22
Conor pulled up to the gate. The guard shuffled over. “What the hell you want?”
“Caught this one trying to escape from one of the other drop houses,” Conor said in his best American accent. “Boss man told me to bring her here.”
“No one told me nothing.”
Conor shrugged. “Don’t believe me? Call Mr. Volkov, though I’m told he’s wining and dining some bigwig Arab clients.” He pronounced it “Ay-rab,” and it was all I could do not to laugh. “I wouldn’t disturb ’em if I was you.”
“Please don’t do this,” I pleaded, playing the part. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Shut the hell up!” Conor slammed me across the face hard enough to make me see stars. I tasted blood.
Conor’s unexpected punch triggered long-forgotten memories. The trauma of getting pounded into a b****y pulp at my hi
