Page 62 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

People really need to stop kidnapping me.

When I wake, I know instantly I am somewhere different.

Calm.

I have to stay calm.

In the U-Haul, once my brain caught up with what was happening and I felt the rumbling under my feet, I tried bracing myself, but that first abrupt shift from reverse to forward launched me face-first against the side of the truck. I hit my head against the hard metal, and it was lights out.

My head is pounding, and I can tell I’m sitting upright. A small, exploratory tensing of my arms confirms the sinking suspicion I got from the pressure at my wrists. Whatever is holding me in place wraps around my arms and my chest, and my ankles are bound together.

A whimper escapes my mouth when I crack an eyelid enough to see that I’m duct-taped to a chair in the middle of a half-finished hardwood floor near a stack of paint cans and dirty bins with brushes. The drywall is bare, and the spacious room is empty of furniture and decorations.

On the far side of the cavernous room, there’s a wall of windows displaying the tops of several nearby buildings and an awful lot of sky.

If I had to guess, I’d say I’m in a half-finished penthouse in a new construction apartment building. And since I’m not gagged, presumably no one is close enough to hear me scream .

I hear two men speaking in low tones, the indecipherable words flowing quickly.

Spanish, I’m pretty sure. I look over and see a large, buff guy with his back to me, perched on a bar stool, facing another man who leans against the cavity where the fridge will go in the unfinished kitchen.

I know almost instantly he’s the one in charge, though I’m not sure why.

Maybe because he exudes a quiet kind of danger and authority.

Maybe because he looks totally unbothered, listening to the man’s report while taking large bites of something beige from his hand.

No imminent danger there, so I continue glancing around furtively, trying to get my bearings.

It’s not just the three of us in here. Behind a closed door on the other side of the open space, there’s someone in the bedroom.

I can hear a telltale, rapid, rhythmic squeaking noise and soft crying whimpers that sound feminine, but not the kind borne of pleasure.

I wince, feeling utterly helpless, and shudder as bile climbs up the back of my throat.

This must be Kyle’s handiwork. I don’t see him, but there’s no other explanation. I’m not sure what kind of operation he’s running with Mexican guys, but no one else would have any reason to kidnap me. Those two definitely don’t—I’ve never seen them before in my life.

For a second, that sets in. I’ve been kidnapped. A-fucking-gain.

For fuck’s sake. People really need to stop kidnapping me. This is getting ridiculous.

“Oi, she’s awake.”

My head whips around, and I find both Hispanic men looking at me. The one eating stares, unblinking, chewing slowly with an unnerving smile growing on his lips. He nods to the other guy and pushes off from his leaning position, stalking towards me like a lion.

“That’s quite a bump,” he says, his voice deep and lightly accented, smoothing over consonants and lengthening the vowels. He holds up his hand, splaying his index and middle fingers. “How many fingers?”

“Enough to fuck yourself with,” I hiss .

Now that it doesn’t matter if they hear me, I jerk viciously against the tape on my wrists, twisting in the bonds.

It doesn’t give an inch. How are a few thin layers of something so damn strong?

The chair rolls backwards from my struggling, startling me into stillness with its movement.

I look down and do a double-take, realizing both that I’m in an office chair—and that it’s my fucking office chair.

“She’s got claws.” He laughs, though whether it’s at my feisty joke or in mockery of my failed escape, I couldn’t say. He closes the distance between us, goes down onto his haunches, and holds out the last bite of his food. “Want some tamale?”

I turn my head, and he laughs.

He pops the rest into his mouth and talks around it.

“Sorry for the dramatics with the duct tape. I’ve been through this before, sabes ?

You say you’re not gonna run, I turn my back, you run the first chance you get, I have to shoot you…

” he shakes his head, and I grimace at the lack of emotion in what feels very much like a promise.

“No one wants that shit. It’d be a damn waste. ”

I already let the headache get the best of me once—I really shouldn’t have cursed him out, considering my position. I’m not rising to whatever bait he’s trying to catch me with.

“Stroke of genius with this wheely chair, don’t you think?

” he asks, gripping the armrest and tugging it rapidly back and forth, jerking me around.

When he smiles, it reveals a flash of gold in the back of his mouth, like one of his teeth has been capped.

