Chapter 3-Thirty-Six Hours
925 Words
The gun goes off.
Not at me. Not at Matteo. The bullet punches through the window behind us, safety glass spiderwebbing. A warning shot.
"Next one goes in her kneecap," the blonde says. "Sit down, hitman. Now."
Matteo freezes, hands raised. We move to the couch slowly. His thigh presses against mine, hand finding mine between us. He squeezes once.
"Viktor Kozlov doesn't forgive debts," the woman continues, circling us. "Three million for a confirmed kill. You delivered a corpse that wasn't his."
"The DNA matched," Matteo says.
"Everything can be faked." She stops, gun steady. "Kozlov wants his money back. With interest. Ten million. You have twenty-four hours."
She tosses Matteo a phone. "Transfer the money, and I disappear."
I lean forward, studying her. "You're not Russian. West coast accent, gear too clean for field work. You're a freelancer." My mind works through the angles. "You're not here for money. You're here to see if Matteo has information on Kozlov's mole."
The room goes silent.
"Clever girl," the blonde says, gun shifting to my head. "Too clever. That makes you dangerous."
"Wait." Matteo stands. "She's right. Kozlov has a leak. Give me forty-eight hours. I'll deliver the mole and the money."
"Thirty-six hours," she says. "And the wife stays with me. Insurance."
"No." Matteo's response is immediate.
"Then we're done here."
"Wait." I stand slowly. "I'll stay. But you need to understand something. My husband needs me alive. There's a medical condition, requires daily treatment only I can provide. Kill me, and he dies within four days. Then Kozlov gets nothing."
Her eyes narrow. "What kind of condition?"
"The kind that ensures husbands don't run." I smile coldly. "We're bound together.
Biochemically."
She looks between us. "You poisoned him."
"I saved him from making stupid decisions." I gesture to Matteo. "Show her."
He rolls up his sleeve, revealing this morning's injection site. A lie, but she doesn't know that.
"Daily injections," I say. "Miss two, seizures start. Miss four, brain death. So if you want your money, you need us both functional.
Which means I need to give him his treatment first."
She considers, gun lowering slightly. "Fine.
But I watch."
I move upstairs, grab my medical bag. Saline, syringe, alcohol swabs. But I also palm something else from the side pocket.
Cristian's emergency sedative. Heavy dose, fast-acting, dangerous.
I slip it into my pocket and return downstairs.
"Roll up your sleeve," I tell Matteo.
I inject the saline smoothly. He doesn't flinch.
The blonde waves her gun toward the door.
"Let's go."
Matteo catches my arm. "Vesper."
I meet his eyes, see the fear he's hiding.
"Thirty-six hours. Don't be late with my rescue."
"I won't."
I lean close. "The antidote is in the kitchen. Blue vial, back of the fridge, behind the milk.
Just in case."
It's a lie. There is no stored antidote. But I need him focused on finding me, not panicking.
His breath hitches. He understands.
The warehouse smells like rust and dead fish.
My hands are zip-tied, ankles bound to a metal chair bolted to the floor.
"Comfortable?" the blonde asks.
"Been worse."
She pulls up a chair. "You want to tell me how you really got that bruise on your wrist? The one you keep hiding?"
I look down. My sleeve has ridden up, exposing faint yellow-green. Cristian's last gift, two weeks before he died.
"Old injury."
"From your dead husband?" She leans back.
"You hired Rossi to kill an abusive spouse.
This whole marriage thing is you making sure he doesn't run. And you're way more dangerous than anyone realizes."
"If you're so smart, why work for Kozlov?"
"Money. Same reason everyone does terrible things." She stands. "But I'm curious. What's your endgame? You trap the hitman, poison him, chain yourself to him legally. Then what?"
The question hits hard. I haven't thought about after. About what happens when the revenge runs out.
"I don't know," I admit.
"Well, figure it out. Because if Rossi cares about you, and his face suggests he might, you've got a problem. Men who care do stupid things. Get themselves killed."
She moves to the door. "I'm checking in with my employer. The night guard isn't as friendly as me."
She leaves. I test the zip ties. Tight, professional. But I've got the sedative in my pocket, if I can get free. And I've got time.
Thirty-six hours.
The door opens. Not the blonde. A man with a scarred face and cold eyes.
"Pretty thing," he says in Russian-accented English. "The boss says I can have fun, as long as you stay breathing."
My mouth goes dry. "Your boss needs me intact."
"Intact is a flexible word." He moves closer.
Vodka and sweat. "We have a long night ahead."
He reaches for me. I spit in his face.
He backhands me so hard my vision whites out. Blood fills my mouth. The chair tips, crashes. My head cracks against concrete, stars exploding.
Through the ringing, I hear a phone. He answers, voice shifting to nervous.
"Da. Yes, boss. No, I was just... I understand. No touching."
He hangs up, glares at me with hatred. "Lucky b***h. The boss says you're worth too much damaged." He rigged my chair violently. "But we got thirty-six hours. I can be patient."
He leaves. I'm alone, blood dripping down my chin, head throbbing, zip ties cutting into my wrists.
The sedative bottle presses against my hip.
Still there. Still possible.
I close my eyes, taste blood and Matteo's kiss.
Thirty-six hours. Don't be late.
- Writer
