“Got her.”
I try to scream, but shock locks my throat. Worse, my limbs won’t obey my orders.
Scarred Cheek hauls my limp body up. My skull crashes against the door frame, and white spots burst behind my eyelids.
The other guy comes into wobbling view. He’s got crooked teeth and a crooked nose. A face that’s taken several beatings. But clearly not enough for him to change his job.
My vision swirls as they drag me across the street, one on either side, lugging me like a sack of potatoes.
They pin me to a wall, where brick grinds into my spine. The impact rattles my teeth.
The scarred man’s throbbing veins hinder my vision, his red-rimmed eyes wild as he wets his lips and spit flecks my cheek. “Why is Khitrenko interested in you?” A blade appears in his hands, which he presses against my throat.
The word “Khitrenko” means nothing. But that cold, sharp edge on my flesh means everything.
My legs still refuse to work right, and I can just picture myself stumbling and slicing my own throat. “You have the wrong person. I don’t know what Khitrenko?—”
The blade digs in with a burn as blood trickles down my neck.
My blood. Their questions. Fear floods my system as the knife waits for an answer I can’t give. Each heartbeat in my ears reminds me of what I might lose. The taste of oily air could be my last.
“Kirill Khitrenko!” Garlic-scented spittle splatters across my face. “What does he want?”
They know Kirill?
Panic pushes my throat just as much as the blade. These men inspire a different kind of terror than Kirill did. With him, it was the distant but obvious threat. A shiny blade honed to mesmerize.
These men are reckless, violent, and impatient. Nothing compared to the shark I’ve spent the last week with. They’re hyenas circling, afraid to act on their own.
When the knife slides up my neck, chills run down my back to my tattered legs.
The subterfuge I used on Kirill won’t work on these guys. But I can play up rather than obscure my fear. “If you’re talking about that tall man who attacked me on Sunday, I don’t…know. I don’t know anything. I’m telling you?—”
The crooked partner with empty hands and roving eyes grunts out a jagged laugh. “Throw her in the van. We’ll make her talk in private.”
Van?
I spy the second vehicle parked down at the mouth of the alley. Two dark-haired men stand by the doors, their eyes darting in a way that marks them as lookouts.
No. No. No.
The word skitters through my mind, skipping like a scratched CD.
My brain detaches from my body as they pull me forward. My legs barely budge. My arms dangle. I should claw, kick, and scream.
Instead, terror severs the connection between brain and muscle.
This is worse than the safe house with its clinical threats and silent, chilling surveillance. With Kirill, I feared for my soul.
Here, my life’s in immediate danger. Every rough grip and shove promises violation, hurt, and a kind of violence that has no sense and a voracious appetite.
Phut.
The pop of a plastic bag flicks at my ears.
Phut.
Again.
