Agent 7. The Shadows: Part I

▪️◾️Chapter Four◾️▪️

A waiter places a delicious-looking chicken entree in front of me. The smell of savory herbs and spices wafts all around.

Instinctively I reach for my fork but remember too late that my captor pocketed it.

Damn him.

I close my eyes and take in a fortifying breath before I turn to him grimly. I don't want to press my luck but I've hardly eaten in days and he told me earlier we would have a nice meal.

If this is my last, I want to enjoy it.

"Will I be eating this dish with my hands?" I ask with exaggerated sweetness as I meet his piercing eyes. At first, I had thought they were a menacing ebony but now I realize they are a striking emerald. For a brief moment, a look of merriment flashes over his features upon hearing my words. "Or do you plan for me to go hungry since I'm going to die tonight anyway?"

He smirks, causing a dimple to fill the tan skin of his cheek on one side, and I know now that I'm not imagining it. He's finding pleasure in my misery.

Or maybe it's the thought of killing me later that brings a smile to his face. Either way, any remaining hope that I have a chance of making it out of this living hell alive, plummets.

After a deliberate pause, he pulls out my fork from his breast pocket and inspects it. He runs his finger over the tines as if contemplating their lethality.

He's intentionally fucking with my head. Like a cat toying with a mouse before devouring it and licking its paws clean. I see now this—whatever this is— isn't just a job to him, he enjoys this shit. He's relishing in my terror and my tears.

As if on cue, my stomach growls loudly and I swear he hears it. He sets the fork on the table and with the same fingers he grabbed my bruised inner thigh with, he slides the piece of cutlery back to me.

I snatch up the fork and look around to see that our table is now filled with patrons, all engrossed in private conversations as they eat.

I look away, keeping my head down as I dig into my food.

I stifle a groan when I take my first bite and then another. It's been a long time since I've eaten an adequate meal, especially one as delicious as this.

Vladimir never allowed me to eat when I was with him. He liked to keep me thin. He said he preferred his women to look a certain way but I know his true intentions were to keep me weak. The weaker I am, the harder time I have fighting him off. I scarf down another two bites simply out of spite.

After a time, the killer sitting beside me leans in to whisper into my ear. I freeze when his accented words touch my skin. "Most people chew their food before they swallow it." He berates before pulling away. My skin heats with blistering embarrassment as I catch a glance of his glare in my peripheral.

Мудак, (shithead) I scowl.

Ignoring him, I chew the rest of the food in my mouth at a slower pace and then swallow. I grab the wine next and take a sip. It's tart and flavorful.

I manage to eat half of the food on my plate before I feel my captor put a heavy arm over the back of my chair and lean into my side once again. I stiffen involuntarily, nothing that has come out of his mouth has been good.

His voice is husky as he breathes into my ear for a second time.

"There's Borkov," he says tipping his head toward the other side of the room.

I begrudgingly lift from my plate and scan across dozens of heads until I find him.

He's just as I remember. A large meaty man on scrawny legs. He has pebbles for eyes that are close together and a wide nose that takes up most of his face. I can't help the disgust that takes over my features on reflex.

"We are going to go over there," he continues. "You will pretend to trip and you will spill your wine on him. Do you understand?"

Dread, pure sickening dread settles over me.

The thought of standing up, having to put one foot in front of the other, and look Mayor Borkov in the eyes has my stomach in knots.

My kidnapper pulls back to look at me and I turn my face to meet his glance. He's close, so close I can see that he has dark brown freckles sprinkled across his nose and a small but deep scar directly under his left eye, marring his frightening countenance.

I bring the wine to my lips as I speak, eyeing him over the rim. "And... if I don't?"

I jump, taken off guard by the sudden heaviness of cold steel pressed into my lap from under the table. I look down to see the killer's bulky finger hovering over the trigger of a small gun, different from the one from earlier.

I suck in a sharp breath. It would only take the slightest movement for him to set it off and for all of this to be over.

Stunned and frozen, my hand that's holding the wine hovers in the air as I gape at him. My jaw nearly coming unhinged with alarm.

I'm no stranger to guns. Vladimir had them and was always carrying one. Always threatened me with them, too. But just because I'm familiar with guns doesn't mean I want one between my fucking legs.

I don't move, I try to not even blink, scared that I'll accidentally bump him and cause him to shoot me in the stomach.

His voice reminds me of booming thunder rolling across a stormy sky when he speaks.

"You die." He finally answers.