Up to Me - By M. Leighton Page 0,52

I slipped the fake ledgers into it, just in case someone got the wise idea of hijacking me on the way. But they didn't, which encourages me that they really might be willing to play ball.

Now, as I wait for...whatever to happen, my mind is on the empty ledgers in the car. Nash has the real ones. He's parked on the motorcycle behind an old generator a couple hundred feet away, watching.

I've been here for six minutes and haven't seen a soul. There's one rusty door to the right of the big hangar style doors of the warehouse, but I haven't checked it. I'm not going into that building. They're bat-shit crazy if they think I'm dumb enough to do that. They can bring Marissa out to me.

I hear the crunch of gravel behind me and I turn to see a white painter's van driving toward me.

Good God, could they be any more cliche?

It rolls to a stop near the building and a fat, balding guy in a track suit gets out of the driver's side.

Apparently, the answer is yes, they can be more cliche.

His back is to me, but I have no doubt that under the jacket of his black leisure suit is a wife beater tank top and at least one gold chain around his neck. Evidently, the classic mobster look is no longer reserved for followers of The Godfather or Goodfellas.

I watch him walk across the gravel lot toward me. "Do you have the books?" he asks when he stops in front of me. His Russian accent is thick. Do you have zee books? It would be no surprise to anyone who knows organized crime that he's Bratva. Russian mafia.

"I'm sure you know I do."

Up close, I can see how this guy differs from movie mobsters. It's not his face. It's scarred, but not too grotesquely. It's not his size. His heft is intimidating, but not overly much since I'm the same height and obviously in much better shape. It's not his words. They're direct and innocuous enough.

No, it's his eyes that make my palms sweat. They're cold and dead. If I ever had to describe to someone what the eyes of a killer look like, I'd describe these. Not the color or the shape, but what they say. They say he doesn't mind doing his job and that he probably never has. They're the eyes of someone who's never had a soul, someone who was probably born into this world doing horrible things to innocent people inside his head until he was old enough to do it in reality.

I pray to God these eyes never touch Olivia. Not even from a distance.

"Give them to me and I give you the girl."

"Let me see her first. I'm not giving you anything until I know she's okay."

Those eyes watch me for the longest ten seconds of my life before he speaks. Without fully taking his gaze off me, he turns his head and yells something in Russian. Seconds later, one of the van doors slides open and Marissa is pushed out of the van. Her hands and ankles are bound, as is her mouth, and she's blindfolded. She falls lifelessly to the ground, landing on her side. I hear her moan of pain and see her draw her legs up toward her chest as if in pain. Around the gag and blindfold, I can see that her face is bruised, as is her shoulder, which is bared by the camisole she's wearing. It looks like the top to some pajamas I've seen her wear before. I hope it is and that they haven't done anything worse to her than just bruise her. Whether or not I really like Marissa or respect her as a person, I wouldn't wish what has happened to her - and certainly nothing worse - on my worst enemy.

"Now, give me books."

"Have them put her in my car."

"Show me books first."

I had sort of figured it might go like this, so I feel prepared when I turn and walk to the car, retrieving the blank ledgers. I leave the driver's side door open, which will hopefully save me valuable seconds if I need to get away quickly. I walk the books back to the big guy, stopping short of