Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 103852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Could I be trapped in a nightmare?
I dig my nails into my wrist and squeeze until pain explodes on my skin. No. It’s not a nightmare. This is reality.
The voices are now high-pitched, angry, and not holding back. I probably shouldn’t look, but how am I going to escape this horrible Black Mirror episode if I don’t see what’s going on?
Making sure my body is still hidden behind the car, I grab the hood and peer around it. The Mercedes that was shot at has multiple bullet holes in the windshield, but the glass didn’t break.
All its doors are open, and while I was fully prepared to find dead people, the car is empty. Instead, three men dressed in dark clothing are outside, all holding guns. Two of them are wearing suits. One is bulky and blond with a scowling face; the other is lean and has long brown hair tied at his nape. They’re forcing a chubby man to his knees in front of their third companion.
He’s wearing a simple black shirt and pants. His sleeves are rolled to above his wrists, exposing a hint of tattoos. One of his hands rests by his side and the other holds a gun to the chubby man’s head.
I only get the view of his side profile, but it’s enough to tell me he’s the one in charge.
The bossman.
From this distance, I can’t tell what he looks like except that he has dark hair and light stubble. He’s tall, too. So tall that I feel his superior height even from my hiding position.
I glimpse at the van that stopped behind them and wish I hadn’t. Two men are sprawled over each other on the floor, unmoving, blood covering their unrecognizable features.
Bile rises to my throat and I inhale deeply to stop myself from retching and giving away my existence.
I’m distracted from the view and illogically drawn back to the scene in front of me when that foreign language starts up again. The two men are talking to the bossman in a language I don’t recognize. I think it’s Eastern European.
“Who sent you?” Bossman asks with a Russian accent, and I swallow at the calm power behind his words. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t kick or punch, but it sounds like the worst threat of all.
“Fuck you, Volkov,” Chubby Man snarls in an accented voice—Italian.
“That’s not the right answer. Are you going to give me one or should I go after your family once I’m finished with you?”
Sweat breaks out on the chubby man’s temples and he curses in Italian, which I do recognize. It’s the only other language I somehow speak besides English.
“What’s it to you?” Chubby Man is twitching badly.
“That’s not the answer. I assume you would rather I go after your family.”
“No. Wait!”
“Final chance.”
“Boss wanted to keep an eye on—” Chubby Man doesn’t finish his sentence before the bossman pulls the trigger.
The shot rings in the air with haunting finality.
I slap both hands on my mouth to stop myself from shrieking. My stomach churns, about to throw up the apple I had for dinner.
The man’s vacant eyes roll to the back of his lifeless head as he drops to the ground. Bossman lets his hand that’s holding the gun fall inert at his side. His bland eyes are focused on the corpse as if it’s dust on his leather shoe. His expression remains the same—a bit focused, a bit bored, and absolutely monstrous.
He just executed a man in cold blood and has no reaction to it.
That’s even more terrifying than the act itself.
Just when I’m about to throw up my dinner, his head tilts to the side.
Toward me.
2
Lia
I’m frozen.
My limbs have turned to stone and my body doesn’t follow my brain’s command to move.
Flee.
Survive.
Tentacles of fear wrap around my rib cage, keeping me imprisoned in place.
And that’s not even the strangest part.
To say I’m not scared of the gun in his hand would be a lie. I haven’t been this close to a weapon since I moved to New York and adopted a completely different lifestyle. However, that’s not what robs my breath and burns my lungs.
That’s not what digs rusty daggers in my chest and forbids my body from acting on my brain’s commands.
It’s the deep ice in his gray eyes.
They’re as harsh and unforgiving as the winter, as cold, too, with the sole purpose to eradicate any life in his way.
He stares at me with silent apprehension. He’s not glaring or scowling, but the threat is right there.
In his silence.
In the fact that he knew to look straight in my direction as if he were aware I was there all along.
Paralyzing fear loosens my limbs and a shot of survival instinct bursts into my ribcage. It’s like I’m back in that black box, locked, left all alone, and the only way to remain alive is if I dig my way out.