Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I keep my breathing measured under the gag, four counts in and four counts out, because anything faster brings black spots to the edges of my vision. The blindfold sticks to my skin where sweat gathers. I try to keep track of the details. We turned right, then left, and the tires hummed like they were on a highway for a while. After that, the pitch changed, and the van floated over or under a bridge before the turns got tighter again.
I keep my hands low, curving them over my stomach even with my wrists bound. The small space of my palms becomes a barrier between us and the rest of the world.
When they finally stop, everything goes quiet for a beat. A door slides open. Heat rolls in as hands seize my arms again and pull. My knees scrape against the metal lip as they haul me out. Gravel grinds under my shoes.
A key box clatters and a chain clinks through its track. A heavy door groans under its own weight, and they push me forward into a space that swallows the outside in one gulp.
The blindfold comes off so fast the light pricks my eyes like needles. I blink hard and my vision snaps open. I’m in a warehouse that looks long abandoned. Stacks of pallets lean against one wall in teetering towers. A forklift sits with its forks lowered in a corner. Far above, a catwalk crosses under a row of rattling fans, their belts whining as they drag hot air in useless circles. Sodium lights hang from chains and bathe everything in a dirty orange that makes even the shadows look sickly.
I register people next. Men spread through the room in loose arcs, some with tools looped from belts, some with guns held low, all of them wearing sickening grins. Two men keep their eyes on the catwalk rather than on me. Their heads turn at the same time at the sound of footsteps above. Apparently, the guest of honor isn’t here yet.
I count the men in the room because I need something useful to do. Nine on the floor, two above, probably more outside. I can’t see the woman yet, though I heard her voice by the door.
Even the most logical part of my brain knows I likely won’t get out of here alive. I know that Damien will stop at nothing to get me back, but these men make me think it won’t matter. And if they don’t kill me, I’ll almost certainly wish I was dead by the end of this.
Something to my left catches my eye. The woman I heard steps out from behind a stack of crate lids and comes straight toward me. She is older than the others by at least twenty years. She smells like stale cigarettes and lemon cleaner. She holds a pair of latex gloves and slips them on without looking away from my face.
She pats me down with brisk efficiency. She checks the collar of my dress and the line of my bra, slides her hands down my sides, presses along my hips, checks my ankles and calves, then goes back and lifts the hem of my dress to mid-thigh. When she gets to my stomach, she pauses, though not long enough to read as kindness. Her eyes flick up to mine and I hold her gaze until she breaks it. She lowers the fabric and turns to the men with a string of Russian.
I catch two words because I’ve heard them before in my audio recording. Beremenna. Zhok. Pregnant. Stomach. She repeats beremenna, sharper, and adds a phrase that I cannot make out. Another man mutters something that makes laughter ripple, and the woman barks back one syllable that makes the sound shut off mid-breath.
She peels off her gloves and tucks them into her pocket. Then she speaks to me for the first time. “You sit,” she says, pointing at a metal chair nearby that is bolted to the floor. “No trouble.”
A man with a shaved head catches my elbow and steers, but I go where the woman pointed before he can yank. The chair is heavy, cold leaching up through the thin cotton of my dress. Straps are strewn across the chair arms, and the shaved-head man threads one over my forearm and cinches until the leather bites. I keep my face still. He does the other side. He steps back and the woman checks the buckles. She tightens each one another notch and nods once.
I think of Damien and suddenly feel breathless. I focus carefully on breathing and on the last time I saw him. He was surrounded by a group of men with a wire garrot around his throat, barely holding on. I don’t know if he’s alive. I try very hard not to panic at the thought.