Stolen Jewel by Alexis Abbott
Stefan
You would be amazed to find how easy it is to get away with certain crimes. Well, the majority of crimes, in my experience. For example, breaking and entering is child’s play. You would be surprised how many people simply leave their doors and windows unlocked at night. I can’t fathom it, the idea of living without paranoia. Without the expectation of adversaries lurking around every corner just waiting for a lapse in vigilance to attack. But optimism is a luxury I’ve never been able to afford. I can’t let my guard down that way. A life spent looking over my shoulder and double-bolting doors has taught me that. For me, there’s always going to be another nemesis, another battle. So, I’ve had to learn the tricks of the trade.
Picking a pocket in a crowd, slipping through a cracked window or jiggly side door under cover of night, sneaking up behind an unsuspecting enemy to press my blade to his throat before he even realizes I’m there: these are all skills I had to develop from a young age. Just part of the life I was thrust into. Youth is supposed to be a time of freedom, adventure, measured risks with ample rewards. Pushing the boundaries of the little world you grew up in, but still enveloped by the safety of that world. With parents, teachers, and community all conspiring happily together to keep you safe from harm. Protected from any true hardship. True conditioning. It always struck me, as a young man, to think about that Other Life. The one never offered to me, the one I could never fully grasp because it felt so alien to my own. Around the world, there were teenage boys throwing parties, landing a first kiss, and learning about biology or math or how to read a poem properly. But my experience could not have been more different back then.
The skills I picked up aren’t the type you learn in any school I’ve heard of. The people who brought me up did so with discipline, not love. And the outcome of all that cold, loveless training is evident in me, in every decision I make and step I take. Confidence is integral to my ability to stay alive. I can’t hesitate when a target steps into my crosshairs. It may be my only shot, and it’s kill or be killed. I can’t lie awake at night, agonizing over the horrors I’ve seen and the violence I’ve caused. My days are hard, and I need every wink of sleep I can get. But at the same time, I have to sleep with one eye open, at least metaphorically. I trust no one, and no one fully trusts me. It’s the only way I’ve ever known.
Perhaps this is not the life I would have chosen for myself. But as I sit in this stolen car with my hands perfectly relaxed on the steering wheel, driving deep into the woods with a human life as cargo, I have to wonder what it says about me that these nefarious skills come so naturally. I imagine most people would feel some remorse, at least some discomfort about the dark things I’ve been asked to do. The truth is, I can usually push away those nagging questions about whether or not I’m doing the right thing. I just assume I’m not. It’s easier that way. I do bad things for bad people, and usually I can accept that.
Still, this mission is...different.
Getting into the car and lying in wait to ensnare my human prey in her clacky heels and pretty dress was easier than most such ambushes I’ve had to perform. But usually, my target is a man with blood on his hands. Some lackey who wouldn’t think twice about killing me. I’ve never had to go after a civilian like this, especially not a woman. I’ve kept my hands clean of what I consider the bratva’s dirtiest work by proving myself skilled enough to stay among the hardened men who would stab me in the back without a moment’s hesitation. But over time, the bosses have figured out my only weakness: I don’t like this kind of dirty work. In their eyes, that’s a problem. Weakness must be forced out by whatever means necessary.
That’s why they assigned me to kidnap this girl.
The only reason I accepted is because if I were to pass it up, the bratva would only assign someone far less gentle than me for the job. I don’t trust these men enough for that; so much so that I choose to work alone. I don’t need backup, anyway. More men means more bodies, more potential for betrayal.
The fewer people who know where we are, the better. Right now, that’s just me. It’s a liberating realization, that for a brief window of time, I’m almost free. Almost. But obligation ties me to the cargo in my trunk.
I see the silhouette of a deer bound across the road far up ahead, and I’m starting to see more stars in the clear night’s sky, telling me I’m getting farther and farther away from civilization. It will be a shock for her.
I do my homework before a job, especially a high-profile one like this. I know more about this girl than she would like. Jewel Albany, the young woman bound up in the trunk, seems to have lived a very comfortable life so far. Her father is an ICE agent on the take, and I have a feeling that bratva bribes probably helped pay for that fancy law degree she’s working on. Law school is no picnic in the park, so she’s most likely a hard worker, and I have no plans to underestimate her tenacity or intelligence. I can imagine that her beauty distracts from how smart she probably is. But that doesn’t mean this brat won’t be a pain in the ass at best, or a liability at worst. All my research still can’t fully prepare me for her personality. Her reactions to being captured and held against her will. Nobody takes well to those circumstances, but whether she’ll be a puddle of tears or a wildcat with claws is yet to be seen. I’ll know more when she awakens.
It’s deep into the night when I turn the engine off in front of the safehouse far in the woods. I don’t know how long this will be my home base, but it’s stocked for months, and I know how to lie low. This place has long been abandoned and partly overgrown on the exterior, not that much of it is even visible this close in the darkness. It’s nothing much to look at in the light, either. Every sorry inch of the place is familiar to me.
It’s perfect.
