Page 93 of Unspoken

Vlad stops and turns to me. Ivan stops too but keeps a respectable distance.

"You have no idea what you are up against." Vlad’s breath ghosts across my face, laced with expensive whiskey, cigars, and menace. "These men will tear you apart."

"You’re forgetting, I was a cop. I've dealt with scum like this before."

"And look how that turned out for you." Vlad's words land like a sucker punch. My fists clench at my sides. But I refuse to let him bully me.

"I still have contacts. Resources." I force the words out through gritted teeth. "I'm not just going to sit on my ass while Sasha's in danger."

Vlad stares me down, searching for something in my eyes. Moments tick by, slow and tense. Finally, he steps back.

"Fine." The agreement is clipped, reluctant. "But if you get in my way, you are out. " He lets the threat hang in the air.

I nod, a jerky motion. I'm in this now, for better or worse.Mostly worse, a voice in my head whispers.

Vlad flicks his hand, not looking at anyone in particular, and we’re off again, whatever the destination is in this sprawling maze of corridors and expensive artwork.

Ivan marches beside us while Vlad leads. The decor is a blend of tasteful elegance and cold opulence, a fitting reflection of its owner. But there's no time to appreciate the finer details. Every second counts when Sasha's life hangs in the balance.

When we’re in the part of the house I’m not familiar with very well, Vlad stops abruptly before a nondescript door, punching in a series of numbers on a keypad with swift, practiced motions. The lock disengages with a soft click, and he yanks the door open, revealing a set of stairs descending into darkness.

I follow him down, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm against my ribs. I’m surprised how I can’t make it stop no matter what I tell myself. I’ve had situations worse back on the force and I don’t remember being this wired up. But then again, I wasn’t trying to fight for the person dear to me, for the person I cared so much about it hurt just thinking about him being in captivity.

The stairs open up into a room that looks like it was ripped straight out of an FBI operations center. Monitors line the walls, their screens casting an eerie blue glow across the space. High-tech equipment and sleek servers hum with barely contained power.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath, taking it all in. Even the police department couldn't dream of having gear like this.

But that’s Vlad Solovey for you. Money apparently can buy everything, including government-grade spy tech.

In the corner, a young man sits at a desk. He’s hunched over a laptop, his fingers flying across the keys. Vlad strides over to him, Ivan and I trailing behind.

"Nu kak?" Vlad asks. "Anything?"

The man looks up, his face pale and drawn in the harsh light of the monitors. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five. "Lasttrace of Sasha is at some lounge. Phone and your car near the Strip," the young man replies in broken English.

Vlad turns to me and says, "This is my associate, Andrey. He’s my tech guy."

"Hey." I tip my chin at Andrey. "Logan." I don’t offer my hand for a shake because I’m not even sure what the protocol is anymore. Or what’s acceptable among these people.

"Alexander’s security detail," Vlad introduces me to Andrey. I swear I can almost hear the sarcasm in his tone as if he’s trying to pour more salt into my wounds.

"How did you know his location?" I ask Andrey. "The app stopped working last night."

"Andrey is very good at what he does," Vlad says with a hint of pride in his voice, then switches his attention to his tech guy. "Daika posmotriy, Andryusha," he adds in Russian, flipping Andrey’s laptop over to see the screen better. "That’s the place?" He points his finger at the red dot on the screen.

"Da," Andrey replies with a sigh.

I stare at the digital map, realizing the street feels familiar. And then it hits me. "Shit." The word rushes out before I can stop it, heavy with dread. "That’s Downers."

"Ahhh… Is bad place," Ivan comments.

Vlad's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the surface. "Let's go," he growls, already moving toward the stairs.

I don’t think. I simply follow, praying we're not too late.

The black SUV comes to an abrupt halt behind Downers, the vehicle's tires crunching against the gravel as if trying to dig a hole in the earth itself. It’s still early in the day and the bar isclosed, its neon signs dark, the staff parking lot deserted except for a couple of vehicles.

There’s oppressive silence inside the SUV, broken only by the purr of the engine.

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