Under Covers

ten | pruszkòw

ten | pruszkòw

a small city just west of Warsaw; at one point best known for housing one of Poland's major organized crime groups, it is currently considered to be the country's centre for cycling

JAKE

May 6th, 22:03 (GMT +2)
9 days until it happens

RAYNA IS DAZED but conscious. After carting her two blocks from the teeming fray of mobsters outside Sidorov's home, I zip-tie her hands and stuff her in the backseat of the rental car, then rip down the motorway towards an SIS safe-house on the outskirts of the city.

Her skin-sheer stockings have torn, revealing bare, golden patches of her legs. She wiggles and squirms, tired and dizzy but determined to make life difficult for me just because she bloody well can. "Where the fuck are we going?"

"Yeah, you're bloody welcome for not leaving you behind to rot."

She whirls her eyes and turns her nose up, her silence filled with enough attitude to singe the hair off my arms. It's cool in the evenings, but the heat beneath my shirt-collar is stifling, so I crank the air-con til her little body starts shivering. It quiets her down some.

I'm in a right foul mood. Sore, hungry, irritated, and so bloody knackered. My most promising lead has a hole in the head. All that effort and risk going undercover tonight, for nought.

I don't believe in karma, or kismet, or whatever the fuck else you want to call it, but I suppose turnabout is fair-play. Or however that stupid fucking proverb goes.

By the time I'm pulling into the carpark, we're both absolutely fucking pissed at each other, partially for legitimate reasons and partially for no good reason at all. I unlatch my seatbelt and peer at her through the rearview mirror. "Are you gonna shut your bloody trap when we get outside, or do I have to gag you?"

"How about you go fuck yourself?"

Gag it is, then.

I strip off my necktie and unlock the rear door. She tries to bite me like a feisty kitten, but I wedge the maroon silk between her gnashing teeth and knot it into place behind her head. Then I drag her from the car and chuck her over my shoulder. There are two flights of stairs up to the flat; she flaps her bound arms and kicks her flailing legs the entire way. I grip her by the backs of her thighs, digging my fingers sharply into her flesh on purpose.

Safe-house is a generous term — it's more of a safe-room, or perhaps a safe-cupboard. Tinted, bullet-proof windows, armoured keypad. I blip in the code and the door springs open.

It's sparse and dreary: a single cot, a table, no television, cramped bathroom. I drop her onto the chair. The cupboard in the corner is stocked with basic essentials, but there's no rope or cuffs, so I unbuckle my belt, snap it from the loops of my trousers, and use it to fasten her calves to the chair's legs.

She protests vehemently into the gag. I glance, disinterested, at her sulking face and ask, "Sorry, did you say something? I can't hear you properly. How odd." Her sultry chocolate eyes spear me with a million barbed daggers. It makes me smirk.

My knuckles graze her slim ankles as I yank off her black velvet pumps. They're Tod's, they would've cost her a pretty penny. "Nice shoes," I compliment. I carry them across the room, leaving the door agape so she can watch me plop them into the toilet.

She gasps. Satisfaction swells beneath my ribs.

Hm. Maybe I do believe in karma after all.

I loosen my collar, tug off my jacket to get comfortable. We watch each other as I unfasten my cufflinks and roll up my sleeves, the air between us fraught and lurid. Her maid outfit is fetching. White, ruffled button-down blouse, a little black skirt with suspenders, nude tights with fresh rips running down them. Her hair is blown into unkempt waves and her skin is painted pink with indignation.