Mission: Impossible to Protect (The Impossible Mission Romantic Suspense Series Book 6), стр. 48
“What happened to her face? You weren’t supposed to touch her.”
She couldn’t breathe, knowing the men were looking at her. She tried to keep her face slack, but it was near impossible with the adrenaline surging through her. She was afraid she would gasp out loud from holding her breath.
“She broke my nose with the fucking cast. What was I supposed to do?”
“Follow the fucking orders! Did you touch her?”
“I slapped the bitch. That’s it.”
“Don’t you dare touch her again. Now… Get her out of here and get rid of the damn cast.”
To Danni’s relief, Boss Man’s voice grew more distant.
“Rico, get the van. You and Torres load up the product and take it to the other site. I’ll have to get the truck for the women. If you two fuck this up, Miro will kill all of us.”
Danni had only one chance to take Paolo down before Rico and Torres returned. Her feet and legs were free. She just needed to deliver her kick to the most vulnerable spot. Could she lift the chair over her arms and hit Paolo?
Her body shook with high-octane anxiety. She tried to relax, concerned that she’d tip off Paolo that she was awake and ready to use her cast again as a weapon, as well as her feet and the chair. She had one advantage—Paolo’s threat of killing her was a bluff. How was he going to gain her cooperation to go along to be carved up by Miro?
With her eyes closed, her other senses heightened. She heard distant footsteps and a door close as Boss Man left. Paolo’s body stench alerted her to his closeness.
She willed herself to remain relaxed while she assumed Paolo stared at her. And then with her heartrate doing the Indy 500 in expectation of taking Paolo down, she heard him walk away, and then the sound of rattling papers.
Was he planning to eat before turning her over to become human sushi for Miro? She cracked her eyes open, taking a risk that he’d see her.
Bent over the table, his back to her, Paolo was doing a line of cocaine. He obviously didn’t take Boss Man’s death threats too seriously, or he needed fortifications, knowing he was a dead man. Hopefully, cocaine didn’t give Paolo the strength of superman. One thing was crystal clear: Paolo would be unpredictable and more of a risk.
Danni took Paolo’s distraction to assess the room and her best way to escape. She was in a long room with wooden crates stacked as high as the row of small windows a good twelve feet above the floor of this former factory.
The front door through which the men had exited was closed. The door to her left was partially open, where she’d heard the woman pleading for water. Danni blinked and stared, unable to believe the sight—women in steel cages. It was too ghastly to be true. She might totally blow her cover since acid burned up her throat, and she was about to hurl.
She glanced back at Paolo, who was still occupied at the table. She looked again, trying to suppress her outrage and shock. She could see at least twenty women in the two cages. Too many to help escape right now, but she would come back.
The rage at what these monsters had done gave her strength and conviction to fight Paolo to her last breath. It wasn’t just about her now. She would not allow them to victimize these women further.
She looked back at Paolo, with his head bent and definitely going for another line. Or maybe he hadn’t finished. She twisted to assess what was behind her. There was an exit forty feet away. She couldn’t tell at this distance if the door was locked. But she couldn’t worry about the possibility, or she wouldn’t make a move.
She breathed slowly and quietly and waited for her chance…
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lars lasted no more than ten seconds in the ER’s waiting room, where he had been directed by the harried receptionist. The stillness of the sterile white room was too much, even for the hardened Marine Raider. The only other people were an elderly man bent over a cane, dabbing his eyes with a rumpled handkerchief, and the mother who white-knuckled a child’s teddy bear. He had seen a lot of suffering in his years in K-stan, but the silent tears and profound grief drove him to flee the space. He paced the antiseptic halls, the linoleum floor creaking under his boots. His eyes were glued to the door where Sten was fighting for his life.
Powerless, unable to charge in and save his brother, he wanted to punch someone or, at least, punch a hole in the wall. Waiting with no control was not an easy situation for someone who, if challenged, could kill a man in hundreds of creative ways. Lars contained his violent urges and paced instead.
Where was Dylan? He was supposed to park after dropping Lars off. He had been gone at least twenty minutes. Where did he park? In Harlem? Lars looked back at his watch. Twenty-six minutes to be exact.
He began pacing again, watching the door to the “room” where his twin was being worked on. Lars looked up to find the receptionist’s eyes on him. He tried to read her expression, looking for any clue about the condition of his brother. She gave no hint with her blank look and then quickly turned to answer the ringing phone.
He paced and prayed between checking his watch and his phone. Sten, behind that fricking door, was fighting to stay alive because of Lars. He should have been adamant that he’d be