Agent 7. The Shadows: Part I

▪️◾️Chapter Three◾️▪️

I look down at the black, high-slit dress Vladimir delivered to me himself yesterday. My eyes trail across the room shocked to find the rest of the women in attendance are also wearing black floor-length gowns.

Vladimir did something right, for once.

My kidnapper unwinds his arm from the crook of my elbow and wraps it around my waist, pulling me closer. It would feel intimate if his fingers weren't digging into my side sharply like a fishhook to my ribs. There's no doubting my place, I'm his prisoner and I'm more than certain he will kill me if I step out of line.

He finds an empty table near the middle of the room and feigning a gentleman, pulls out a chair allowing me to sit.

Before I have a chance to settle into my seat my captor reaches across my place setting and takes my fork and knife, slyly pocketing them.

He's thought of everything.

I watch from my peripherals as he wordlessly takes the seat next to me.

He's rigid, back perfectly straight, and expression set with unwavering austerity. The only telltale sign the monster sitting next to me contains an ounce of emotion is his jaw ticking every few seconds with annoyance. Or maybe it's determination.

Does he plan to kill Borkov, is that why we are here? If so, where do I come in to play? How will my spilling wine on him help? Am I a distraction for some bigger scheme?

Or is he making me an accomplice?

I cringe at the thought of getting pulled deeper into this world of crime. Being a whiteness to one murder is enough, I don't want to be an accomplice to a second one.

His attention is on the party happening around us, eyes jumping from person to person, searching for Borkov, I assume. I take his divided attention as an opportunity to plan my escape. A way out of this nightmare.

With Vladimir dead, I'm free.

I have nothing and nowhere to go, but it's better than the life of fear and punishments I've been living. The starvation and the manipulation. I quickly gaze to my right. The only thing stopping me is the Italian in the tuxedo sitting next to me.

He's a large and deadly wall between me and my freedom.

Fretfully, my eyes search the room looking for the exits and the restrooms. My best bet is to sneak my way out. I could make a scene and confess to those around me that I'm being held at gunpoint, but I have a sinking feeling drawing attention to myself won't help me.

The killer is too cunning. He's probably expecting me to seek help of some kind and has a plan for if and when I try to draw attention to us. He knew to take my fork and knife away, there's no telling what other safeguards he has up his sleeve.

There are two exits, the one behind us that we came through and one emergency exit on the far side of the room. From what I can see there are two bathrooms one on my left and the other to my right near the emergency exit. Maybe if I say I'm using the restroom I can sneak away, out that far exit.

My nerves spike as I work up the courage to flee. I catch myself tapping my foot and I have to mentally stop myself from making my thoughts obvious. I try to breathe calmly, I don't want to give him any indication that I'm planning something.

When the lights dim slightly and upbeat music begins to play I take the darkened atmosphere as an opportunity to escape.

"I have to use the restroom," I announce over the noise of the party, faking the confidence I need to push myself up from the table.

Without a glance my way, my kidnapper puts a rough hand on my upper thigh from under the table, forcing me back down. I fall into my seat with a thud. His hand remains firmly planted rooting me to my seat.

I turn to him wide-eyed. He shoots me a murderous glance of his own. "Hold it," he snaps. His voice is pure ice. As cold as the glacier that took down the Titanic.

"I-I said I have to use the restroom." I trip over my words nervously. The small amount of bravery that's fortifying me, begins to wane. I curse myself for my nervousness.

"And I said hold it."

"You can't be serious," I whisper. His eyes gleam with budding anger, he can read right through me. My hopes are dashed in an instant.

His vibrant green eyes lined with long dark lashes narrow into slits. "Dead, serious." He snaps back at me, voice low.

He puts extra emphasis on the word dead as he squeezes my upper thigh hard, as a warning I'm sure. He's asserting his control by keeping me where he wants me.

Pain radiates up my thigh and deep into the muscle where the fresh bruises Vladimir gave me, linger.

Fuck! I want to cry out but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Vladimir's killer releases me suddenly and I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. My eyes open to find him studying me intently.

I drop my eyes to the table feeling foolish for even trying to outsmart him. He's a murderer with a mission. I turn away from him completely and stare blankly back out at the party.