Keeping my chin tucked against my chest and my hands in my pockets, I make my way slowly across the sidewalk to the house that sits behind the one where they’re holding Olivia. Casually, I walk through their yard and around the side of the house, steadily approaching my destination.

I hear the throaty grumble of the Hummer as Gavin drives by the house to park down the street.  I slow my pace enough to give him time to get to the front door.  I stop to pretend to tie my shoe, which makes no sense because I’m wearing boots.  But it looks good if anyone’s watching from a distance, which hopefully they aren’t.

I hear the clap of Gavin’s boots on the sidewalk, followed closely by some light whistling.  I rise and walk to the back patio, stepping onto it and approaching the door.  It’s old and wooden and looks easy to kick in.

I hear the doorbell ring then I hear a couple of hushed voices followed by some footsteps.  Just out of curiosity, I try the doorknob.  It’s locked.

No such luck. That shit only happens in the movies.

When I hear the first sign that Gavin has made his move, which in this case is a guy yelling what the hell, I raise my leg and kick as hard as I can just below the door knob.

As I suspected, this place being an older home, the door frame gives away easily and the door pops open.  Standing in the kitchen, watching with a stunned expression as I step through the wreckage that used to be the back door, is one of Olivia’s captors. He’s a young, college-age guy, but that doesn’t make me feel the least bit guilty for beating the shit out of him.

He doesn’t even see my fist coming.

Two punches to the face and he’s unconscious.

That was easy enough.

I step over his body, sparing a glance toward the front door where Gavin is pummeling another of the Bratva’s boys.  Seeing that he’s very much in control of the situation, I start looking for Olivia.

There’s a short hallway to my right. It’s lined with four closed doors.  She could be in any of them.  At the end of the hall is either another door, a closet of some sort, or possibly stairs to a basement.  Hurriedly, I open the first door I come to.

I see only a flash of movement before he’s on me.  I take a punch to the gut before I recover enough to smash my fist into his balls.  I hear his groan and he falls at my feet.  I kick him in the ribs and then kneel to punch him once in the face.  His head lolls lifelessly to the side. I give him another hit just to make sure he’ll stay down.

Obviously there are more here than what Gavin thought.

I look around the small bedroom.  It’s empty but for a beat-up green recliner and a television sitting on an old plastic crate.  I exit the room and proceed to the next door, using a little more caution.

I twist the knob, push open the door and step back.  I hear the gun fire a millisecond before I feel the bullet graze my shoulder.  It’s not enough to stop me, though.  The next one, however, knicks my ribs on the left side.  It slows me down and hurts like a son of a bitch, but it’s not enough to keep me from launching myself across the room at the guy before he gets off another shot.

We crash to the ground, my hat flying off as I use all my weight to roll him over, which isn’t easy because this scarred bastard is much bigger than the others I’ve seen.  As soon as I have the dominant position, I slam the crown of my forehead into his nose.  Above the roar of my pulse, I hear the crunch of bone as the guy yells in surprised pain.

Before he can fight back, I see Gavin’s boots appear at the top of the man’s head.  Then he’s bending down to wrap the crook of his elbow under the guy’s chin and squeeze.  The Bratva’s hands go straight to Gavin’s thick arm to try and free himself. Ineffectively, I might add.  Gavin’s strong as an ox and twice as mean if you’re on his bad side.  And this guy? He’s on the bad side.

Levering myself up off him, I nod to Gavin and head for the door.  Only two more rooms to check for Olivia.  She has to be here somewhere.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Olivia

As I begin to come awake, I hear a loud pop followed by some banging against the wall.  I know where I am, inasmuch as I’m being held captive…somewhere. And in a fuzzy, disjointed way, I remember immediately the fear that gripped me when the rag was placed over my face again the last time.

I recognize the noise as gunfire.  I know it’s strange, but my initial reaction isn’t fear; it’s relief, relief that I can put the sound together with its source, that I can quickly make the association.

That must mean my brain is still working to some degree.  I’m not a cucumber yet.

I hear a second shot. It brings with it a more logical response.  Fear.  No, not fear.  Terror.  My pulse races with it.  The sensation is only exacerbated by the fact that I can barely move, much less do anything about whatever is happening.  I realize I’m helpless and that my fate will likely be decided without me even be able to manage coherent speech.  

Where’s Ginger when I need her?

In my head, I’m laughing.  As a bystander might, part of me is worrying that I’m making light in the midst of such a serious situation.

Am I losing it?  Is any of this even real?

I struggle to open my eyes.  Blearily, I blink my reluctant lids.  A bright reflection on the ceiling swims across my vision, making my stomach roil.  I close my eyes for a single breath and then fight to open them again.

I hear bumping again and the sounds of heavy footsteps.  My heart thumps heavily inside my chest as panic sets in.

They’re coming for me!  Oh sweet God, they’re coming for me!

Summoning every bit of strength left in my sedated body, I lift my head off the flat, smelly pillow and look from left to right. I’m in a small, sparsely furnished bedroom.  Alone.  With a window to my left.

I don’t feel the tears so much as see my vision blur behind them.  If I could just make it to the window…and outside…to freedom…

Maybe someone would help me…

Taking a deep breath, I bend my arms and slide my elbows under me to try and push myself into a somewhat upright position.  As though they’re made of jelly, though, they melt away as soon as I try to bear any weight on them.  I try a second time, to no avail.

The futility of my efforts, the hopelessness of my situation hits me hard again.  Only this time, the longer I’m awake without the drug-dosed rag being shoved in my face, the clearer my head becomes.  And the more panicked I feel.

I’m telling myself I’ll try again and again when a loud crash sounds at the door across the room.  Splinters fly when it’s torn off its hinges by a body being launched through the opening.  My mind struggles to take in what I’m seeing.

A tall, thin man with a springy bush of brown curls on his head lands with a thud on the floor in front of the bed.  I look back to the doorway, my heart lodged in my throat, and I see the most wonderful hallucination I could ever imagine conjuring.

It’s Cash, standing like a thunder cloud, right in front of me.  His face is smeared with black streaks and his lips are curled in rage.  He looks fierce.  He looks murderous.

He looks like heaven.