Page 41 of Omega

Harris turned to scan the monitors, and then keyed his mic. “Eliza, prepare to receive primary. Immediate departure, emergency profile Zulu-Echo-Romeo-Oscar.” He turned back to us. “You guys are gone. Cal stays here. I’ll send an update when I can, but don’t expect word from me for a few days.”

We were out the door in a matter of seconds, Alexei in front, Sasha behind. I glanced back and saw a man lying prone on the roof of the building, holding a sniper rifle.

Harris stood in the doorway, ball cap turned backward. “I’ll get her back.”

“You better.” It was all I could say.

I didn’t even say goodbye to Cal. I saw a glimpse of him over Harris’s shoulder, and he looked pale, even a little green. His usual bravado was replaced with an embarrassed silence.

Layla. God, Layla.

Be safe, hooker. Stay alive. Harris is coming for you.

Part Two:

Layla

9

KIDNAPPING IS FUN

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. I donotlike being kidnapped. I don’t recommend it.

I’ve seen some pretty gnarly shit in my life, but that scene? I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life, that’s for damn sure. One second I was sleeping and having a nice little dream about Harris—although I’d deny that if pressed—and then the door was exploding and four dark shapes surrounded me. They tossed a black bag over my head, jerked my arms behind my back and wrapped zip-ties tight around my wrists, and shoved me forward.

The assholes didn’t even let me put on my fucking pants. That’s right, they kidnapped me wearing nothing but a thigh-length white V-neck T-shirt and my favorite red thong. No shoes, no pants, no bra.

Then they forced me into a run, one guy on each arm, pretty much carrying me across the courtyard. I couldn’t see shit, because it was nighttime still and because they’d put a damn sack over my head. This was a legit third-world mafia kidnapping. I heard something behind me gopoppoppop—poppop—poppoppop. And then there was a wetthwack, a grunt and the hands on my left arm fell away. Someone had been shot, I realized. Different hands grabbed my free arm and lifted me, carried me in a flat-out run.

Poppoppop—poppop; this was a different weapon, similar silent clicking, but a different tone. The good guys were getting closer. My kidnappers were firing back with everything they had. Then I heard a gurgle from behind.

“Dane! Shit!” A voice, male, low, American.

That wet gurgle, then the voice of someone calling out to the guy who’d clearly just died trying to help me…nightmare fuel right there.

I felt my feet hit the sand, and I heard the surf followed by the quiet rumble of an outboard boat motor. I was lifted clear off the ground, and a gust of wind kicked up, tossing my T-shirt up to bare my ass cheeks and a good portion of my naked titties.

This was not lost on my kidnappers: I heard them exchanging what I assumed, judging by the tone of their voices and the lecherous laughter, were disgusting guy-comments about how sexy I was. I didn’t need to speak whatever barbarian language those fuckers spoke to understand what they were saying. So I did the only thing I could. I started thrashing and kicking, biting at whatever flesh was closest to me.

“LET ME GO YOU FUCKING FUCKS!” I screamed. I felt my foot connect with bone, and I kicked again, as hard as I could. I heard a grunt and a curse. “I’ll kick all ya’ll’s fucking asses. Put me the fuck down!”

Something hard, cold, and round touched my temple. “Shut up, cunt, or you die. Be still, or you die.” This was in a thick accent, Greek, or Italian, or—who the hell am I kidding? I don’t know one foreign accent from another.

I went completely still and let them set me in the boat, cold, hard, wet rubber under my thighs. The gun barrel was pressed against the back of my skull, digging in hard. It hurt like hell as the boat was shoved into the water, and then the outboard motor kicked to life and I was thrown to the side as the pilot pulled the craft sharply around. We hit a wave and I was tossed airborne, only to slam back down with a slap of flesh on rubber and a curse, which only earned derisive laughter from my captors.

I had no way to brace myself for the next wave, not being able to see, or grab onto the sides of the Zodiac. So I was tossed like a rag doll as the boat hit wave after wave, and the farther we got from shore, the larger the waves got. This was a tiny boat, I sensed, and we were heading out into open water. I wondered how far they were taking me, and why, and where, and who, and how soon I could expect to raped, tortured, and killed.

Thank you, Kyrie, for the terror-inducing warnings as to what I could expect if these dick-nuts got hold of me.

Well, they’ve got hold of me. So now what?

The worst part about being tossed around in the stupid little boat was that with every slam of the boat bottom on the water, cool salt spray hit me, soaking my face and my T-shirt. Did I mention my shirt was white, and that I was naked underneath it? No bra, and a tiny little thong. I mean, that thong barely covered my hoochie-coo in front, and didn’t cover a damn thing in back. I like to both look and feel sexy, but not for the benefit of goons like these.

Also, I had been kinda hoping to let Harris get an eyeful of what I’ve got going on—which didn’t happen, obviously. What can I say?

So…slam, slide down a wave, rocket back up, airborne—slam…and I’m wetter and nakeder. More naked? I don’t know. Grammar isn’t my strong suit under the best of circumstances and certainly not when I’m under duress. I’ve almost got a college degree, so I can put together a coherent essay on pretty much any topic, but it takes some effort to make sure I’ve edited the ghetto out.

It wasn’t cold out, not by a long shot. But being three-quarters naked and wetter by the second will leave you shivering regardless of the temperature. So my teeth started chattering, my skin was covered in goose bumps, and my nips could cut glass.