Agent 7. The Shadows: Part I

▪️◼️Chapter Eighteen◼️▪️

We drive for who knows how long before I snap out of it.

I look down at my lap feeling disconcerted.

My arms are crossed and my fingernails are digging into my biceps through the thin material of my sweater.

I notice that my chest is heaving slow, exaggerated breaths as if my lungs are working against my heart to slow down their heightened pace. My back is pressed up against the black leather seat, rigid with shoulders squared.

How long have I been sitting like this?

My body is aching from my intense posture.

And how long have we been driving?

My muscles cry out in protest as I start to loosen my grip on myself. I uncurl my fingers one at a time and relax my shoulders slightly.

I turn my gaze out of my window.

The dazzling glass and sparkling stainless steel skyscrapers of the wealthy part of the proper has melted away to pockets of dirt and trees nestled between industrial parks and oil refineries.

I frown at the sight.

I've been zoned out for so long I didn't even realize we're headed toward Kaptonya, an impoverished district in the southern outskirts of Moscow.

I wonder why he's taking me here? So far away from his hotel and from the city center in general.

My mind's been too preoccupied with what happened at the cafe to notice, I guess. Consumed with our odd exchange after breakfast.

I can't stop thinking about it.

I mean, what the hell happened back there?

He pushed me up against the side of the building and swiftly stole my wrists—pinning them above my head—before I even knew what was happening.

He was quick and agile and it completely took me off guard.

As his free hand searched me he told me of all the things he's learned about me in the short amount of time he's held me captive. All notably accurate.

He was so close his hot breaths tumbled down my neck as he spoke.

His voice had dropped low and had a frightening bite to it, but it wasn't his usual petrifying intimidation.

Something was off about the way he put his hands on me. The way he used his body and his tone to intimidate me. It wasn't like all the other times he's pulled his gun on me or gotten in my face. Those times I honestly feared for my life, but this was different.

He was different.

If it'd been Vladimir who caught me red handed the way he did I would have been punished severely. He wouldn't have drawn out the search the way this man did. He would have pulled out the knife immediately and then used it against me as punishment.

My entire body shivers with the thought of what could have been.

So why wasn't he mad that I stole that knife and hid it beneath my clothing? He has to know my intention was to use it on him when he least expected it, in an attempt to escape from him. So why wasn't he furious? He didn't even pretend to be angry.

Instead he laughed!

I hesitantly flick my eyes in his direction peering at him from my peripherals. He has both hands on the steering wheel and his stoney gaze is narrowed on the road ahead of us.

My eyes fall to his chest, he's so poised and collected I can't even tell that he's breathing. If it weren't for the drag of his Adam's apple up and down his throat with the occasional sallow, I'd swear he was a machine.