And with my recent renovations, there will be no chance for Miss Albany to escape. That’s the most important part. For me, this is a temporary home, but for her it’s more of a cage. I calmly take the binding ropes out from the back seat to prepare to do what needs to be done. As I walk around back to the trunk, I wonder how my new, unwilling housemate will fare.
I loop the rope over my muscular forearm and reach for the key to pop the trunk. I never asked for her, but she’s mine now. But I remind myself that if she weren’t, she’d be in the hands of someone far, far worse.
* * *
The remainder of the night passes slowly. I usually sleep well, but for some reason, I toss and turn. Still, I rise before dawn. The sun has just begun to carry light into the kitchen to find me bent over a stove, moving scrambled eggs and chopped maple sausage around in the frying pan. I hear the toaster pop behind me, two perfect slices of wheat toast steaming and fragrant. I smear a generous amount of butter on the hot toast and tip the eggs onto two plates. Some of this high-protein breakfast is for me, but some of it is for my new guest.
Jewel will wake up soon, and it’s time to make introductions.
Of course, I’m under orders to keep her starved for the first day so that she’s ‘easier to work with,’ but she doesn’t need to know that, and my bosses don’t need to know that I’m forgoing their instructions. I’m feeding her because hungry people do foolish things, and a cooperative one is easier to keep secret. I have no wild expectations of building a real connection with her. She’s still my captive, my assignment. But I don’t want her to get the idea in her head that braving the wilderness is safer than staying with me. Not only would her escape be trouble for me, but there’s no way a girl like her would survive long in the deep woods. So, it’s in everyone’s best interests to approach her with some softness. She will respond better to friendliness than fear.
Leaving my own plate in the microwave for now, I carry Jewel’s plate of sausage, eggs, and toast down the rickety stairs to the old basement. I wait at the door, holding my breath while I close off all other senses and simply listen. I hear the distant chirp of birds outside, the rustle of wind through the tree branches. Through the basement door, I can only detect the faint, rhythmic pull and sigh of Jewel’s breath as she sleeps. My shoulders relax a little. I’m careful to avoid any jangling as I slowly fit the key into the basement lock and give it a turn. There’s a soft click, and the door parts open just enough for me to peek inside.
The sight before me sucks all the air from my lungs. The girl is lying across the rudimentary bed with one leg pulled up and the other stretched out. Her free arm is tucked underneath the single pillow, while the other is handcuffed to the metal headboard. I can see the dried tracks of tears on her cheeks. She must have woken from her drugged haze last night, semi-conscious just long enough to be frightened before she cried herself back to sleep. My heart, typically buried under a permafrost of unfeeling cold, twinges a little.
The safehouse is built into a slight hill, so that the basement room has one very narrow window near the ceiling. Strands of sunrise spill through the tiny window and cast across the bed, drenching Jewel in golden light. Her breasts rise and fall with her soft breathing. Her flimsy pastel dress exposes her long, shapely legs and a peek of her panties. I can’t look away. Her rich brown hair glistens in a messy halo around her head on the pillow. My eyes follow the curve of her cheekbones and the swell of those plush, full lips. Her long lashes flutter gently as her eyes move behind her eyelids. I wonder what she’s dreaming about. Is she in a warmer, kinder place right now? Would it be unduly cruel to wake her up to her harsh new reality?
I stop and remind myself of who her father is, and that the apple likely does not fall far from the tree. Freddie Albany is a terrible man, and I would do well to assume his progeny is just as awful. Even if she does look like a delicate angel sprawled across the bed with her own tears barely dry on her cherubic face. As I step into the room, she slowly starts to stir. I harden myself against her. She’s not my guest, she’s my captive, and I have to treat her accordingly.
When she first opens her eyes, she looks confused. Her hands move up to her head and she winces with pain. There’s a split second of trying to figure out where she is before her expressive green eyes land on me. They go wide and her mouth falls open in a silent scream. Still weak from her rough night and handcuffed to the bed, she scrambles to scoot as far from me as possible. She presses herself against the headboard and pulls her knees up to her chest, making herself small. She tries to lift her arms to shield herself, but she realizes her wrist is still cuffed, which causes her even more distress. Jewel looks over at me with pure terror in her eyes. She’s starting to hyperventilate as I step closer with the plate of food.
“St-stay away from me! Leave me alone!” she cries out bitterly.
I don’t say a word but walk closer. With every step she shrinks back more, until she’s basically climbing the headboard to get away from me. I keep my expression cold and unreadable as I set her plate down at the end of the bed.
“Eat. You’ll be here a while,” I tell her gruffly.
“Where am I? Who are you?” she asks in a trembling voice. “Why am I here?”
“You can blame your father, the ICE agent,” I reply pointedly.
Her lower lip quivers. “What did he do?” she asks.
“He arrested one of my colleagues. More than arrested him-- your daddy took him to a very, very bad place,” I go on.
Jewel shakes her head. “I don’t know anything about that, I promise!” she insists.
I wave my hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t have to know a thing. All I need for you to do is be a good girl for me. That, and hope your father is willing to negotiate.”
“Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone about you. I won’t even tell my dad,” Jewel pleads with me.
