Page 91 of Captive Prize

Mateo, however…Him I'd like to take my time with.

I moved faster, clearing hallways as I got deeper and deeper into the building. The metallic tang of copper mixed with gunpowder filled my nostrils, a scent that should have been familiar, comforting even. Instead, it made my stomach churn. Every second that passed was a second closer to losing her.

This wasn't like before. It wasn't like escaping with Pavel.

There were more of them. They had been trained. And I was injured.

Between the concussion, the pain meds, and the stitches, I was moving at maybe half speed. My vision blurred at the edges with each jarring step, and I could feel my sutures pulling tight with every movement. It had to be enough.

Still, I moved through them like the grim reaper himself, claiming lives and carving a path of death and destruction as I made my way toward my woman.

When I got to the large open area, I expected one, maybe two men.

There were closer to a half dozen. They were armed, and they were waiting for me.

Fuck.

My heart pounded in my chest, adrenaline raced through my veins as I took cover, running through a hail of bullets and praying I didn't get shot... again.

I had my back pressed against an old metal desk, but the guns that they were using weren't the greatest, so its thick metal sheeting made halfway decent cover.

At least it would, until they turned it into Swiss cheese.

Beads of sweat moved down my brow as I checked my magazine, making sure I was still loaded. The sour taste of fear coated my tongue, mixing with the copper from where I'd bitten through my cheek.

I had a few more shots left and then I'd have to switch magazines.

I wasn't doing that until I absolutely had to.

There were too many men for me to waste bullets. I was unprepared. For the first time in my life, when it mattered the most, I hadn't brought enough supplies.

Fuck.

I couldn't panic. Fear was clawing its way up my throat, but I couldn't panic. Zoya needed me.

I had to be smart, make this shit work.

Peeking over the edge of the desk, I tried to map as many of them as possible.

I barely got back behind cover before the bullets started again.

From what I could see, there were six men on the ground level with me. The metal door to the stairway behind them leading to the upper-level offices was open. There was no telling how many men were on the other floors. They could come in at any moment. At least the catwalk was empty, for now.

The second the hail of bullets stopped, I surged up from behind the desk, muscle memory taking over as I acquired targets. Two quick squeezes—center mass, center mass. The first man's chest exploded into a fountain of red, his body spinning like a broken marionette before hitting the ground. The secondcaught it in the throat, his gurgling scream drowning in his own blood as he clawed at the gaping wound.

I got off another shot then ducked just before bullets chewed up the air where my head had been a split second before, metal fragments from the desk cutting lines across my cheeks. The taste of copper and cordite filled my mouth as I pressed deeper into cover, warm blood trickling down my jaw.

I knew I killed at least two. From the swearing, I would say I hit another, but I couldn't be sure.

The air was filled with the odors of motor fuel and gunpowder. Sweet and cloying to my nose and I was pretty sure it was killing brain cells.

"Tell me where the girl is," I yelled.

"Tell us where the money is," another one yelled back.

Money? What money?

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just here for the girl."

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