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SEVENTY

NICK

“You can’t do that,” a soft voice says.

Both Julien’s and the gardener’s heads snap in the direction of the door.

“Natalie,” Julien breathes, and for the first time, his steel expression falls.

The sinister match in the gardener’s fingers stills. That match will be my undoing, I swear.

“I told you to wait it out in the library,” Julien says, walking out of the bathroom.

First, how did Natalie get out of the closet?

Most importantly, why isn’t Julien surprised to see her? Which means she somehow got away, or he freed her.

I freaking knew the guy had a thing for her. He’s been breathing down her neck since I got her a job.

She just saw what happened, what is currently happening—my pants getting soaked by my own urine. I want to howl in anger and embarrassment. I will blow up this place and every single one of these pricks.

But right now, I lie very still, hoping that the match threat never comes to fruition.

“You can’t do that,” Natalie says behind the door.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Julien argues, “for the very reason that you don’t understand what it takes to extract information from a person.”

“Well, not what you were about to do.”

“He is not a good guy, Natalie.”

“No shit, Julien! That doesn’t mean he deserves Guantanamo Bay-type torture!”

The little bitch actually sticks up for me—good.

“Did you get any information out of him?” she asks angrily.

Damn! That fire! I might’ve underestimated her.

“No. But I need you to step away, Natalie?—”

“How about this?”

I can’t see what she’s doing, but the sudden silence is suspicious.

“Damn…” I think that’s the gardener, his face turned toward the open door, his eyes widening.

“Where did you get this?” Julien asks.

“I found them outside the door, on the ground. It’s a stupid Empire State Building keychain Nick carried on him.”

Nooooooo!

Fury and frustration clash in me with such force that I start tugging at the stubborn duct tape, trying to break free. Failing. Failing-failing-failing. Argh! They can’t have that! Not the passkeys! That bitch—I should’ve killed her when I brought her here. I’ve never hated a woman more.

“Bring Rosenberg to the bathroom,” Julien orders. “Natalie, take a seat on the couch. I need to check this thumb drive.”

An angry struggle follows. Phil is shoved into the bathroom, and the door slams behind him, leaving him staring at me. He looks like a spooked rabbit that I’d love to club to death.

A moment later, the gardener returns. He undoes the ropes that tie me to the bench, then yanks me up and drags me into the room and toward the desk.

One of the computer screens is lit up with a message, Fingerprint authentication required .

“Be still,” the gardener barks as he holds me from behind. Julien grabs my hand, yanking it closer to the computer, and presses my forefinger to the tiny panel on the thumb drive.

Thank you. Your access is authenticated , the sign flashes on the screen, and multiple windows open to reveal all of my offshore accounts with direct access to them.

The gardener drags me back to the bathroom, dumps me on the floor, and slams the door shut.

That’s it. I’m screwed.

Angry tears burn my eyes. Seething with hate, I curl into myself, wanting to spill someone’s blood right now.

I know what’s going to happen next. Those guys will go through my offshore bank accounts, siphon all the money out—I’m sure they are thieves. If they are smart enough, they will transfer funds from IxResearch too—that’s billions by now. And?—

I want to roar, but I grit my teeth, then start banging my head against the floor, wanting to bash someone else’s skull into pieces.

Almost everything I’ve worked for is in the hands of these thugs.

Phil whimpers behind me, then nudges me with his foot.

“What?” I snap at him in a whisper.

He widens his eyes and motions to his hands.

“Yes, they are tied, just like mine. Now what?”

Wiggling, I manage to sit up on the floor, thinking about what to do next. Kick those two when they come to get us? No chance. Make a run for it? Not a chance either. If they have anything to do with the government, more people will be here in no time, though I have a feeling these guys work on their own. That means that they want the money. Which means they won’t call the cops.

Think, think, think, Eric!

Rosenberg steps closer and shoves his hands and torso into my face.

“What the hell?” I glare at him, bending back, trying to get away from his crotch.

His mouth is still taped up, so he can’t talk. But he frantically motions with his eyes to his hands, then to my mouth, shakes his head like a naughty puppy, then shoves his duct-taped hands in my face again.

What does he?—

Then it dawns on me—my mouth is not taped, so I can try to rip the duct tape off his hands with my teeth.

Brilliant!

Duct tape is unbreakable when you tug at it, but if you make a small cut at the edge and apply pressure, it rips like paper. So I do just that—bare my teeth and grind at the edges of the duct tape around Phil’s wrists. In seconds, his hands come loose.

He rips the duct tape off his mouth, silently screaming and cursing under his breath, then rips the rest of the duct tape off his body.

“Get this off me,” I order in a whisper, wiggling on the floor until I finally get to my feet.

Phil flinches, shaking his head.

“Phil,” I hiss, nudging my hands at him. “Help me out.”

His sheepish stare doesn’t change.

Oh, crap. The guy is flaking out on me? Now, of all times?

He shakes his head again and takes a step away from me.

Well, crap. I really did a number on him. Should’ve been nicer, but he deserved it. Except now, he says the last thing I want to hear.

“You killed the real Rosenberg?”