Madness (Revenge Series Book 3) (14 page)

I crawl my way back on the bed, pressing my back to the headboard as they crawl their way closer to me. My fists are balled, ready to take them out. My gun is sitting on the nightstand a mere three feet away. If I move quickly enough, I can reach it. I just have to be faster than the man with the cattle prod.

They start shouting in a foreign language, but their plan couldn’t be clearer: flank me then shock me.

I keep my back frozen to the headboard, waiting for them to make the first move. Then Gabe’s voice comes through the phone. “Joss! Joss, what’s happening?”

The man standing to my right hears Gabe’s desperation, and his eyes widen then narrow in shock. He shouts something at me, and I know I am fucked.

When he lunges, I jerk to the right and snag my pistol off the end table. I fire a shot as he grabs my leg, and the bullet goes straight through his forehead. He flops down on me. Before I can get another shot off, a white heat pulses through my body, and everything goes black.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Nikolai

August 21, 2015 4:00 a.m.

C
ubby and I watch from my car as the three scouts descend on the service entrance of Hotel Grozny. Cubby called an underground opportunist he still has contact with the moment we decided to allow Josslyn to be captured. The contact tipped off the scouts, and they found their way into the hotel. We now sit and wait for them to bring her out. Then we will follow them to wherever they plan on going.

Cubby’s contact told us the auction is tomorrow night in Bangladesh. The trek there will be an extensive journey. Driving will take too long, and there are too many roadblocks along the way. Commercial flights from Grozny to Bangladesh are few and far between and, for obvious reasons, out of the question when transporting human cargo. Cubby did say there is private airspace available to men in our line of work in or around the city of Grozny, but he’s not sure if any can accommodate larger aircraft, which would be needed to fly the distance to Bangladesh. Our best guess is the scouts will stop halfway in Kabul, Afghanistan where there is a strong trafficking connection.

“I suppose you’ve been sitting there, thinking of the best way to follow them undetected,” Cubby cuts into my thoughts, reading them perfectly.

I don’t acknowledge him. He knows he’s right.

“Are you thinking what I am?”

I turn my head to see a small smile perk up at the corner of his mouth. I can’t help feeling a sense of nostalgia when I look at Cubby. We have spent many days doing this very thing—observing and planning our next course of action. Years have passed, yet it still feels like yesterday.

“Stow away,” I answer, and Cubby huffs an agreement.

It’s cramped and uncomfortable, but it’s the best way to keep in step with the man you are tailing. More often than not, no one checks the cargo holds after they initially board the plane. Cubby and I can sneak in just before the aircraft takes off. It’s not an easy task, but being the professionals we are, we’ll be able to make it seem like it is.

Light from the service door entrance slips through the crack as a man’s head peeks out from just inside. It’s one of the scouts. When he has determined the coast is clear, he holds the door open for the other scout to walk out with Josslyn slung over his shoulder. She’s not moving, so I assume she has been knocked out.

“She’s a fighter,” Cubby says as he motions to the blood covering the first man’s shirt.

I inwardly smile, knowing how tough she really is.

“The third man is missing,” I point out.

“Yep, your girl’s a fighter, all right.”

My chest unpredictably twinges a little at Cubby’s reference to
my girl
. I never once thought of her as mine in that sense. Of course, she is mine when it comes to the game of revenge. She’s my pawn, but never in a sense that justifies my reaction.

I swallow, erasing any thought from my head except getting on that damn plane and to the auction unseen.

As the men pull out of the alley, I keep my lights off and follow them down the street. We drive about fifteen minutes north of the city before I can see the airplane getting prepped for takeoff in the distance.

Cubby motions to a small nook where I can leave my car, and I quickly pull into the hiding place, parking in the depths of the trees as best as I can. Then I grab my briefcase from the back seat and start pulling out the items I will need. I can’t take it all with me, but there are a few things I never leave behind.

I pull the Bowie knife from the pocket and tuck it inside my suit jacket. The opposite side has my pistol. Then I pull the syringes purchased before I went into Vlad’s restaurant and put them in the outside pocket of my jacket.

