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“What do you plan to do with her if she is?”
“Kill her on the spot, Felix.”
Chapter 9
I enter the living room and head toward the sofa, planning on watching TV for a bit, when I notice a stack of throwing knives on the table. Would Sergei notice if I took one? He probably would, and anyway, I still have the cleaver and the steak knife. He hasn’t confiscated them. I’m pretty sure he noticed me slipping the scissors into my pocket this morning, but he didn’t say anything. It doesn’t seem like Sergei thinks I pose any kind of threat.
I don’t have a problem with using violence to defend myself, but there has been nothing here to defend myself from. Other than the fact that I’m not allowed to leave, I’ve been treated as a guest the entire time. I don’t know why I keep piling up the weapons.
If the shipment had been intercepted by one of the rival Mexican cartels, and they found me on that truck, I would have been raped—probably multiple times—and then sold. A shudder runs down my spine just from thinking about it.
I take one of the knives and hold it in front of my face, inspecting its sleek shape. It doesn’t look like an ordinary knife. There’s no standard handle, and it seems like the whole thing is made from a single piece of metal. Based on its appearance, I expected it to be lighter. I turn toward the wall-mounted wooden board, where a few knives are still lodged, and walk across the room to inspect it closer.
There are six knives stuck in the board along the white stripe. They are so evenly spaced, it’s as if Sergei used a damn ruler to make sure of their precise placement. I look over my shoulder,trying to calculate the distance between the board and the spot by the sofa where I found him last evening. More than twenty feet. My gaze travels back to the perfectly aligned knives. How is that even possible? There was barely any light in the room. I take a few steps back and narrow my eyes at the white stripe.
“You’re too close,” a deep voice says from behind me. In the next breath, Sergei’s arm wraps around my waist and tugs me backward.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if I’m closer?” I ask while my heartbeat picks up when he presses my back to his body.
“No. You need more distance so you can throw it properly.” His hand comes to rest on my forearm, then slides down until he reaches my fingers. “You start here.” He lifts my hand that’s holding the knife and slowly demonstrates the throwing motion. “One fluid move. And just release it. Don’t flick your wrist. Try it.”
“No way.” I shake my head, dropping my arm back to my side. “I’m going to hit the window.”
“You’ll probably just hit the floor, but it doesn’t matter. Come on.” He lifts my hand again. “Ready?”
Nope, I’m not ready. And I doubt I’ll be able to hit anything, because I’m too distracted by having his body pressed to mine. Sergei guides my hand and I release the knife as he said, only to watch it clatter to the floor halfway to the wall.
“I guess, you’ll need more practice.”
“No shit?” I laugh. “What are those used for anyway? Can you kill a man with this?”
“In theory, yes,” he says, still behind me, and then places another knife in my hand. “In reality, it’s too much bother. You need to calculate the distance, so the knife finishes its rotation just before it hits the target.”
He lifts my hand and swings. I release the knife as he instructed, but it ends up on the floor again.
“If you’re outside, you also need to consider the wind. And, if the target moves, you’ll probably get them with an edge instead of the tip. Even if you hit them, it won’t be lethal in most cases. It’s much easier to approach and stab them.”
“Why do you do it then? Why practice if it’s pointless?”
“It relaxes me.” He dips his head, brushing the skin of my cheek with his own. “Do you want to try one more time?”
“Yes,” I whisper, but the fact is, I’m not interested in practicing knife throwing. The arm around my waist tightens slightly, and I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation of his fingers trailing down my arm.
“Try to concentrate. Swing and release. Okay?”
I nod and let his hand lead my motion. This time, the knife hits the wall, at least a foot below the board, then, it clatters to the floor.
“Not bad.” His arm vanishes from around my waist. “We can continue tomorrow if you want.”
“Sure,” I say, mourning the loss of his closeness.
“We should get going. Pakhan wants to talk with you.”
I pivot on my heel and stare at Sergei, trying to control the panic rising in my stomach.
“Why would your boss want to talk with me?”
“No idea.” He shrugs.
