Page 15 of Love Set Free

“See to Mr. Wilding’s injury. He still needs to complete the task we’ve set for him. Plus, it wouldn’t do for us to return him to his loving family in anything less than acceptable condition.”

Blond Guy leans over me, crowding me, with one hand braced on the back of my chair and the other resting on the edge of the table. An inappropriate and ill-advised burble of laughter fights to come out in between the raspy, too swift gasps of my breath at seeing his hand–lily-white and blemish-free–situated so near my own mangled and bloody hand. I painfully swallow it down before it has a chance to break loose.

The relative warmth of his breath brushing over my skin is at complete odds with the detached coolness of his voice as Blond Guy states, “Note that I said we intend to return you in anacceptablecondition, Mr. Wilding. That leaves me and my colleagues a decent margin of actions we can take against you ifyou wish to continue to be obstinate. I advise you not to opt for that route. You won’t enjoy it.”

I flinch when he tugs the knife free from where it’s lodged in the table. But instead of using it on me again, as I sort of half expect him to do, Blond Guy smooths his thumb along the side of the blade, then grips it by the handle and imperiously holds it out to his side. He doesn’t issue any sort of command, but Brazilian Guy quickly scurries forward to take it from him as if he had.

My attention swings to Could’ve Been a Model as she approaches, a small first aid kit clutched in her neatly manicured hands. She casually drops the kit on top of the table in front of me, but I keep my gaze trained on her because of what else I know is on top of the table. After rummaging around for whatever she’s after from inside the first aid kit, she drags the chair Blond Guy was sitting on around the side of the table and gracefully settles herself onto it.

Seen up close, her features are even more striking in their delicate, almost perfect symmetry. Elegantly arched brows over deep brown eyes. High cheekbones and a lush mouth the color of a perfect merlot. A perfect complexion of warm, golden brown. All off-set and made even more striking by the unlikely hue of her dyed blonde hair.

But while objectively gorgeous, her beauty sits on her like an ill-fitting mask that can’t disguise the rotten and cruel core inside her. That cruelty is fully on display in the sardonic smirk gracing those full lips and the voracious glee shining in her dark eyes as she practically purrs, “This is going to hurt.”

A shocked shout escapes me as Could’ve Been a Model painfully grabs hold of my injured hand. Dark spots swim before my eyes. And the last thing I notice, before another fog of unconsciousness descends over me, are her red lips stretchinginto a grin as she presses a finger hard against the raw flesh of my shortened finger.

Chapter Ten

Phoenix

Swimming back to consciousness isn’t much more pleasant the second time around.

My mouth is dry and I move my tongue around, trying to stir up any sort of moisture. Thankfully, while the taste of vomit still lingers, I’m pretty sure it’s just a remnant of when I’d vomited before. I don’t think I threw up again when I passed out the second time.

As before, I can hear the voices of my kidnappers. I feebly shift my head to try to see how many of them are in the room with me and where they’re located.

Oh. That’s...different. Instead of still being seated in a chair next to the table, I’m now lying in a crumpled heap on the cool and dirty cement floor. Whatever. I still want to take stock of my surroundings and ascertain my current danger level.

My hair is already filthy, but a small part of me still despairs at what further dirt I’m depositing in it as I arch my neck, shifting my head this way and that, until I catch sight of someone. With me lying on my side, the angle is odd but there’s no mistaking the way Blond Guy has his arm pressed across TattooedAmerican Guy’s chest or the way he’s pinning him against the wall of the hallway just outside the entrance of the room.

I don’t think they meant for me to hear them, but they probably assumed I’m still unconscious, so they aren’t speaking all that quietly. I’m able to hear Blond Guy ask angrily, “The police? What do you mean, Silva told you he saw several small police patrols poking around in this section of town?”

I’d certainly be scared shitless to be on the receiving end of Blond Guy’s current ire, but Tattooed American Guy doesn’t seem all that concerned. He glances down at Blond Guy’s arm braced against his chest then aims an amused, raised brow look at his taller, broader, fellow kidnapper.

“Whaddya want me to say, Mueller? All I’m doing is repeating what Silva told me. Figured it might be something we need to know about.”

Blond Guy spits out several what I’m going to assume are curse words in a foreign, Germanic-esque language. He shoves Tattooed American Guys harder against the wall, who grunts out an oomph. Then Blond Guy removes his arm and steps away, pacing back and forth several steps.

After several moments of agitated pacing, Blond Guy takes several slow breaths, clearly trying to calm himself. He rolls his neck from side to side a few times and turns back around to face Tattooed American Guy. Tattooed, meanwhile, has been watching Blond Guy’s agitated movements with a faintly amused expression on his face–like he’d been observing a tiger behind glass at the zoo.

There’s still a thread of annoyance in his voice, but for the most part, Blond Guy sounds collected and controlled when he speaks again. “I’m correct when I say that we have yet to hear back from Charles Wilding, yes?”

“Not a single, solitary fucking peep,” Tattooed American Guy responds.

“Then now is not the ideal time for the police to be wandering around. We’re going to have to relocate to our secondary location, just to be on the safe side, and we still need to get the video of younger Mr. Wilding begging. Granted, I allowed for some leeway in the timetable for this job, but I am not happy with how tight our schedule is getting.”

Tattooed American Guy looks only moderately interested as he asks, “So, we are packing up and relocating because of all the cops roaming around?”

Blond Guy’s hand flicks negligently through the air as he replies, “It’s probably not necessary, but I’d rather exercise an abundance of caution than have our carefully constructed plot foiled by some imbecilic police officer who got lucky.” He pauses and his eyes go slightly out of focus while he thinks. Then he autocratically states, “Take your equipment and go make sure the other location is ready for us. Rodriguez and I can secure our precious cargo and get him transferred over. And when I see Silva, I’ll let him know that he should figure out a way to refocus the police’s attention, so they won’t have the opportunity to see us moving our operation elsewhere.”

“And the other one?” Tattooed American Guy asks. “Are we taking him or leaving him here?”

Blond Guy’s scoffing reply lances sharp and hot through me. “That one is completely expendable. Why don’t we just leave him where he is? He can rot away in that box. Or maybe I’ll let Rodriguez play with some matches and she can set this whole place ablaze on our way out. Take care of covering any evidence of our several week occupation of this place and one unnecessary young man at the same time.”

I’d been enjoying being overlooked and ignored while they thought I was still unconscious. The less my kidnappers’ attention is on me–particularly Blond Guy’s attention–it seems like the greater my odds against incurring further injury. ButI’m not going to quietly lay here on the floor while Blond Guy casually suggests Jackson’s murder.

“No.” The word is barely louder than a whisper and it certainly doesn’t travel all the way across the room to gain their attention.

So, I carefully and painfully prop my uninjured hand on the floor and use it to push myself up until I’m almost in a seated position. Then I clear my throat and try again.

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