Prisoner Mine Read Online Free PDF Page B

crossed into Jersey. In Newark he dropped off the interstate, weaved through city streets to a garage in a sketchy part of town.
    He depressed a button and the bay door receded. They rolled into the dark. Another tap of the button closed the door behind them.
    “Just a minute.” Zeke opened the door, retrieved the gun from the center console, stuffed it into his waist band, and then walked five paces. His hand roved the rough brick wall until he found the lever.
    When he slid the metal rod to the upright position, lights blinded him for a fraction of a second. At the far parking spot slick black paint gleamed off the 1970 Barracuda he’d rebuilt from the ground up. A notch loosened on his nerves. Not a good thing when relaxed usually meant dead.
    “Come on.” Zeke clipped any hint of ease from his demeanor. He had a hell of way to go to clear his teammates and fix his mistakes.
    Raisa crawled from the car like a mouse at the mouth of its flooding burrow with a hawk circling overhead. While she examined her options Zeke moved the bags from the Royce’s trunk into his. He waffled at the trunk, but only for a second before pulling a pair of gym shorts with a draw string, a T-shirt, and a white business card with a single phone number in blunt black print at its center from his bag.
    The young woman clutched the top of the open car door. Her gaze shifted from a tour of the garage to Greer. When he closed the trunk she jumped. Those plastic shoes scuffed against the oil stained concrete. That scared, yet brave, dark brown gaze met his.
    Zeke walked to the back end of the Rolls and set the clothes—along with the key fob for the ridiculous car—on the Royce’s trunk. He patted his pockets and then pointed to the jacket.
    Raisa's head tilted in question.
    “On the inside pocket there is money.” Again he repeated the gesture, trying to compensate for the language barrier.
    She tugged the top of the jacket together, covering a hint of exposed cleavage before slipping her other hand beneath the fabric. When she pulled it out a single stack of hundreds lay in her palm. Raisa's throat worked on a swallow. Her hand trembled ever so slightly. The shoes danced from one sole to the other. After a ragged breath she extended the cash toward him.
    “No. It’s for you.” Zeke raised his hands. “Just for you.”
    That soulful brown gaze skittered to Greer.
    “I’m taking her.”
    The space between Raisa's brows furrowed.
    Zeke held the business card between his first two fingers and waited for Raisa to look at it. “You stay. Hide from Stas. In two weeks. Today is Friday. After Friday and another Friday, after two weeks hiding, call this number for help.”
    Shit, he hoped it would be over by then.
    Raisa looked at him as though he spoke a Martian language with his tongue hanging out his mouth to one side. He may as well have been, but damned if he could remember the days of the week in Russian.
    “Hide from Stas for two weeks. Two weeks, then phone this number.” He placed the card on top of the pile of clothes, and then grabbed the key fob. “Use the car, if you have to, but be careful. People will want to take it from you.”
    Again with the crinkled brow.
    Zeke added gestures. Who the hell knew if she’d gotten any of it. But right now it was the best he could do.
    He bowed his head.
    The young girl hugged her arms around herself and inclined her head.
    His gaze traveled from Raisa to Greer.
    “Friend?” Raisa pointed from him to Greer.
    Would the unconscious woman consider him a friend? Hell no. She would just as soon douse him with gasoline and strike the match, but right now, he was all she had. So, Zeke nodded.
    Raisa stepped back several paces.
    Zeke hefted Greer from the Rolls and strapped her into his car. He opened the garage, started the engine, and pulled out into the night. When he closed the large bay door Raisa still stood, squeezing her arms around herself.

3
    G reer surfaced to inordinately loud