Vengeance (Updating Weekly)

Part 3

It's been days. At least, that's what it feels like. I can't actually tell. There's no daylight here. The only light peeks through the bottom of the door. Every few hours, someone will come in to check on me. They'll give me a bottle of water, or a few crackers. No food. My stomach aches with hunger. They're keeping me weak. They want me subdued so I don't fight back again. I just don't know what they're waiting for. If they're taking me to Vassilis, just take me already. Keeping me here is stupid. Simpson will be looking for me. Jeremy might be, too. The people I work with... they'll all be wondering where I am. They'll have to move me before they find me. That would be the perfect time to escape — during the transition, but I can't keep waiting for that. I have a plan.

The bald guy is definitely the leader here. He gives the orders, and the other two follow them — the man I knocked unconscious on the first day, and another, older man. They're bigger than me and stronger than me and faster than me, but they're not smarter than me.

My opportunity comes when the older man brings me another bottle of water. He sets it down beside the door, not bothering to look my way.

"How long are you going to keep me here?" I ask him. "I need food. I'm going to starve to death."

"You'll be fine."

"I haven't eaten in days."

"We gave you crackers, didn't we?"

"No," I lie. "I never got anything."

"Son of a bitch," he groans. "I'll get you crackers."

He steps out of the room. I jump into action, climbing up from the bed to stand in the corner between the wall and the door — the only place there is to hide. My heart thumps in my chest. This is going to be my only opportunity. If I fuck this up, they're not going to fall for it again.

The door finally starts to open. I stay as still as I can, giving him a second to realise I'm not there. I step out from behind the door and shove him backwards. He hits the wall, but not hard enough. I grab him by his shirt and slam him back down again. It takes two more tries before he's out, laying on the floor with blood in his hair, just like the other guy I took down last time — unconscious but not dead. I grab his gun out of its holster. The chamber is full.

Fuck. Now I actually have to do this. I take a few nervous breaths before stepping out into the hallway. I hold the gun in front of me, quickly peeking from left to right. There's no one out there. I can't afford to postpone this any longer. A step outside the room is as far as I get before a loud gunshot sounds from upstairs. I dart back into the room. I have no idea what that was but it can't be good. Someone else must be here. A thump follows. Things only escalate from there. As soundproof as the room is, with the door open I can hear every single step. They're fighting up there. I can hear talking and moaning, and thumping. Shit. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Vassilis must be here. I have to get out of here. Without a second thought, I barge into the hallway, except this time, I'm not alone. I shoot forward, not wasting any time getting a proper aim. A splatter of red hits the wall, and the man falls to the ground. I can't look at him, but I have to. He's still alive. I lean over him, grabbing the gun out of the holster just as I did before.

"Drop your weapon and step back!" A voice booms. It belongs to a man I haven't seen before. He's not one of them. He's in full SWAT gear — a helmet, bulletproof vest, and heavy boots. A military-style weapon stares back at me. I would think he were an agent if it weren't for his thick, Greek accent.

I'm not fucking dying today.

I empty the clip in his chest, desperate to hit him at least once. And I succeed. He falls to the ground just like the others. I discard the empty weapon and replace it with the second. Two of his friends join the party, approaching me with haste.

"Stay back!" I warn, but they don't listen. I fire again, this time hitting one of the men in the leg. The other comes to a halt, still aiming his gun at me.

"Drop your weapon!" he orders.

"You first." I didn't know my hand was shaking until now, but I don't flinch. The man gives in. He lowers his hands but doesn't drop the gun.

"We're not here to hurt you–.'

"Drop your gun," I instruct. He does as I say, but I'm not stupid enough to believe that's his only one. "All of them."

He pulls another weapon out of his belt, and another from his boot. He slides them over to me with his foot and raises his arms in the air. He's been through this before.

"Who are you and why are you here?" I ask. The man turns his head to the side, glancing around the corner.

"Boss," he nods. Another man enters the hallway. He's not dressed like the others. He's in a suit, with only a bulletproof vest strapped over his shirt. I recognise him straight away. Atticus Stavros. He looks nothing like his father. He's tall and muscular, with a scar above his left eyebrow. His hair is dark, short at the sides and tousled on top. His nose is straight and his jaw sharp, even with his thick stubble. He eyes the bodies on the floor and tips his head in surprise.

"Impressive," he says.

"What do you want?" I demand. He takes a step forward. "Stay back!"

"I'm not going to hurt you—."

"I said stay back!"

"Alright," he gives in. "I swear, I'm not here to hurt you."

"Then why are you here?"

"Your agent... Simpson sent me."

"Bullshit," hearing her name gives me hope. "She'd never work for you."

"She's not. We're working together."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because we want the same thing," he states. "These men — the ones keeping you here — they'll take you to my father, and my father... he'll kill you."

"And you won't?"

"No. We want you alive. We want you safe."

"Why would I believe you?"

"You won't, and you don't have to. You can come willingly, or you can make this difficult, but either way, you're coming with us."

Nope. That's not happening. I only manage to shoot one shot before an army of men pours into the hallway, barrelling straight for me. My body is tackled down, my gun long gone. The men hold me against the wooden floor, not letting go until my hands are tightly secured with a zip tie.