I could.
The fact remained that Icouldkill these nameless fuckers who’d kidnapped me. After many years of being trained in combat, martial arts, and numerous other methods of self-defense, I was skilled enough to evade my captors. It wouldn’t be easy because I was outnumbered, but it was feasible.
The van swerved sharply, then countered in a longer, gradual turn the other way. Skidding over the grimy floor, my body followed the momentum of the van as it sped on. Bile rose up my throat, but I didn’t swallow hard. The fewer movements I made, the less these assholes would think that I was awake.
Breathe through it.
Endure it.
Tough it out.
Just a little longer.
I’d been repeating the lines of that mantra for weeks now. Just over a month ago, I was snatched in broad daylight by masked men I couldn’t identify. During my entire time being held captive, I reminded myself to stay strong, to grin and bear it despite the confidence that I could kill them and get away.
Bumps over a rockier part of pavement came next, jolting me with small hits and rocks as I lay seemingly unconscious.
They’d beaten me at the last location I was held. That was the pattern. Take me somewhere new, beat me, then move me again. Every time I was relocated, this fucking filthy bag went over my head and obscured my vision.
This last place, they’d attacked me so endlessly that I couldn’t have tried to fake passing out. I was out cold, only to—again—wake up in this van, on the move.
Pretending that I was unconscious was only one of my tricks of the trade. As the best spy for my family, I relied on a variety of skills to get whatever intel I could. And that was exactly why I refrained from getting away.
“You think he’s out?” one of the men asked from the front, probably the passenger seat from the direction of where his voice came.
No accent.
No familiar tone.
I cursed how often these men switched and rotated. These were no amateurs, aware of not letting me pick up on any predictable clue.
“Yeah. I’m surprised he’s alive,” another man, probably the driver, said.
I rolled my eyes, knowing the coarse fabric of his bag over my head would hide my reaction. Making that facial expressionhurt, though. Courtesy of the punches I’d taken, my skin ached and swelled. Still, I didn’t make any noticeable movement they could pick up on. Letting myself look like a sleeping bag of bones would allow me more time to listen.
But how much longer?
Being kidnapped pissed me off. I bet that being captured would bother just about any sane person, but it wasn’t like this was my first rodeo. I’d been captured before. I’d previously let myself be taken so I could get closer to the enemy and spy—much like how I was treating this experience. When I was still a young boy, I was taken and held captive with two of my brothers. That ordeal had lasted over a month as well, and it served as my first lesson of how not to panic when held hostage.
I wasn’t anywhere near panic now.
Only annoyance.
Frustration.
Impatience.
Because no matter how many days passed, I was no closer to knowing who had ordered this. These men who beat me and transported me weren’t the ones I needed to end. They were lackeys, independently hired hitmen and contractors who did the dirty work anonymously. Even though they covered my face and I seldom had a chance to see the fuckers who were in charge of constantly relocating me, I knew that much.
These men weren’t members of the Kozlov Family. They weren’t the Romanos. And I doubted they were part of the cartels or motorcycle gangs.
Nope. These assholes were hired hands, and I was getting really sick and tired of that distance.
I had to know who ordered my capture. I needed to know which enemy was signing their death sentence by having me taken and held. With all the incidents happening at home with my family, this had to be just one more strike against us.
First, Father was poisoned.
Then, another attempt to kill him.
