51
SASHA
I wake up with a jolt,the back of my head pounding like a jackhammer. I open my eyes to find myself sitting in a chair, my wrists and ankles tied up tightly with rope.
I try to move, but it’s no use—the knots are too tight to escape.
Fear courses through my veins as realization slowly sets in—I’ve been kidnapped.
A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a dull yellow glow across the empty warehouse. The place is dark, and it’s the only source of light, that and a single ray of moonlight coming from a tiny window up high near the ceiling.
With my limited vision, I can make out the walls and a faint outline of an enormous metal shelf.
Sweat runs down my forehead as terror takes hold.
In the dead silence of this place, all I can hear is the sound of my own erratic breathing.
My heart feels like it’s beating faster until it feels like it might burst right out of my chest.
I frantically search for any sign or clue that might tell me who brought me here and why.
Then I remember…
The Russians.
The man from the picture that Gideon asked me about.
He was there, in my apartment.
Tightness spreads through my chest. I’m suffocating. The stale and musty air makes it hard to breathe.
My heart races as fear takes over me. Fear of what could come next, fear of the unknown.
I try to move my legs, but they are tightly bound to the chair, so I can’t even struggle properly against them.
Approaching footsteps have me stopping my movements.
“Are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?” The voice is low and menacing—sending chills down my spine like icy fingers tapping on glass windows.The man is still shrouded in darkness, and I can’t make out his face.
All I can do is sit wide-eyed, his question lingering in the air between us as he stares me down, waiting for an answer.
Words stick in my mouth. “Can I have some water?”
His jaw is taut, and his next words are gritted through his teeth. “Where is the money?”
“I already told you. I don’t have the money. I never did. Roman was a liar.”
The man stalks closer, and when he bends, I recognize him. It’s him. Again. The man from my apartment, the man from the picture.
“You will talk. Pain has a way of loosening even the tightest of lips.” He turns around and speaks, but not to me this time. My gaze dashes around the room, and I notice two men in the corner. The burning cherries from their cigarettes glow in the dark.
“Make her talk,” he says before stepping back into the hall and leaving me alone with his goons.
My body shivers, but not from the cold.
Another man steps up; he’s younger than the last, with dark hair and darker eyes.
“You’ll be thirsty unless you give the boss what he wants.” His voice is thick with his Russian accent.