Just a fraction of a heartbeat.
Then she looked away.
Guilt. Shame. Fear. All written in the tightness of her shoulders, the way she held herself rigid—as if bracing for something worse.
“We do not force ourselves on women,” Chapo said quietly, almost offended by the implication. “We have principles, Mr. Baranov.” He gestured lazily with the cigarette. “Your government calls us terrorists. Animals.” He gave a small, humorless smile. “But we have codes.”
The hypocrisy made my vision blur with rage.
“Then let them go,” I demanded. The words echoed hollowly in the room, stripped of power.
Chapo chuckled softly, shaking his head as if I’d asked for the impossible.
“No.”
He flicked ash to the floor, then nodded toward his men.
“Tie her.”
Amy stiffened instantly.
My lungs seized. “No—!” I shouted, thrashing against the pole. “Don’t you touch her! I’ll tell you everything you want—everything—”
The guards moved anyway.
Amy exploded into motion the instant the guards reached for her.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” she snarled, twisting violently, her knee snapping upward, heel striking bone.
One man grunted as she caught him square in the thigh. Another staggered when her elbow cracked against his jaw. For a heartbeat—just one—she looked unstoppable. Pure fury wrapped in muscle and defiance.
Then reality crushed her.
The men were built like concrete slabs—thick necks, steroid-swollen arms, bodies hardened by violence and repetition.
One caught her wrist mid-swing and twisted, forcing a cry from her throat. Another seized her by the shoulders and drove her backward with brutal force.
They slammed her into the metal chair opposite me.
The impact rang through the room like a gunshot.
Amy gasped as the air was knocked from her lungs.
She fought anyway—kicking, bucking, teeth bared like an animal caught in a snare. It took all three men to force her arms behind the chair’s backrest. Coarse rope scraped skin as they bound her wrists tight, looping it again and again until circulation slowed and angry red welts bloomed. They tied her ankles next, rope biting deep, anchoring her to the chair until movement became impossible.
Still she fought.
Her shoulders strained, muscles trembling, breath coming in sharp, furious gasps.
Sweat beaded along her hairline, streaking through camo paint. But she would not look at me.
I knew why.
She blamed herself with every fiber of her being.
For disobeying a direct order from a superior.
For kicking that door open.
