The air of the hotel room is nothing short of freezing when we walk in. It's mostly due to the frigid chill of my soaked clothing clinging to my skin but also because of the cool dry air of the suite. The temperature outside dropped with the onslaught of rain, and now that I'm wet, the cold is almost unbearable.
I wrap my arms around my middle in an attempt to preserve as much body heat as possible as I watch my kidnapper walk away from me to the table across the room.
The clock that sits on the nightstand near the bed shimmers from across the dimly lit space as I study his meticulous movements.
I glance at the time.
5:07 PM
I flick my eyes back to the assassin in front of me.
I wish I knew his name so that I could stop referring to him as a killer and reminding myself every second of what he's done.
What he's still doing.
But I'm not brave enough to ask. I feel as if I've pushed my limit of things he'll let me get away with today.
With his back to me, I watch as he runs a large calloused hand through his disheveled mess of hair making water droplets fling to the floor.
He's routine and stiff as he drops his hand and tugs at his wardrobe that's soaked and clinging to his firm build. Every movement he makes is the exact same one he made yesterday when he first brought me here. He grabs for the knife I stole at lunch, first.
I hear the sound of metal sliding against fresco as he slowly pulls the dull cutlery from his pocket like a sword from a sheath.
He sets it on the table with a faint clank.
Next, he strips from his tailored suit jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair to dry. Again, just as he did yesterday. He's seemingly unaware of my presence as he goes through the motions of whatever routine he's constructed for himself.
I no longer feel as if I'm simply a hostage. Right now in this moment I'm more of an unwanted guest in a stranger's home. He seems comfortable here, as if he's been staying here for awhile now and I'm intruding on his space. It makes me hyper aware of my surroundings.
I can hear every sound as it happens. The door of the suite shutting and the lock hissing into place behind me. My kidnapper's fingers pressing against the digital keypad of the safe, unlocking it.
His back is to me, blocking my view, but I haven't given up on trying to find out the code.
I can hear my teeth clattering against themselves as I shiver and the sounds of steel clanking against alloy as my kidnapper unloads his arsenal into the safe.
My fingers and toes are now numb as I wait in this darkened corner for some sort of instruction. I lift my hands to my mouth and cup them around my lips to blow hot air through my fingers. The air leaves me in shuddering fragments as I shift from foot to foot.
I freeze when my kidnapper's back stiffens.
He pauses—as if he's just remembered I'm in the room—and turns to look at me from over his shoulder. The faint lighting from the window falls along his heavy brows and square jaw giving his face sharp, angular facets like a Pablo Picasso painting.
His forehead wrinkles.
My eyebrows scrunch, mirroring him.
He's so hard to read I have no idea if the look he's giving me is distaste or annoyance. Or maybe my presence causes him to feel both.
Without a word he turns back around finishing his task of unloading his ghastly amount of weapons before straightening his posture to stand and turning to face me.
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Agent 7. The Shadows: Part I
الأكشنShe's a Russian call girl He's an assassin out for blood ............................ Agent 7 is a seasoned killer with a hit list of corrupt Russian politicians and powerful people. When he is hired to kill Oleg Borkov, a top politician in Russia...
