AMIRA, Matthew Betley [best books to read in life txt] 📗

ALSO BY MATTHEW BETLEY

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AMIRA

A Logan West Universe Novella

By Matthew Betley

For the readers who’ve kept Logan West alive

and kept me going, this one’s for you.

Prologue

Smack!

Amira Cerone’s pale blue gunslinger eyes fluttered open, and her heart raced with panic as she looked around the room in confusion.  Her mouth was dry, but her body re-routed her attention to the wave of nausea that rolled upwards from the pit of her stomach.  She felt the room spin, and she closed her eyes to fight the dizziness.  On the verge of throwing up, she inhaled deeply until the sharp edge of nausea subsided.  That’s one small relief.  But then her touch sense kicked into overdrive, which was when she realized her arms were bound behind her.  What the hell is going on? she thought as her eyes flew open a second time to assess her situation.

Two dark-skinned people stood before her, calmly studying her actions.  A man, the one who’d struck her, stared at her, smiling in a cold way that unnerved her more than the bindings on her wrists.  She estimated his height at just under six feet, but he weighed no more than one hundred and seventy pounds, and that was giving him the benefit of the doubt. His light gray suit worn over a white shirt with a deep blue tie hung from his frame, accentuating his lankiness.  His face was all angles, as if carved from granite until nothing was left but gashes for his eyes, nose, and mouth.  His head was shaved in a buzz-cut, the black hair cut to less than a quarter of an inch as if it were his first day at boot camp.  The austere visage was completed by brown eyes that mimicked the coldness of his smile.  Had she passed him on the street, she would’ve thought he was an unhappy accountant, a man who felt discontent in any profession.

“Tell her,” the woman behind him said in an African accent.  “Tell her, now.”

Amira’s glance shifted, and she studied the woman who’d spoken, her training powering back up with every new moment of consciousness.  She was at least a half foot shorter than her partner, but unlike he, the woman wore a dark suit that highlighted her amazing physique in all the right places.  With thick black hair, braided and tied into a ponytail, her features were softer than the man’s, high cheekbones and full lips that invited lustful attention.  But unlike the man, there was no smile.  Only contempt, contempt that couldn’t be disguised through feigned politeness.  Wonderful.  A dynamic duo.  John would love this, her mind snapped, fixing on the man who’d become the love of her life, John Quick.  No time for distractions.  Whatever this is, it isn’t good.  Focus, stay calm, and assess your surroundings. 

Amira glanced around and realized she was in a hotel room.  Taupe drapes were drawn across the windows to her left.  She was bound to a sturdy chair, which had been positioned between two queen-size beds, their luxurious white comforters still folded back crisply as if the cleaning crew had departed moments ago.  The entire room was decorated in shades of tan and brown, tastefully and with purpose.  A flat-screen TV stood on a dresser behind the woman, and a doorway to the right of the dresser led to another room.  To the right of the door was the typical bathroom area in an alcove that Amira assumed led to a bathroom behind the wall to her right.  Okay.  I’m in some kind of suite.  But what hotel? If I can figure that out, I’ll be ahead of the game. 

“You’re in the Gaylord National Hotel in a suite on the top floor,” the man said politely, as if he were a concierge providing information to a guest who’d just arrived in the lobby.

The Gaylord?  That meant the main room had at least one balcony that overlooked the massive glass cathedral-style atrium and the multi-tiered indoor lobby that was more like a shopping village with its abundant restaurants, stores, and coffee shops.

Amira brought her gaze back to the man, and her mind attempted to shake off the effects of whatever drug they’d used on her.  This isn’t good.  He doesn’t care that you know.  That means he doesn’t think you’re getting out of this room, ever. 

“Who are you?” Amira asked, her speech slightly slurred.

“It’s the effect of the Rohypnol.  I’m sorry about the dosage, but we had to get it just right, enough to impair you after you left the restaurant but not kill you or knock you out for hours.  It made you just vulnerable enough once you reached the parking garage.  The combination of chloroform from the rag and the drug I’m sure isn’t pleasant, but it beat the alternative.  Trust me,” the man said, the cold smile broader.

“Which was?”

“Killing you right away,” the man said with no emotion.  Just the facts, ma’am.  Just the facts.  The words from the old police show hammered other images into her head, her father, a retired DC homicide detective, dying in her arms more than ten months ago.  The sudden sucker punch of grief slammed into her gut, but she fought it off as she’d been doing since the day of his murder, building her defenses a little stronger with each random emotional attack.  Focus, Amira, Nick Cerone’s voice whispered inside her head.  Yes, Daddy, she thought, love and anguish mixed in her mind.  She shut the feelings down and breathed as each inhalation calmed her racing thoughts.

“Sounds like I’m a lucky girl,” Amira replied, a note of resistance and sarcasm in her voice.

The woman moved forward so quickly Amira barely had time to