I pull my spare clips and slip them into the opposite outside pocket, and then I hand Cubby my other nine-millimeter. He sits forward and tucks it in the back of his pants before we exit the car.

The sound of the large engines covers our steps as we slowly make our way through the trees. The floodlights are lit up along the makeshift runway, lighting up the area the way a popular sporting event would.

The men quickly exit their vehicle, their hands moving wildly through the air, as they appear to be explaining something to their comrades. Every animated gesture gets the rest of them focused on the conversation, which makes it the best time to make our move.

I look across the airstrip and notice a small shed located on the opposite side from us. It’s near the airstrip but hidden in the shadows of the bright lights. The perfect place to hide.

Not saying a word, I motion to Cubby then point out the shed. He nods in agreement, and then we both start moving through the wooded terrain.

Cubby leads the way briskly through the inlet of trees. I scan back and forth, looking for the first sign of trouble. My muscles surge with adrenaline, my pistol drawn and ready to fire if needed.

Every noise alerts me to be on the defensive. Every gust of wind sends a cool chill down my spine, reminding me I’m alive for a reason.

Cubby freezes as we turn the corner, getting closer to the shed. He points in the direction of the car, and it’s then I see Josslyn’s limp body slung over a large man’s shoulders. She is still knocked out, and hopefully for her sake and mine, she will remain that way for the duration of the trip.

Seeing her now sparks a protective instinct. I want to go to her. I want to snap the neck of the man who has her and then take the rest of them out with my Bowie knife. This might be the best way to get to Stravinsky, but it’s the worst way for Josslyn. And I think that’s what is truly bothering me.

Cubby crouches down. We are merely ten meters from the shed. I follow suit, pushing the emotions of Josslyn out of my head. I won’t keep myself alive if she is constantly locked in my brain. Instead, I tap into the cold, calculating side of myself, the side I am most comfortable with, and swallow down the rest of the useless thoughts.

I am the man who will get to Stravinsky. I am the man who will stand in his blood before it’s all said and done.

I crouch alongside Cubby and take the lead. The men are back to hustling around, getting the plane prepped for takeoff. It’s larger than I expected, which reassures me it can handle the flight to Bangladesh. We will definitely have to stop and refuel, but with a plane this size, it should only need to be once.

“It’s time to go,” I tell Cubby as I point to the fuel truck behind the plane.

He nods and nudges his head in the direction of the wheel located at the back of the plane. It will be our entry point. It will be a tight squeeze, and we will need to work fast, but it can be done. I know this. We have done it before.

I look left then off to the right. The path is clear, so I motion with my hand to move, and Cubby takes the first step out of the cover of the shed. Suddenly, the cold steel of a gun is pressed against my head. The man seemingly came out of nowhere.

The loud roar of the engines consumes all other noise around me as Cubby gets farther and farther away.

I drop my gun on the ground and slowly rise to my feet. The man tells me to move, to walk out and stand in front of the rest of his crew, but I can’t expose myself like that, and I won’t allow this jerk to ruin my plan.

I pivot on the ball of my foot and drop to my knee, flying my fist up in a raging fury and landing it directly into his gut. Jarred, he stumbles back, desperately trying to regain his footing. However, I don’t give him time to recover.

I lunge forward like the predator I am and tackle him to the ground. I latch on to his neck and lift his head up before slamming it back down. The force in my palms and fingers strains tighter and tighter. I squeeze until my knuckles almost break through the skin, Stravinsky my only motivator for killing this man. I see his face—Stravinsky’s blood-covered face—as I remove the light from his eyes and the thudding heartbeat from his chest.

The man passes out, but he’s not dead. The heavy rise and fall of his chest betrays him. Not having time to waste, I get behind him and wrap my hands around his neck then jerk, snapping it.

Cubby’s made it to the wheels, and now it’s my turn. I quickly check for other men and determine it’s clear enough for me to run across the field. Most of them are inside the plane, awaiting takeoff.

