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Sander was on the elevator heading down, the men returned to stand guard with the others.
    “All right then. This just got easier,” Mattias said. He pushed up from his lean. “Have her transferred as we discussed,” he ordered the leader. “Report to me as soon as she's gone in the morning.”
    “Yes sir.” The leader gestured to the man closest to Chey's chair.
    “Let's go, Princess,” the man said. He hauled Chey to her feet with a rough grasp of her elbow. His taunt over a title she would never have drew a derisive laugh from the others. The men snorted and muttered unkind things about how much time she would soon be spending on her back.
    Swallowing bile, Chey stabbed a hot look of anger at Mattias. He smirked with half his mouth, apparently nonplussed at the accusation in her gaze.
    Two of the men escorted Chey out of the suite, past the foyer and the elevator bank, to a locked door leading to the utility staircase. One produced a key and guided her onto a dimly lit landing.
    They were taking no chances allowing her anywhere near the public or other hotel employees. She started down the metal stairs; thirty-five floors seemed an impossible descent in these heels. Stumbling, one of the men snarled, gripped her elbow tighter, and righted her balance.
    “Try anything funny and you will eat a bullet,” he said. “Messy dead bodies or not.”
    Chey decided Sander had the right of it, and remained silent. She concentrated on getting down the steps one at a time without falling and breaking her neck. At some point, her hands had started shaking. The nausea was worse, causing an uncomfortable lump of bile to rise up the back of her throat.
    What would happen now? Would Sander call for reinforcements once he was in the hotel lobby? She'd been surprised that the men had allowed him to go free, with no escort and no guard. Perhaps that would have been too risky, given Sander's propensity for self defense. Or, maybe, they thought he would do exactly as commanded to keep her safe. By the time he left Latvala after being exiled, she would be too far gone for Sander to find.
    After three floors, one of the men guided her into one of the utility elevators only used by hotel employees. The gunmetal gray interior lacked the polish and opulence of the others used by guests. It was a spartan carriage with plain buttons and bare metal walls.
    Chey watched the numbers illuminate on their way down. It didn't stop until a light pinged on over a button marked G. The doors opened onto a broad basement garage obviously sectioned off for special deliveries. Here there were vans and sedans with the hotel logo on the doors instead of luxury vehicles that might have belonged to guests. That section was somewhere out of sight, likely accessed by the V.I.P. parking attendants rather than regular customers.
    Screaming would do her no good here. Even if she did shout in the hope of attracting an employees attention, she feared another blow to the head might knock her completely out. She wanted to be aware and coherent so she could memorize the route the men took.
    Bustled toward a waiting van, the men paused long enough to secure her wrists in front of her with a length of thin rope. After the sliding side door opened, she found herself pushed into a seat. At every opportunity, she looked for escape. Waited for their attention to divert just enough to make a break. A break that never came. The men hovered too close, smothered her with their bodies, guns openly displayed.
    Upright in the seat, Chey wondered where she would be taken from here. Blinking away the sting of tears, she focused instead on her anger. Anger helped keep the panic at bay. There was still time. Sander would reorganize, find help, and locate her before any transfer took place in the morning. Never mind that she didn't intend to be a passive participant. There would be an opportunity, at some point, and she intended to exploit it for all she was worth. The men would get