Page 142 of Retribution

I know Indie isn’t comfortable in the slightest with the plan, it’s totally out of our comfort zones but it’s nothing I haven’t done before.

We both take in the beautiful architecture of Dubai as we pass by the beaches. I’m jealous that we don’t get to lay on a sun lounger and soak up the rays as a family. Instead, I’m wielding a gun to try and bring my daughter home.

The huge white mansion takes us by surprise. I didn’t think that the house on the map looked this extravagant, but Dubai is a fast moving country. The driver takes us right up to the gates and I lean over the seat.

“Hey, we just need to be dropped off outside, we’re not actually meant to be here.”

The gates open and he ignores me, driving the car into the driveway, circling around the fountain. Me and Indie glance at each other. The hair on the back of my neck stands up again, the awful feeling rising in my throat.

I glance down at the casing of the gun and edge my hand towards it, trying to flick the lock on it without it being noticeable.

Think, Reed. Think of the other plan options. Devon told you to be prepared, he covered all potential angles.

I have no fucking clue what’s going on, but it’s not good.

The case lock pings open and the driver slams on his brakes, throwing me and Indie into the chairs in front as I wince from the instant shooting pain to my head.

Indie screams.

I look up and the driver is aiming a gun between the both of us.

“Either of you move and I won’t hesitate to put a bullet through your skull,” he snarls, his accent clearly American.

Well, fuck.

Devon was right.

I glance at the case of the gun, now on the floor at my feet. I return my gaze to the driver and he keeps the gun turned in on us, but he’s making hand gestures with his other hand to someone outside of the car.

Indie begins to shake her head at me as if she can read exactly what I’m thinking.

I twist my feet, angling them so they have access to the final flip lock. I press one foot on top of the box and the toe of the other shoe below the lock. I push my foot upwards and the lock flicks open, but I cover it up with an obnoxious cough.

Before I even get chance to do anything, Indie’s door is pulled open and she’s hauled out by her hair, kicking and screaming. I lurch forward after her, but the driver grips me by the hair, shoving the barrel of the gun into my temple.

“Don’t even think about moving,” he spits, his breath smelling of cigars and whiskey.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What the fuck kind of mafia shit is going on here?

I stare over to the door that Indie was dragged through and begin to make a note of my surroundings. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Fuck, yes.

I angle my body so that the left-hand side of my body is pushed up against the seat. I keep my gaze straight ahead, occasionally flicking my eyes down to the screen. Within three seconds, I text Devon ‘SOS’ and share my location.

Whatever the fuck is going on here, I’m out of my depth.

“Hey man, do you mind turning the air-con up? I’m roasting in here.” I ask.

He grunts in response and leans forward to adjust the dials as I lean up and come down on him with my elbow, knocking the gun from his grip.

He fights back instantly as his fist collides with my brow bone. I lay face down on the seat, acting like I’ve been knocked unconscious.

I hear him exit the car, walking around the other side to retrieve his gun and I seize the opportunity. I flip the case open and grab the gun. I lay on my back and spread my legs apart as I can see him about to open the door to the backseat in front of me.

I hold the gun in between my legs, my breath shaky and a droplet of sweat running past my temple. He opens the door and I pull the trigger.

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