Page 1 of Captive Prize

CHAPTER 1

ROMAN

The broken guardrail loomed in front of me half a second too late.

Rain blurred the glowing red taillights below, but I already knew.

I was too late.

The tires screamed as I wrenched the wheel, skidding sideways to the edge of the ditch.

Mud sprayed up as I slammed the brakes, threw the car into Park, and jumped out before the engine even finished coughing.

My boots hit the ground hard, gravel scattering underfoot.

The reek of oil and burning rubber still hung in the air.

A black Range Rover—Pavel’s car—lay at the base of the embankment.

Given the damage to the scrub brush and trees, it was clear how it rolled on its way down; I could picture it flipped on its roof like a beetle trapped on its back near the bottom before taking one slow, final roll and settling into place with a groan of crumpled metal.

One amber turn signal still blinked, pathetic and slow.

The driver’s side door hung open at an awkward angle. The driver’s seat empty. “Pavel!” I shouted, drawing my gun andsprinting through the rain-slick brush. No answer. Only the hiss of rain and the metallic tang of blood in the air.

So I ran, half-sliding in the wet leaves to get to the heap of twisted metal and shattered glass. “Pavel!” I yelled again. Nothing but crippling silence.

I cocked my head.

No more than a hundred yards away, from the other side of the road…

Came the deep, mechanicalwhirrof spinning turbine engines, the power behind them building as they got closer. The telltalethump-thump-thumpof rotor blades slicing through the air.

Distant at first, then gradually gaining in volume, joined by the wet slapping of rain flung from the blades as every single pass got louder and louder.

A helicopter.

They were landing. They were still here.

With a quick thanks to whatever god or devil hadn’t forsaken me yet, I ran. I kept low as I moved through the trees, searching for the bastards who kidnapped Pavel.

It only took me a few minutes to make my way to the clearing where they had landed.

I was still too late.

Pavel’s body lay limp on the back cargo ramp.

The last of the men dressed in solid black military-grade gear were climbing into the back as the blades spun faster—ready again for takeoff.

I raised my gun and fired.

Over the roar of the rain and helicopter blades, I could hear their shouts in Spanish as they returned fire. My intel had been correct. It was definitely the Colombians.

I killed two before they took cover. More fired back, screaming at the pilot to take off.

I didn’t stop.

I took cover behind a tree as I lined up every shot and hit at least two more of them. It wasn’t enough.

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