Page 20 of Captive Prize

I let him nod off.

Out cold like most of the warehouse.

Mateo slumped in a chair, a needle and rubber tie abandoned in front of him.

A few others had passed out with their heads on the table.

One guy sat on the floor singing off-key about Lola the showgirl, swaying like a tree in the wind.

Perfect.

Time to move.

When I got back downstairs, Pavel had cut himself free.

He was hunched over the table, sweat-soaked, both hands bracing his weight on his one good leg.

“You need help, cousin?” I asked.

“You hit like a bitch,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

I smiled. “Then you bleed like one.”

He snorted and motioned for me to come help.

I slipped under his arm and hoisted him up. Heavy bastard.

“How hard is this going to be?” he asked.

I grinned. “We’re walking right out the front door.”

“What? What about the men?”

“What men? I only saw bitches.”

He rolled his eyes. “Bitches with guns. And I might talk a big game, but I’m not actually bulletproof.”

“They’re drunk. High. Half can’t lift their heads. They’re not loyal to her. They’re loyal to Mateo.”

“And Mateo?”

“He’s got a needle in his arm and won’t be waking up anytime soon.”

Wishful thinking. But I’d take the odds.

Pavel let out a low whistle. “I feel like a loser for getting caught by these assholes.”

“Oh, you should.” I grinned. “I’m never letting you live this down. This is funeral-speech material.”

“Not if I kill you first.”

We made our way through the halls, slow but steady. Pavel still had enough awareness to carry a gun and check corners, but we both knew if a single shot was fired, this warehouse would light up like a war zone.

I wasn’t twenty-two anymore.

I had no interest in dragging my cousin with one arm and firing with the other.

That shit hurt.

---