The bullet pinged the metal step just above her head, barely missing her, and fell to the floor. Madison had lowered in time—barely—but slammed her knees into the concrete.

She spun and returned fire on her attacker.

Anatolli Belsky, one of the Russian mob's enforcers.

A noise now from behind her, at the top of the stairs, had her heart thumping. She was flanked, right in the middle of Anatolli and another assailant.

"Stop!"

Madison quickly faced the man, Sergey Evanoff, and pulled her trigger at the same time Anatolli got off another round.

Sergey cried out. He'd been struck and gripped his side, blood pouring between his fingers.

She froze. She could have been shot from behind. She was panting, trying to figure out her next move, but she hesitated just a second too long. Anatolli had moved in on her, and his gun was pressed to her head. The heat from the recently fired weapon was almost scalding.

"Drop the gun!" Anatolli barked.

She had no choice but to comply—for now. She set her Glock on a step.

Anatolli pulled her up by her hair, his fingers digging into her scalp.

"Let me go!" She squirmed and struggled against his hold, to no avail. He was much stronger than she was.

"Get up now! Or you die!"

She hesitated, then struck fast. She kicked the heel of her shoe into his instep and went to retrieve her gun. "Go to hell, you son of a bitch!"

He recovered quickly and jammed his gun against her harder. She stopped all movement.

"Just give me the word, Sergey!"

"No!" Sergey eased himself off the step he had perched himself on.

She swallowed hard. The delay in killing her meant only one thing—they would make her suffer until a bullet to the head seemed like a welcome escape.

Sergey inched toward her, nostrils flaring, teeth gritted, like a raging bull charging at a matador's waving red cape. Her only chance was to make another move for her gun, but there was no way she'd be able to get to it without securing holes in her head.

She began to lift her arms in surrender— A blinding pain raced up her left arm from her wrist and had her crying out. She must have slammed it on the stairwell. She raised her right hand.

Anatolli eased the pressure off the barrel.

"Get to your feet," Sergey hissed, then spat in her face.

An act meant to humiliate only fueled her rage. She'd personally see their entire operation come down. She rose to full height.

"Do you want me to kill her, boss?" Anatolli moved the gun barrel to her lower back. "Or I could aim for a sweet spot in her spine and watch her flop around like a fish."

"Enough!"

Anatolli lowered his gun.

Sergey spoke more words in Russian, and Anatolli linked her arms behind her back, holding them with his hands. Bile came up her throat as his meat hooks got ahold of her left wrist. Maybe she'd broken it.

Anatolli guided her up the stairs, with Sergey leading the way and grunting as if he struggled with each step.

She was taken to a fairly large office, but nothing about it was showy or meant to impress. Though it was unlikely many visitors were welcome here.

She took in the space. Only the basics. A simple executive desk, computer, monitor, wheeled chair, filing cabinets. On the wall, a framed map of the world and three clocks, set to different time zones.

Anatolli nudged her across the room, where Sergey opened a door. Anatolli shoved her inside, and she stumbled forward but caught her balance before falling.

A switch was flipped, and darkness morphed into blinding light. But as her eyes adjusted, fear coiled through her body. It was a concrete, windowless cell with a bloodstained floor and a drain. People had been murdered here, but not before they were violently tortured.

There was a chair in the middle of the room with shackles attached to its arms and legs, and a metal clasp at the top of the back that would fit around a person's neck.

She was already finding it hard to breathe. If she got into that chair, she'd die in that chair. "You're never going to get away with this," she ground out. She was a Major Crimes detective with the Stiles Police Department, and if something happened to her, the Russians would have the full force down their throats.

The Russians laughed.

"We get away with murder all the time." Sergey gestured toward Anatolli.

He took her phone, then proceeded to secure her wrists. Again, a fire of agony shot through her arm, and she winced. As he bent to slap the shackles closed around her ankles, she lifted her leg, connecting her knee with the cartilage of his nose.

Retaliation came swiftly. Anatolli smacked her across the face, torquing her neck. Her spirit so badly wanted to fight back, but her vision faded to black.

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