Page 49 of The Enforcer's Vow
He doesn't answer. He pulls out his phone and types a message, his thumbs moving quickly across the screen. When he's finished, he puts it away and leans back against the van wall. The broad one drives in silence, occasionally glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
I try to memorize the route, counting turns and estimating time, but after twenty minutes, everything becomes a blur of concrete and traffic. The van reeks of cigarettes, and the bench seat is bolted too firmly to the floor to use as a weapon.
"Where are you taking me?" I ask.
Neither man responds. The scarred one checks his phone again, then puts it away. His jacket hangs open enough for me to see the gun holstered at his side. The broad one drums his fingers on the steering wheel, following a route he clearly knows by heart.
The ride takes forty minutes. When we finally stop, I hear the sound of metal doors opening—a loading dock, from the echo. They lead me through a maze of concrete corridors into an old warehouse. The building is sorely neglected, and broken windows let in slanted rays of late afternoon sun.
Industrial equipment sits covered in dust and cobwebs. Pallets are stacked against the walls, and the floor is stained with oil and other substances I don't want to identify. Our footsteps echo in the cavernous space as they guide me toward the back corner.
The room they lock me in is small and windowless. Concrete walls, concrete floor, a single metal chair. A camera sits in the upper corner, its red light blinking steadily. The door is heavy steel with no handle on the inside.
"Strip," the scarred man says.
I stare at him. "No."
"We're not asking." The broad one steps forward.
My hands shake as I remove my clothes. They take everything—my phone, my keys, the small knife I keep in my purse, even my earrings. They give me a thin gray dress to wear, something that feels like hospital scrubs but cheaper. The fabric is rough against my skin, and it leaves nothing to the imagination as I hug my arms over my belly, whimpering.
Hours pass with no food or water. The camera watches me pace the room, test the locked door, run my hands along the walls looking for any weakness, but there is none. The concrete is solid, unmarked except for old water stains near the floor. Theceiling is too high to reach, and the single light bulb is protected by a metal cage.
I sit in the chair and think about Maksim. He should have noticed I'm missing by now. His meetings end at six, and the light through the crack under the door has long since faded to black. But will he come for me?
The question sits on my chest, attempting to suffocate me. I've been married to him for three weeks, and I still don't understand what he wants from me. The marriage was supposed to draw Damir out—that much I know—but until now I believe my brother is still safe. Though I've asked Maksim to spare Damir, he hasn't answered me.
I think about the conversations I've overheard, the names mentioned in hushed tones. The name Karpin comes up often in Maksim's phone calls, always followed by anger in his voice, a coldness that makes me want to stay out of his way.
The Karpin faction are Maksim's enemies, and now I'm their prisoner.
They're using me as bait. The realization comes slowly, building from suspicion into certainty. They want to draw Maksim out, force him to come for me. But why would he risk himself for a woman he married as part of a strategy?
Because that's what this is, isn't it? A strategy to get close to Damir through me. To use me as a weapon against my own brother.
I think about Alexei Petrov, the name I heard in a conversation I wasn't supposed to witness. Maksim's cousin by marriage, dead from a bad batch of drugs that came through Damir's supply line. If that's true, then Damir killed someone in Maksim's family. And if that's true, then my entire marriage is a lie.
The door opens. The scarred man enters with a bottle of water and a piece of bread. He sets them on the floor near myfeet and leaves without speaking. The door locks again with a heavy click.
I drink the water slowly, trying to make it last. The bread is stale. It looks like it's ready to mold, but I eat it anyway. My stomach cramps from hunger, and I realize I haven't eaten since breakfast. The dress provides little warmth, and the concrete floor draws heat from my bare feet.
The camera blinks, and I wonder if anyone is watching the feed, if they can see me sitting here, trying to decide whether my husband cares if I live or die.
I stand and walk to the far corner of the room, as far from the camera as I can get. The concrete wall is cold against my back as I slide down to sit on the floor. From here, I can see the camera's angle, the way it tracks my movement.
They're watching me break down. Or waiting for me to break down.
Hours pass, and the light under the door disappears completely, leaving only the harsh overhead bulb and the blinking camera. I try to sleep, but the chair is uncomfortable and the concrete floor is too cold. Every time I close my eyes, I think about what they might do to me if Maksim doesn't come.
Or what they might do to me if he does.
I walk back to the chair and sit down. My legs are stiff from the cold, and my throat feels dry despite the water. The warehouse is quiet except for the occasional sound of footsteps in the distance.
The camera continues to blink, and I stare back at it. Somewhere out there, Maksim is making a choice. Come for me and walk into a trap, or let me die and find another way to get to Damir.
If he comes, it could be because he needs me alive to get to my brother. If he doesn't come, it could be because I'm no longeruseful to him. Either way, I'm not sure what it means for me as a person rather than a tool.
The things I've learned about my brother over the past few months shock me. The drugs, the overdose, the death of someone important to Maksim's family. If Damir really did cause Alexei's death, then maybe he deserves the retribution that's coming.