Her big green eyes are captivating, and it’s almost difficult to resist her. But if I can shoot a man dead without blinking an eye, I can definitely handle one beautiful, fragile young woman. I have to scare her enough to keep her at arm’s length. She needs the fear of death in her soul to deter her from doing anything stupid.
“You think it’s that simple?” I smirk. “You think I can just let you go after everything your father has done? No. Someone has to pay for his crimes, and if you don’t behave, that someone will be you.”
I stare at her a moment, letting the darkness of my threat sink in. I can see tears welling up in her beautiful eyes. I harden myself against her. I won’t let my heart be swayed.
“In the meantime, you will do exactly as I say. Get comfortable with this room, because it’s now your home. I will not tolerate disobedience or insolence. Make no mistake-- this is not a five-star hotel. This is a holding cell. However, I won’t starve you, and I won’t hurt you...unless you leave me no other choice. Do not push me to that point,” I warn her.
She gulps.
I continue on, gesturing vaguely toward the outside world.
“Out there, you may be a spoiled princess. Daddy’s little girl. But in here, you belong to me only. You are my prisoner, and you will abide by my rules,” I command.
“Please,” she begs. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m nothing like my father, I swear.”
“I know quite a lot about you, actually,” I reply, sauntering along the side of the bed.
With every step I take closer to the headboard, she pulls back. She’s straining away from me, her cuffed arm sticking straight out. A tear rolls down her cheek as she tilts her face up to look at me. I feel the strangest urge to cup her cheek, to caress her impossibly smooth skin. But instead, I stand taller and loom over her, using my formidable size to intimidate the girl.
“I’ve done my homework on you, Jewel Albany,” I growl. “And have you been doing your homework? How did you like your classes this semester? What about your teachers? Did you cover a situation like this in your law exams this week, little attorney?”
She’s stunned into silence as I reveal just how closely I’ve been monitoring her.
“You’re a good student. A fast learner, I bet. So, I’m hoping you’ll catch on quickly to the way things go around here,” I explain. “I don’t leave tracks. Nobody knows where you are. Nobody is coming to save you.”
“I’ll do whatever you want. Please, anything,” she whimpers as a fat tear rolls down her cheek and drops to the pillow in her arms.
“I’m not the one to bargain with,” I reply. “Your fate lies in your father’s hands.”
Somehow, this seems to be the most frightening thing I’ve said so far. Jewel goes ghostly pale and she starts breathing fast and hard. Her eyes flit around the room, a look of absolute horror on her face as my words sink in. Her mouth twists up and she buries her face in the pillow, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
Watching her dissolve into panicked weeping, I slowly back away out of the room. As I close and lock the basement door, I can still hear her crying. I feel a slight pull of guilt leaving her in tears like this, but it’s for her own good. And for the good of the bratva. It’s better that she feels afraid and hopeless; it will keep her from trying anything brave. I force myself to wrench away and go back upstairs. I walk into the kitchen and start picking at my breakfast, but suddenly I have very little appetite. Instead, I take out my phone and call my boss to check in.
The line rings three times, and then I hear Brusilov’s grimy voice answer, “Stefan.”
“I’m here. The deed is done. The girl is secure,” I report.
“Good. Very good.”
“Have the demands been sent to Freddie yet?” I ask him.
Brusilov gives a grunt of uncertainty and says, “It’s in the works.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means you should keep doing what you’re doing. Continue with the plan. You stay put, only leave when absolutely necessary. Do not allow this girl even a fraction of freedom or she will take it and run,” he says with disgust.
“I can handle her,” I retort.
“Good to hear, Stefan. Don’t be afraid to be firm with her. Show the girl that we mean business. A little fear never killed anyone. Make her understand that you are in control by whatever means necessary.”
Something about his wording makes me grimace.
“She’s not going anywhere on my watch,” I assure him.
He chuckles grimly. “I know you have a weakness for the fairer sex. Especially one so enticing. But you must show her the same cruelty you reserve for other missions.”
His words sting a little, but only because I know he’s right. I don’t enjoy harming women or any other innocents. That makes me too lenient by the bratva’s standards. But I brush it off.
“I’m on it, boss. You can trust me,” I assert.
“Good. Prove it,” Brusilov says, and promptly hangs up.
I tuck the phone in my pocket and, with one last lingering look toward the stairs to the basement, I stalk off to my own bedroom to clean my arsenal. I spend the day patching up the safehouse, getting it back to full working order after a period of disuse. I keep my hands busy. I don’t make another trip down today to see my captive. I want her to take the time alone to really consider the gravity of her position. I want to let that fear percolate and intensify in my absence. But although I keep away from her, I’m unable to keep my mind from wandering down the stairs and into that basement cell. I think about her dark chocolate hair and her emerald eyes. I replay the way the morning light danced across her body. By the time night falls and I retire to my bed for the evening, my head is so filled with thoughts of Jewel that I dream about her.
She’s on the other side of a door. I hear her crying. I keep trying to grab the handle to throw the door open and get to her, but my hands won’t work. The handle keeps disappearing, and Jewel cries and cries.
The next morning, I’m awoken with a bang from downstairs.
I jump to my feet and grab my gun, rushing down to the basement.