Page 20 of Emerald

I should do the same to her now.

But I just can’t.

Part of it is the sheer destructiveness of the act. This woman is absurdly gorgeous. And she’s obviously smart too—she managed to sneak past all my security, all the way into my bedroom without getting caught. Killing her would be such a waste. Like smashing the Venus de Milo with a sledgehammer.

There’s another reason I don’t want to kill her: she’s made me curious. Who is she? Why did she come here?

For practical reasons alone, I should find out who sent her.

So I let go of her. But as I do so, I say, “If you move one millimeter, I’ll snap your neck. Don’t test me.”

I see a shiver run down her body. But she doesn’t let her fear show on her face. She watches me, expressionless.

Without taking my eyes off her, I pull my kit bag out from under the bed. I take out a couple of zip ties, and I say, “Lay down on the ground, with your hands behind your back.”

For a moment, she hesitates. I see her eyes dart toward the window, the door.

She must know she won’t get far, not with me awake and not dead, and a whole houseful of soldiers ready to be summoned with a yell.

Slowly, she lays down on the carpet, her face turned to the side, and her arms behind her back.

I zip tie her wrists, a little tighter than necessary, because I’m limping from her kick to my groin. Then I tie her ankles for good measure.

I pause, looking down on her.

I need one question answered. The answer is going to determine her fate, at least in the next five minutes.

“Did you hurt any of my men on the way in?” I ask her.

“No,” she says.

Her voice is low and clear. It doesn’t sound like she’s lying.

“That’s very lucky for you,” I tell her.

I leave her lying on the floor and go to the next room over to wake up my brother.

* * *

7

Sloane

I’m in deep shit.

When you work a job like mine, you know that someday you’ll probably meet a bad end. You just hope it will be quick—a bullet to the back of the head that you don’t see coming. A slash from a knife that bleeds you out in moments.

What you don’t want is to be captured by the Bratva.

Because once you’re captured, you’re at their mercy.

And the Bratva don’t have any mercy.

My father knew a thing or two about interrogation techniques. It’s part of the standard CIA training.

He used to tell me, “It’s impossible to withstand torture. Any decent torturer, given enough time, will break you. All you can do is resist interrogation by preparing yourself for the methods they’ll use to manipulate you.”

My father was tall, with sandy-colored hair and blue eyes. In pictures of his younger years, he looked a bit like Steve McQueen. But by the time of that conversation, he’d grown thin and haggard, his hair too long and his face half-hidden by his dark blond beard. He wore tactical clothes almost all the time, so he could keep knives, firearms on his person, even when we were at the grocery store.

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