Carefully, I get out of the van, followed by my team. Carter, Connor’s nephew, who is on his first rescue mission, stands to my left while two of my men cover me from right and behind. We all recheck our weapons and vests once Gavin gives us an all-clear. Crouching low, we march toward the building. I lead the group to the door, waiting for Gavin’s next instructions.
“There’s one man sitting on a chair, most likely drinking, some ten steps away from the door to your right. The second is moving around the chair, occasionally getting close to her.”
Fucker!
With quivering muscles and pounding heart, I give a go-ahead to my team and push the door with full force.
For some minutes, there’s just buzz of action and no thought.
I point my gun at the old, haggard thug. He is a low-lying piece of shit. A dirty jacket hangs on his shoulder, barely covering his bloated stomach.
“W-who the fuck are you?” he stutters in a drunk voice.
“You broke into my house but don’t know who I am?”
His face turns white in fear and his gaze shifts away from me.
That’s when I see her. Tied to a chair, her mouth covered with duct tape. Hair frizzed out, clothes torn. She looks at me with wide eyes, tears ready to spill.
Terror stabs my heart, my brain obsessing over the thought of what could have happened to her, and what has happened to her.
The old piece of shit makes a noise, pulling my attention back to him. I place my gun on his forehead. “Why the fuck did you take her?”
“That girl is not your daughter,” he states in a rough, scratchy Russian accent.
“No, she’s not.” I hit his head with the butt of my gun. “But that’s not what I asked. Who the hell hired you?” I hit him again.
He doesn’t say anything, instead collapses on the floor. He’s fucking wasted.
I stalk over to the younger guy, Carter’s gun pointed at his forehead. “I’m not gonna repeat the question.”
He looks at me in anger and then spits on the ground. “Fuck you.”
“Sorry. Not interested.” I kick his knee and he collapses to the floor with a cry.
“A name. I asked a name.” I kick him again before lifting him up by his collar. “I can do this all night. I need a goddamn name,” I hiss.
When he doesn’t reply, I shoot his kneecap.
“Stop. Stop. I’ll tell you.” He holds his leg and howls, “Mikhail Lebedev.”
I repeat the name in my head. But nothing jumps out.
“Why did he kidnap her?”
“I don’t know, okay? He just paid us to grab her.” The fucker weeps like a sissy. “But then he realized she isn’t your daughter. He asked his men to find out who she is to you. We only know that you fucked him real bad.” Whining like a child, he says, “Now let me go.”
“You broke into my house, walked into my daughter’s room, kidnapped my—her—friend tortured her, and you think I’ll let you walk away?”
I glance toward Clementine as Carter unties the ropes around her ankles. She closes her legs as soon as they are free. Her torn jeans pool on the chair underneath her.
Carter throws his jacket over her, covering her legs, before he unties her hands. Once free, she pulls the torn edges of her blouse and tries to cover herself.
I know no men on my team will think less of her. We have rescued women in much worse conditions. But it’s about her.
What this moment does to her dignity.
Thinking about it, I hit the second kneecap of the fucker lying on the ground. But that’s not enough. I kick him mercilessly, throwing all my anguish and hate into the hits.