Page 2 of Broken Doll

His weight crushes my chest, knees pinning my arms. "Next time you try something like that, this goes in your eye. Understand?"

I nod, the needle's point scratching my skin with each tiny movement. So much for action hero moments. All I got was bloody palms and another man on top of me who isn't asking permission.

"Choice time, Ms. James," he says, easing the pressure on my throat just enough that I can suck in air that tastes like bad decisions. "The easy way or the messy way?"

A flash of clarity cuts through my thoughts like a straight razor. These aren't your garden-variety psychos or Derek's coked-up poker buddies with boundary issues. These are professionals. Military-grade. Black-ops precise. And they want something specific from me.

But what? I can promise you…I’ve never dabbled in anything remotely this serious before so why me?

If they wanted me dead, I'd already be cooling in a dumpster with my tongue stapled to my chest as a warning to others.

Fuck it, if I’m gonna die, might as well go out with a bang.

I smile, all teeth and no warmth. "You had me at 'messy,' but I'll take door number one.”

Their grip shifts but doesn't loosen as they drag me toward an SUV so black it's like a hole cut in the night. The kind of vehicle that screams "nobody will hear your screams." My broken heel skitters against dirty concrete like a dying insect.

"What about my friend?” I jerk my chin toward Derek, whose once-perfectly-styled hair now resembles a post-hurricane nest. “What are you going to do with him?”

The granite-faced man doesn't even blink. "Mr. Klein is no longer your concern."

They fold me into the vehicle like origami, the leather seats ice-cold against my thighs—the kind of cold that reaches for your bones. I catch one last glimpse of Derek, Mr. Three-Hundred-Dollar Haircut and Daddy's Credit Card, slumpedagainst filthy bricks before a hood drops over my head. It smells like bleach and other people's final moments.

The SUV growls to life. I count the turns—left, right, straight for seven minutes, right again. Something I saw in a movie but seems legit useful right about now.

Through the hood, I catch fragments of conversation.

"Package secured. En route to primary location."

Not a kidnapping then. An extraction. Like I'm a fucking wisdom tooth. The distinction matters.

Wouldn’t it be wild if I was some deadly spy cell waiting to be activated? Except my memory’s been wiped and replaced with some bullshit story so I could melt into the benign, boring life of an upper middle-class housewife without drawing attention to myself.

That’s no less plausible than the reality that I’d just been dragged out of a club by some unknown faction, being driven to God knows where.

I catalog my life's fuckups for potential reasons this is happening: No cartel connections. No corporate espionage worth this level of response. I've always been careful to be the collector of secrets, not the creator.

You don't survive in the Hollywood cesspool without learning which skeletons stay buried and which ones make useful leverage. Funny thing, when people get naked, you’d be surprised how quick they are to spill their deepest, darkest secrets. It must be the illusion of vulnerability that gets people singing like a canary.

Except me, I could be buck ass naked and I ain’t spilling shit about my personal life.

And before you get it twisted —just because I live in L.A. doesn’t mean I’m trying to find fame or some stupid shit like that. Actors are assholes, getting off on their own ego.

No thanks.

Also, a lot of them like to think they’re kinky but they’re not. Pillow princesses, the lot of them, acting like they’re doingyoua favor while their getting their dick sucked.

My husband, Isaac, doesn't have enemies—doesn't have enough personality to make any. The accounting firm where he crunches celebrity tax returns isn't exactly on terrorist watchlists.

Unless—

The thought slams into a wall when I feel the needle in my neck. Not a doctor's polite prick but a prison-yard stab. My muscles turn to warm pudding. Reality slides sideways.

Voices float above me like I'm at the bottom of a swimming pool filled with bourbon.

"She still conscious?"

"For now. Two minutes till drop."

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