Page 112 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

But I wasn't scared.

What came faster than fear was understanding. I understood what he'd been trying to do.

And now, I couldn't be his weakness. I had to get out. I had to leave.

I pressed my wrists together, the protruding bones grinding against the rusted edge of the metal frame, and started sawing back and forth.

The rough rust scraped against the surface of the zip tie, making a faint grinding sound. It cut into the skin of my wrists. Blood seeped out. I didn't stop. Not once.

About ten minutes later, the tie snapped. My hands came free.

I bit down hard and bent forward to work on the ties around my ankles.

This time was faster. I dug my nails under the locking tab and pried it open bit by bit. The edge of the tie sliced into my fingertip. Blood stained the clear plastic strip.

I stood. My legs were weak from being tied so long. I leaned against the wall for a few seconds, waited for the blood to circulate again, then started moving.

I rifled through the pile of junk in the corner—old wooden crates, a coil of rusted wire, a few discarded metal parts. Finally, behind one of the crates, I found a length of iron pipe about half an arm long. One end was flattened, the edge jagged, like it had been torn off some piece of machinery.

I tested the weight. It would do.

I tucked it into the back of my waistband, pulled my shirt over it, and walked to the door. I pressed down on the handle.

It wasn't locked.

I pushed the door open, slipped out sideways, and eased it back to its original angle.

The hallway was long. A few overhead lights flickered on and off, casting uneven patches of light and shadow across the floor.

I stayed close to the wall, every step landing in the dark.

Voices drifted up from the far end of the hall—someone talking downstairs in Russian, casual, like they were shooting the breeze. Then I heard something closer. A voice coming fromone of the rooms down the corridor. Gary, on the phone. He was keeping his voice low, but the hallway was too quiet. The words still reached me.

"She won't cooperate. Yeah, she knows. When are you guys wrapping this up? I don't want to stay here anymore."

I pressed my back against the wall. Didn't move.

Then the whole building shook. A dull thud came from outside, transmitted through the walls and floor, like something heavy had slammed into a door.

Gary's voice cut off. Then more sounds erupted—gunshots. Short. Rapid. Like a string of firecrackers thrown into an empty warehouse.

Shouts surged up from below, Russian and English tangled together, frantic and broken.

Then came the sound of footsteps—coordinated, heavy, like a lot of people moving at once. The gunfire didn't stop, but it wasn't as dense as before.

When Gary saw me, he froze.

Then his expression changed—he yanked a short blade from his pocket. Black handle. The edge flashed in the dim hallway light.

He charged at me, trying to grab my wrist, drag me in front of him.

I took a step back. My spine hit the wall. Nowhere left to go.

I watched him come at me. His eyes were wide, full of panic and desperation.

He pointed the blade at me. I gripped the pipe behind my back and swung it out when he was half an arm's length away. The flattened end struck his hand. The knife clattered to the floor.

He flinched; his footing faltered. I swung again, hitting his shoulder. He staggered sideways.