath, searching for any sign of movement. The coast seemed clear. This was it. I pulled the door open, my pulse racing as I made a silent vow not to look back.

My feet slapped against the concrete as I darted down the hallway. Every second was a gamble, but I was all in. There was no turning back now.

Chapter twenty-six

Colton and the rest of us slowly turned to locate the source of the disengaging safety. There, not ten feet away, stood a man with a large black rifle aimed squarely at us. My heart skipped—not from fear, but from a surge of recognition and disgust. It was Mac Sheridan, Samantha’s sorry excuse for a father, the asshole who’d sold her out to these Russian thugs.

“Son of a bitch,” I spat, my anger boiling over as I locked eyes with him. “That’s Mac, Samantha’s father—the fucker who traded his own daughter to these animals.” Glaring at Mac, I raised my weapon and pointed it at him. “If you’ve hurt her, if one damn hair on her head has been harmed, you’re a dead man.”

Colton, ever the strategist, edged closer and calmly began to negotiate. “Mac, put the gun down. You’re outnumbered, and this won’t end well for you.”

Mac’s eyes darted around among us, realization dawning that he was outgunned and outmatched. His features morphed from an expression of animosity into one of unease. The rifle wavered, and his resolve seemed to evaporate. After a tense moment, he lowered the weapon.

“I’ll help you if you help me,” he grumbled. “These Volkovi Nochi are sick bastards. I know where she is.” He took a deep breath, a flicker of something akin to concern crossing his features. “But you need to know, there’s at least a dozen of them in there. Armed and dangerous.”

---