Prisoner Mine by Megan Mitcham Page A

like a crocodile. “You are.”
    “Na.”
    “Oh, I’m great. Thanks for asking,” Coen panted.
    They pushed ahead on seasoned legs, falling into a fast even pace, covering ample ground. But not ample enough. Tires squealed behind them.
    Zeke bailed left into an alley and pulled Greer with him. Several long strides in, his gaze deadened into a brick wall. His gaze shifted, looking for a way out. They collectively slowed. The roar of the approaching engine grew.
    “Fish in a barrel.” Coen danced on the balls of his feet.
    He refrained from telling the bloke to sod off, mainly because his attention locked on an alcove a few feet away. Zeke shifted the rifle onto his back. “There.”
    They crowded into the shallow space and stilled.
    The rumble reached a pinnacle. Greer’s hand moved to her sidearm, while Zeke tried the door knob. It didn’t budge. He pulled a multi-tool from his belt and worked blindly on the lock.
    When the engine revved on down the street Zeke, turned, worked the mechanism, and opened the door.
    “They left.” Coen tossed his arms wide and cocked his wrists in question.
    Greer followed him into the back of a furniture manufacturer based on the amount of wood, fabric, and stuffing cluttering the place.
    When Coen stepped inside Zeke launched himself at the man. He double fisted his collar, yanked him forward, planted his feet, and popped his hip. Coen grabbed Zeke’s wrists, but hit the floor before he could do anything.
    “What are you doing?” Greer shrieked.
    Zeke smashed his forearm into Coen’s throat, pinned his legs with his own, and jerked down his shirt. Bright colors and the elaborate design of the Kremlin’s tallest cupola decorated the center of his chest. The black outline continued under the fabric.
    “No.” Greer stepped back and covered her shock with a hand.
    “It’s not what you think,” Coen choked.
    “Never is, is it?” Zeke patted him down expecting to find a wire or at the very least a gun. He found a cell phone, which looked almost as bad. He tossed it to Greer.
    She removed the battery and smashed the device into splintered pieces.
    “Why weren’t you on the line?” Zeke hopped to his feet and put himself between Greer and Coen.
    The ponce hacked and sputtered. He rolled onto his side and wheezed breaths with his cheek against the sawdust covered floor. Finally he clambered to his hands and knees.
    “I had an in with them.” His head lifted. That murky gaze found Zeke, and then Greer. “Before you started disappearing like planes in the Bermuda.” He patted his chest. “They trusted me, but when you two came into question I did too bec—”
    “Because we all started about the same time.” Greer supplied.
    “Don’t.” Zeke shot her a warning glare.
    She glared back.
    “Yes. Two weeks wasn’t enough lag time between our starting for them not to get suspicious,” Coen answered.
    “How’d they—” she started.
    “Greer,” Zeke yelled.
    “Then ask some damn questions.” Her arms knotted across her middle.
    “I will when he finishes answering the first one,” he explained.
    “They asked me if I was loyal to Stas. If I was willing to prove it,” Coen continued.
    “What made them suspicious in the first place?” Zeke demanded.
    Coen lifted a palm. “I don’t know. I asked. They told me to mind my own business or I’d join you.”
    “Did you prove your loyalty by selling us out?” Greer snarled.
    “No.” Coen looked at Greer a little too long for Zeke’s piece of mind. Zeke stepped closer, commanding his attention. “I got a stupid tattoo and they let me run the floor. I just drove a delivery truck before.”
    Zeke’s lifted a brow. “So you weren’t held against your will?”
    “I was, but I was told it was for my own good, for the good of the brotherhood.” He braced a hand on the wall behind him and stood.
    “The Stas would have to kill me before they tattooed that shit on my skin. And corpses weren’t worth tattooing.”