As I make it to the landing gear, the aircraft starts to make its first signs of movement. I quickly climb the landing gear like a makeshift ladder, inching my way up and inside. I look over, and Cubby is doing the same on the other set of wheels.

As I get fully inside the plane, it starts to pick up speed. It isn’t long before we are airborne, and the wheels are secured inside.

The underbelly of an airplane is like a maze. You can move through it stealthily if you know where to find the right areas.

Cubby locates a small trap door leading to the cargo area. It takes us to a safe part of the aircraft. The space is low, prohibiting you from standing up, but for a man Cubby’s size, he’s nearly crawling to move through the area. He’s surprisingly agile for a man his size, though.

We find small pallets of crates, shrink-wrapped and ready for transport. My gut tells me there are weapons in them, confirming our earlier thought that our layover stop will be in Kabul. The weapons and sex trade are huge moneymakers for the criminal underworld, and, with all the strife happening in the Middle East, the weapons market is a very lucrative business. We manage to tuck ourselves in a small, blocked-off section of the main cargo area and wait out the remainder of our travel.

I can feel the plane ascend with every passing minute as I follow Cubby’s lead, sitting down and getting situated for the long trip to Bangladesh. Now is the time to relax, because once I’m inside the auction, I don’t think I will take a single breath until I get Stravinsky’s buyer in my sights and Josslyn’s back safely by my side.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

Josslyn

August 22, 2015 5:57 p.m.

M
y body feels heavy, my arms weighted and sluggish, which is similar to how it felt coming out of anesthesia when I had my tonsils removed. Except, I feel the pain flood in. My ribs ache, and there is an intense pain coming from my back. I search my memory bank, recalling the last moment I was awake, and then it floods in like a tidal wave. I was in the hotel in Grozny, on the phone with Gabe, when three men rushed me. One died, one bled, but the third …? I don’t know. That is when it all went black.

I shake my head, trying to open my eyes, but it seems impossible. I can hear everything, feel everything, but I can’t open my damn eyes. I want to move. I want to stand and run until my legs collapse from exhaustion, yet I can’t get my eyelids to function properly. Maybe I’m blind. Maybe my eyes are open, but I can’t see.

I try to lift my arm, but it’s trapped. The clanking metal sound is very familiar, and as I clear my head of the fogginess, I can feel the cold steel cinched around my wrists. I’m handcuffed.

I have no idea where I’m at or who has me. I want to cry. I have never felt this terrified in my life. And I haven’t spoken to Nikolai in so long. For all I know, he’s dead.

As the thought passes through my brain, a chill simultaneously surges down my spine. He can’t be dead. He’s the only person who is capable of rescuing me. If he can’t save me, then what?

Just as the tears start to build, the sound of someone coming through the door causes me to freeze. There are two people speaking in a dialect I don’t recognize, and they are women. There are sounds of running water and drawers opening and closing on my left. Something is happening. Are they going to drown me? Are they here to save me? What the hell is going on?

A small hand taps my cheek, startling me straight to the core. I shiver, but I can’t open my eyes. They feel like they’re stapled shut, and I am still very lethargic.

“Come on. Up, up, up,” the lady’s voice sounds as she taps my cheek hard.

I twitch, awakening as she keeps tapping my face.

“Up, up, up,” she says again. Then ice cold water runs over my limbs.

I pop my heavy eyes open and finally connect my sights on my current situation. A small Asian woman stands next to me, holding a soaked rag and dragging it across my arm.

I shake my head back and forth, finally getting through the drug-induced cloud. I snap my head to the side as I feel the other woman wash down my legs. I go to speak, but my mouth is taped shut, and only muffled sounds escape.

My breaths start working overtime as I pant rapidly from the panic. I don’t know where I’m at, but I know exactly what’s happening. The close call I escaped in Moscow has finally caught up with me. Nikolai warned me how easy it would be for someone to break into my hotel room, and part of me didn’t believe him. Part of me thought he was being dramatic because he was battling with other stresses of the day.