66. Nat

By the time someone opens the trunk I'm stuffed in, I'm on the verge of vomiting everywhere. It's a combination of stress and motion sickness. My stomach churns, the cotton stuffed in my mouth making the situation infinitely worse.

The guy who hauls me out of the trunk takes one look at my green complexion and grimaces. Thankfully, once he removes the gag and I can suck in some fresh air, my stomach settles. The zip ties around my ankles are cut and I'm pushed in the direction of a large stone building.

It's not clear where I am, but from what I can see, we're miles from anywhere, with scrubby fields as far as the eye can see. Everything is silent. No traffic noises, not even birdsong. Then my eye snags on a rusty metal sign hanging from a broken gate: Linden Farm.

Mayor Kolanski owns a derelict farm somewhere rural. Could this be the place?

Uriov disappears soon after directing his men to take me inside. I hope he's not planning on locking me up in a small, dark room - I have a massive phobia of enclosed spaces.

The building itself may have seen better days - the walls are crumbling in places and the windows filthy - but the entrance door is solid, reinforced with steel and fitted with heavy-duty locks. There is a security camera fixed above the lintel, which swivels as we walk past.

This place must be important if Uriov has spent a lot of money making it secure. I just wish I knew where we were because then I'd have an idea of which way to run if I got the chance to escape.

Not that it's likely. I don't even have a clue how long I was trapped in the trunk of Uriov's car. We took so many different turns that it wasn't long before I lost all sense of direction and time. My watch tells me it's early evening, so we can't be a million miles away from Max's house, but who knows?

All I can do is pray Max realizes I'm missing sooner rather than later, and figures out where I am. Otherwise, I'm fucked.

Uriov's man is firm but respectful. I assume he's had orders not to hurt me, which is a relief. He pushes me inside the building and gestures towards a staircase that appears to go down into a basement area.

We pass a series of rooms with locked doors. I listen for sounds of occupation, but there's nothing. It's like a tomb down here. All concrete walls and harsh lighting. When we reach the end of the corridor, my captor unlocks a door and I'm shoved inside.

"Nat!" cries a familiar voice. Jane jumps up from the stained mattress she was lying on.

"Get back!" the man yells in a harsh guttural voice. She recoils and presses her body against the wall. From the bruises all over her arms, someone has hurt her in the time she's been here. That makes me mad as fuck but I rein it in. Now is not the time to lose my shit. Just because nobody has laid a finger on me yet, it doesn't mean I'm safe.

The zip ties on my wrists are cut and I'm shoved across the room. The door clangs shut behind me and there's the sound of a lock engaging, but I ignore it and focus on my friend.

"I can't believe you're here too," she sobs, all traces of my confident go-getting friend gone. Her hair is limp and there are grubby tear tracks down her face. I scan her quickly but her clothing looks intact, thank goodness, and as far as I can tell, she's not been badly hurt.

"What happened?" I ask in a low voice.

"Anton picked me up and said he was taking me somewhere special, I assumed he meant a nice restaurant or something. We drove out into the country and ended up at some deserted farm. I asked him what was going on and he just laughed. He said I'd find out soon enough." Her voice breaks. "I was left in here all night and then this morning, a guy took me upstairs and tied me to a chair. Anton appeared and took a photo of me."

"His name isn't Anton," I tell her.

She looks confused. "What do you mean?"

"His real name is Anatoly Uriov. He's Russian Mafia."

"But I don't understand… he told me he owns a tech business!" Jane stares at me like I'm having some kind of psychotic break. It's obvious she's struggling to make sense of it all.

"How did you meet him?" I have a feeling it wasn't by chance.

"In a bar. I was on a date and the guy left early. He said something about a family emergency. I was going to go home but then Anton … Anatoly … appeared and offered to buy me a drink." She plucks at the thin blanket we're sitting on and looks down, sniffing. "He was so charming and nice. God. I can't believe I fell for his bullshit." I'm pleased there's a thread of anger in her words. Anger will get her through this.

I'm angry too. So fucking angry! Right now, anger supersedes fear. Long may that last.

"I don't get it though," she continues. "Why would he do this? And why are you here too?"

I explain what Mickey told me about who Uriov is and his connection to the story I've been working on. I leave out the part where Max is also Russian mafia because that just complicates things.

Max loves me.I refuse to believe Max has anything to do with this mess Jane and I are in. He's not the bad guy.

"So he's involved with people trafficking?" Jane pales when I nod. From the look of horror on her face, she connects the dots and sees what we're facing. I could sugarcoat it but what's the point? There's no point in pretending this is a hotel and we can check out anytime we like.

"Is this fuckery why James' car was bombed?"

"I think so, yes." Anatoly seems like the kind of upstanding citizen who'd think nothing of killing a poor innocent man to get at someone else. He'd also have the kind of resources needed to pull off a car bomb at the last minute, as there's no way James' car was targeted for any other reason, and our visit to the shelter was only arranged the previous day.

"Fuck, Nat, I can't believe you've gotten caught up in all this shit."

Now that the initial panic has receded, she sounds a bit stronger. More like my friend. It gives me hope that we can get through this.

"I'm so sorry, Jane. If it wasn't for me, you'd be sitting at home right now, watching Selling Sunset and eating chocolate."

She snorts. "I've gotten into Selling Beverly Hills. Mauricio Umansky is hot. And he's getting divorced so he's currently single!"

"Better husband material than a psychotic Russian Mafia asshole, then," I comment with a dry laugh.

"Fuck yeah."

Neither of us have much to say after that. We huddle up together on the dirty mattress and I try not to think about what Uriov has planned.

Nothing good, I'm sure.