The Mogul and the Muscle - Claire Kingsley Page 0,84

metal sound told me they’d slid open the door. The pressure of the gun barrel against my forehead disappeared and hands and arms once again manhandled me. They hoisted me out—roughly—and carried me… somewhere.

One of my shoes fell off. It was utterly ridiculous how angry that made me, considering Inda and I had been kidnapped by men with guns. She hadn’t made a sound, and I firmly told myself she was just being cooperative, like I was. It wasn’t because they’d knocked her unconscious. Or worse.

Maybe that was why I was focusing on my now bare foot and the image of my beautiful red suede and crystal Jimmy Choo lost on the ground somewhere behind us. A defense mechanism to keep the eerie detached calmness I felt from breaking.

I had a feeling the other alternative was incoherent screaming, and there was a good chance that would get me killed. So I kept that shoe in my head, letting my mind come up with a loose plan for retracing my steps—or rather, the steps of the men carrying me—to get it back.

Logical? Not really. But it kept me from shaking with mortal terror, so I went with it.

The men spoke in low voices to each other and they were definitely speaking Russian. I heard a ding that sounded like an elevator, followed by a swish. We moved again, then the distinct sensation of rising in a straight line. Definitely an elevator.

I’d been picturing some kind of abandoned dockside warehouse. Maybe with empty crates or pools of dingy water on the floor. Probably a stench, like rotting fish. Or maybe just the reek of gunmetal and bad intentions.

An elevator made me wonder if I was going to be tied to a chair, and when they whipped off the bag that was currently blinding me, I’d find myself in a luxurious office. A man with a cigar and a glass of whiskey would tell me what this was all about while his henchmen stood in the background holding military-grade rifles.

My movie-esque fantasies were as ridiculous as my preoccupation with my missing shoe.

The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and once again I was moving. The man carrying my lower half adjusted his grip. At this point, I just hoped they didn’t drop me.

At least one part of my elevator ride conjecture was correct. They tipped me, lowering my legs, and shoved me into a chair. Strong hands pressed against my shoulders, keeping me down, and there was that gun barrel again, hard against the side of my skull.

I didn’t struggle while they retied me to the chair. I couldn’t see, had no idea where I was or how many men surrounded me, and I had a probably-loaded gun pointed at my brain. I just wanted to survive the next few minutes and hoped someone would take the fucking bag off my head.

It was hard to breathe in here. And the panic that I was successfully avoiding with unrealistic theatrical imaginings was getting harder to ignore—pressing at the edges of my consciousness and making my heart race uncomfortably fast.

Finally, the bag was unceremoniously yanked off my head. I blinked a few times, the light glaringly bright. Was I in some kind of interrogation room with a light shining in my face to confuse me?

No, it was weirder than that. It was a chandelier.

I was in a large hotel suite—or a room that had once been a large hotel suite. The windows were covered with thick sheets of dusty canvas, the wallpaper peeling, and the carpet looked like an entire music festival of rock stars had done unspeakable things that no amount of industrial shampooing could ever clean. The furniture was gone, save the chairs Inda and I were tied to—thank god she was awake and looking around—and a folding table that sat in front of us.

Two men with guns stood nearby and I caught sight of at least two more disappearing through an open door. Maybe they were going to stand guard in the hallway outside.

I looked at Inda. She didn’t appear to have any injuries, just messy hair and the misfortune of being tied to a chair. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” She shook her head a little. “I almost passed out a couple of times. They wouldn’t let me breathe. But I’m okay.”

“Good.”

I strained against the ropes, but they rubbed painfully over my skin. My ankles were tied to the chair, as were my arms. Another rope wound around my chest, over my