“Couldn’t carry you, found this in the truck, and wheeled you right on up. ”

I press my lips together, feeling my face heat in rage and a shame that I hate so much I burn with it. I really don’t want to let this fucker make me feel bad about myself, of all things, but my lower lip trembles like I have no control over it .

“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” he holds up a finger, frowning at my grimacing reaction. “None of that. I wasn’t saying nothing about it like that. In fact, I like ‘em with something to grab onto, sabes ?”

His eyes flash with naked interest as they rake down my torso.

It makes bile churn in my stomach, but suddenly I realize that though this position is very precarious, they didn’t restrain me with intent to rape.

Someone would have to cut through layers of tape, and once they did, I’d have the chance to fight back until they got me back under control.

Hope sparks in my chest. This guy is taller than me, and his muscular form makes it a daunting proposition, but he probably wouldn’t be as desperate as I am. Desperation makes you strong.

He continues, not really waiting for a response. “I’ll tell ya, it’s a damn shame you got caught up in this, mamacita . If we’d met under any other circumstances, I would’ve been begging you to use those claws on me.”

Is that supposed to make me feel better? Should I feel honored my piece of shit kidnapper wants to fuck me instead of just killing me? I grind my jaw and lift my eyes to meet his. They’re a warm brown, with deep smile lines at the edges. “Other circumstances? Ones where you don’t work for Kyle?”

He grins. “‘Work for Kyle.’ Sure. Let’s call it that. Does that mean you know why you’re here?” He leans forward, getting into my space. “Because if you act nice and tell us where the money is, I bet I can convince my boss to let me keep you instead of throwing you to the bottom of the Atlantic.”

I swallow around a dry throat, and a cold fear creeps into my extremities. “I don’t—”

“Found a stray, Felix,” announces another deep, accented voice. “She was obvious as fuck, following us home.”

The man and I both turn to the source, and a sound of pure panic escapes my throat, seeing Eleanor being forced forward, struggling against this goon’s grip.

Her wide eyes meet mine, flashing with relief, concern, terror, and rage, all at once.

My heart bangs around in my chest in answer, even as a spark of hope ignites.

Suddenly, I’ve got an ally. I hate that she’s here, too, but we have a better chance together than I did on my own.

Unlike me, she’s got tape over her mouth.

Otherwise, she looks unharmed. God, the panic she must have felt…

wait a minute, if she’s here, does that mean she tailed the U-Haul here?

That spark of hope catches into a small, controlled fire.

Eleanor told me that Mac makes her wear trackers whenever she leaves the house.

They’ll find us. Dimitri will find me.

The man—Felix—looks between us. “I take it you two know each other. She your rescue attempt?” he asks, grinning. He turns to the goon holding her. “Grab that folding chair. Jose, grab the tape. Looks like we’ve got another witness to question.”

I watch in mute horror as the two guys manhandle her into the chair, wincing when she puts up too good of a fight and one of them slaps her.

Since her hands are already taped, she gets the around-the-torso treatment and nearly clips him in the face with her knee when he tries to get her legs.

When he stands, fists clenched and wearing a murderous expression, I rage. But Felix shakes his head.

“We talked about this, Leo. No marks on the merch.”

Fuck. Merchandise? What the fuck does that mean?!

“Eleanor!” I whisper as soon as the men turn away from us. “Are you okay?”

As she’s nodding, Felix’s head whips around. “Eleanor?” he repeats sharply, eyes snapping back to her. They narrow, like he’s studying her much more closely. “James MacKenzie’s Eleanor?”

The recognition in his tone is so unexpected that I nearly nod, automatically assuming that if he knows James, it’s a good thing.

Eleanor—who has presumably been trained more extensively for this kind of scenario—doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t move. Her eyes stay fixed on him as the color slowly drains from her face .

That’s apparently enough of an answer. “Oh, fuckin’ hell. Fuck!”

While his two goons look on in confusion, Felix spins and strides away, shoulders hunched with agitation. Leaning close to the windows, he peers out, looking back and forth rapidly, as though checking for something, and mutters to himself in Spanish.

He rubs his eyes with one hand, spinning back to face us. “Fuck.”

When he shifts his focus to me, I go rigid. This emotional swing doesn’t feel particularly safe. There’s no heat or anger or violence of any kind in his assessment, but I do catch a flash of recognition and well-hidden fear.