Behind us, the alley returns to darkness, hiding what happened until morning. By then, we’ll be long gone.
Chapter 4
Kirill
I drive through empty streets, choosing the ones without traffic cameras. Turning north, I navigate away from the city center. Away from the chaos we just left behind and territories controlled by families who might recognize my face or car.
I ignore the way my fingers itch from the blood drying on my knuckles.
Focus on the road.
For now, movement means safety. Keep moving, keep thinking, keep ahead of whoever sold us out. Find somewhere to question Jordan properly without gunfire or police sirens interrupting.
And figure out why looking at her gives me the strangest sense that I’ve missed a crucial piece, hidden in plain sight.
She’s frozen in the passenger seat, as still as prey while trying to avoid a hunter’s notice.
Even scared stiff, she never stops observing. Those bright green eyes examine everything, soaking in the road, the car, me.
Her heavy gaze weighs on me.
The stare itches more than the blood.
Ignore her.
I check the rearview and side mirrors. No headlights follow. Just darkness and the occasional sweep of streetlamps across her pale face. Five men dead or unconscious in the streets behind us. The message delivered.
Now I need answers.
We wind deeper into the industrial district, past abandoned factories with broken windows that gape like rotting teeth. Perfect hunting ground. No witnesses. No disturbances.
A shadowy concrete underpass where a bridge spans an access road leading to nowhere catches my eye.
I cut the wheel sharply, the tires crunching over gravel as I guide us into the blackness beneath the bridge. Water drips nearby, a steady metronome counting seconds in the gloom. I kill the engine but leave the key in the ignition.
Always be ready to move. That’s the first rule of survival.
A weighty silence settles between us.
Jordan pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around herself. I expect trembling. Crying, maybe.
Most people break after what she just saw. That’s the point of demonstration. Once you show what happens to those who resist, cooperation becomes the only sensible option.
But she’s crying.
Her breathing has slowed from the panicked gasps of earlier. Her eyes are closed, her lips moving in what might be a prayer. Or a mantra. One of those New Age things she sells to the desperate and gullible online.
I let the quiet do the work.
Second rule of survival. Patience. People fill silence with confession.
Her eyes snap open and focus on me with unnerving directness. Fear still pulls at the edges of her mouth. Her lower lip trembles.
Good.
“That was…” She gulps and tries again. “That was a high-consequence energetic exchange.”
What?
