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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.
I’ve always used that childhood memory as my darkest time, the one moment that I compare everything to. The jabs, the behind-my-back talks, the harassment. All of it.
But I feel like this situation will put that moment to shame. I survived the other time, but my chances of getting out of this alive are slim to none.
Still, I stand on shaky legs and dart behind the cars, hoping to get to the elevator and—
I’m not even two steps in before a harsh grip wraps around my upper arm and I’m yanked back with a hand to my mouth.
I don’t stop to look at who it is.
A rush of life bubbles in my veins and I squirm, hitting and biting at the hand. My movements are frantic and far from calculated. I doubt that I’m doing any damage, but I don’t stop to think about that. I don’t stop to let them hurt me.
In my attempt to get free, the bulky blond guy drags me to where the murder took place. My insides lurch at the view of the dead man with a hole in his forehead, sprawled on the ground. My struggles increase in volume and I kick and scratch, mumbling my cries for help that merely come out like an ugly horror movie sound.
Cold metal meets my forehead and my whole body goes slack. I’m standing in front of their bossman with the impenetrable gaze of his, freezing ash eyes boring into me. My heart thumps and my lips tremble beneath the hand that’s muting my voice.
This close, he’s even more striking, but in a quiet kind of way, like the rare attractive people who don’t want to stand out in a crowd.
Is he going to kill me now as he did that man? If I have any doubt, the complete disregard in his blank stare erases it.
This man is capable of killing countless people without a second thought. He’s capable of ending lives and walking away as if nothing happened.
“Kolya is going to remove his hand and you’re going to be quiet,” he says ever so casually as if he’s inviting me for tea. “If you don’t, I’ll have to shut you up using other methods.”
My face must be as pale as the white neon lights overhead. All I keep thinking about is the metal that’s now connected to my forehead and that I will soon meet the same fate as the Italian man.
“Nod if you understand,” he continues in his unperturbed tone.
What choice do I have except to agree? I certainly don’t want to find out what his ‘other methods’ are.
I nod, but he looks at me for a beat too long, stealing all the air from my lungs. I think he hasn’t seen me nod or something, but then he tilts his head at the man standing behind me. Kolya, he said his name is.
The man releases me, just like that, and leaves me in front of his boss. I massage the spot where he grabbed me, sensing a bruise already forming. I try my damnedest not to glance sideways, because if I catch a glimpse of the corpses, I’ll start vomiting.
The bossman studies me for a long second, his gaze sliding from my face to my arm. I drop my hand, forcing it to stay still by my side.
“Fight or scream and you won’t like the consequences.” He digs the gun deeper into my forehead, driving the point home.
“O-okay.” I sound like a scared kitten.
And I am.
These men just killed people. Why would my fate be any different?
He drags his gun down the hollow of my cheek. I swallow, and it’s not only because of the deadly weapon. The way he watches as the metal slides down appears to be nothing short of anticipation.
The observation is burning—invasive, even—as if he’s sizing me up, and contemplating whether he should waste a bullet on me.
