“I grew tired of simple killing,” he said, voice smooth, almost thoughtful. “It becomes boring and predictable.” He shrugged lightly. “Twenty-one of you were sent. Highly trained. Very expensive.” His eyes flicked briefly to the guards lining the walls. “And now eighteen are fertilizer in Greek soil.”
The words landed one by one, like slow hammer blows.
“It seemed...” He paused, as if searching for the right word. “...wasteful to end the last three so quickly. Far better to drain them first—information, fear, whatever was left to take.” His mouth curved into a thin, knowing smile. “And to enjoy the process while doing so.”
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
My wrists burned where the zip ties bit deeper as my muscles strained uselessly against them.
“Don’t touch the girls,” I said. The plea tore out of me before I could stop it, raw and unfiltered. “Please.”
He tilted his head, studying me with mild curiosity—like an entomologist examining an insect pinned to cork.
“You mean I should not violate them?” he asked.
The word hit like a slap.
It was blunt. Unadorned. Delivered without shame or heat.
My stomach lurched.
I swallowed hard, bile burning the back of my throat.
Chapo extended his open palm without looking away from me.
Instantly, a pack of Marlboro Reds was placed into his hand by a guard who moved before the gesture was even complete.
Another stepped in with a gold lighter, shielding the flame with his palm against a wind that didn’t exist in this sealed underground room.
Chapo leaned forward slightly, inhaled, the cigarette tip flaring orange.
He exhaled slowly, smoke curling toward the ceiling.
“Do whatever you want with me,” I said, hating the way my voice cracked, hating that I sounded desperate. “Torture me. Kill me. Take pieces off if that’s what you want.” My chest heaved. “Just leave them alone.”
His eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with interest.
“I know the young one is your sister,” he said casually. “Amy Baranov.”
My heart slammed so hard I thought it might break my ribs.
He made a different gesture this time—a slow, deliberate circle of his index finger.
The heavy metal door at the far end of the room creaked open.
Two guards dragged her in.
My world tilted.
Amy’s dark hair hung in tangled strands across her face, loose from its tie.
Her breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling too fast, but she was upright—moving under her own power.
Her clothes were still intact: tank top, cargo pants. No rips. No blood staining her torso. No visible injuries beyond dirt and bruises earned in the fight.
She’d fought.
Her eyes found mine for a split second.
