Chapter 4 - The Escape
1403 Words
I wake to the sound of my own breathing, ragged and wet.
My head throbs where it hit the concrete.
Blood has dried on my chin, cracked and tight against my skin. The zip ties have cut deep enough that I feel warmth trickling down my wrists. Not good. Infection risk, blood loss, shock if I'm not careful.
The warehouse is darker now. Night has fully settled, turning the space into a cave of shadows and strange sounds. Water dripping. Metal creaking. Something scurrying in the corners.
I test the ties again. Still tight. But my fingers can almost reach my pocket, almost touch the sedative bottle if I contort my wrist just right.
The pain is sharp, bright, but I've felt worse.
Cristian made sure I knew worse.
The door opens. Not the guard. The blonde,
carrying a bottle of water and a protein bar.
"You look like hell," she observes.
"Your guard has boundary issues."
"He's been handled." She kneels, holds the water to my lips. I want to refuse, want to spit it back in her face, but dehydration will kill me faster than pride. I drink, the water stinging the split in my lip.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask when she pulls the bottle away.
"I'm not. I'm protecting Kozlov's investment."
She unwraps the protein bar, breaks off a piece. "But between you and me? I don't like men who hit women. Guard duty or not."
"How noble."
"1 not noble. I'm practical." She feeds me the protein bar piece by piece, and the intimacy of it, the forced dependence, makes my skin crawl. "Your husband has thirty-two hours left.
Think he'll make it?"
"He'll make it."
"That's a lot of faith in a man you poisoned."
"It's not faith. It's a certainty." I swallow the last bite. "Matteo needs me alive. He'll come."
"And then what? You go back to your twisted little marriage, dosing him every night, playing house with a hitman?" She sits back on her heels. "You're both insane."
"Probably."
She laughs, sharp and genuine. "At least you're honest." She stands, moves toward the door. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be interesting."
"Wait." The word comes out before I can stop it. "What's your name?"
She pauses. "Why?"
"Because if I'm going to die in this warehouse, I'd like to know who to haunt."
Another laugh. "Kira. My name's Kira." She looks back at me, something almost like respect in her eyes. "Don't die, Vesper.
Women like us are too rare to waste."
She leaves, and I'm alone again with the darkness and my plans.
I work my wrist, ignoring the pain, the fresh blood. My fingers brush the pocket fabric.
Almost. Almost. The zip tie cuts deeper, and I bite back a scream but my fingers close around the bottle.
Got it.
Now I just need the guard to get close enough.
He comes back two hours later. I can smell him before I see him, vodka and cigarettes and something rancid.
"You awake, pretty wife?" His boots echo on concrete. "Good. I've been thinking about you."
I keep my eyes closed, body limp. Let him think I'm weaker than I am.
His hand touches my face, rough fingers tracing my jaw. "So much trouble for one woman. What makes you special, hm?"
I don't answer. Don't move. His hand slides to
my throat, not squeezing, just resting there.
Feeling my pulse. Claiming.
"Boss says no permanent damage. But temporary? That's negotiable." His thumb presses against my windpipe, cutting off air.
"Let's see how long an American doctor can hold her breath."
The pressure builds. My lungs scream. Black spots dance across my vision. But I wait, counting seconds, feeling his confidence grow as I weaken.
Three. Two. One.
My eyes snap open. My hand, finally free from the loosened zip tie, drives upward. The sedative bottle is uncapped, liquid sloshing. I threw it directly into his face.
He jerks back, roaring, clawing at his eyes.
The sedative burns, I know it does. Cristian tested it on me once, just to see. But more importantly, he's inhaling it, absorbing it through mucous membranes.
Ten seconds. That's all I need.
He lunges at me, blind and furious. His fist connects with my shoulder, and something cracks. Pain explodes through my collarbone.
But he's already slowing, movements turning sluggish.
Five seconds.
"You b***h," he slurs. "You..."
He collapses, unconscious before he hits the ground.
I'm shaking, adrenaline and pain and shock flooding my system. My shoulder screams. My wrists are still bleeding. But I'm alive, and he's down, and I have maybe an hour before someone checks on us.
I search his pockets with my one good hand.
Keys. Phone. Knife.
The knife cuts through the ankle ties easily. I stand, legs numb and unsteady. The phone is locked, useless. But the keys...
One of them opens the warehouse door.
Outside, the Seattle docks stretch dark and empty. Three AM, maybe four. The air is cold, sharp with salt and diesel. I'm barefoot, bleeding, with a broken collarbone and no plan beyond survival.
I stumble toward the main road, every step agony. Headlights appear in the distance. I wave my good arm, desperate, not caring if it's police or criminals or death itself.
The car screeches to a stop. The door opens. And Matteo is there, moving toward me with terrifying speed.
"Vesper." His hands hover over me, afraid to touch, cataloging my injuries. "Cristo, what did they do to you?"
"Guard had boundary issues. I handled it." My voice sounds far away, shock setting in. "How did you find me?"
"Tracked Kira's vehicle. Hacked the GPS."
He's already removing his jacket, wrapping it around my shoulders. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"No hospitals. They'll ask questions."
"You have a broken collarbone and possible concussion."
"I'm a doctor. I'll manage." I sway, and he catches me, arm around my waist. "Matteo, the guard. I drugged him. When he wakes up..."
"He won't wake up." His voice goes cold, flat.
"I'll make sure of it."
"You can't go back there. Kira..."
"Is already dead." He helps me into the car, gentle despite his words. "I couldn't leave any witnesses. Not with you in danger."
I should feel something. Horror, maybe. Guilt.
But all I feel is relief, and that terrifies me more than anything else.
Matteo slides into the driver's seat, and I see it then. Blood on his hands. On his shirt. Fresh kills, still warm.
"How many?" I ask.
"Three. Kira, the guard you drugged, one more I found securing the perimeter." He starts the car, pulls onto the road. "Kozlov's people. They would have hunted us forever."
"You killed them for me."
"I killed them for us." He glances at me, eyes dark and unreadable. "You're my wife, Vesper.
Poisoned or not, trapped or not, you're mine to protect now."
The possessiveness should anger me. Should remind me of Cristian's ownership, his violence disguised as devotion. But this feels different. Matteo's not claiming me. He's choosing me.
And God help me, I'm choosing him back.
"The antidote," he says quietly. "There wasn't one in the fridge."
"I know."
"You lied."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I needed you focused on finding me, not panicking about dying." I touch his arm with my good hand. "And because I wasn't sure I wanted you to have an escape route. Not yet."
He laughs, bitter and sharp. "You're still playing chess while bleeding out in my passenger seat."
"Old habits."
We drove in silence for a while. The city lights blur past, smears of neon and shadow. My shoulder throbs with every heartbeat. But I'm alive. We're both alive. And somewhere in the last thirty-two hours, the game changed.
"Matteo." My voice cracks. "Thank you. For coming."
"Where else would I be?" He reaches over, takes my bloody hand in his. "You're my antidote too, Vesper. Not just the chemical kind."
I close my eyes, let the admission settle over me like Matteo's jacket. Warm. Dangerous. Irreversible.
When we get back to the safehouse, he's going to set my collarbone. I'm going to give him his antidote. And we're going to face whatever comes nex
t together.
Because somewhere between the trap and the escape, between poison and cure, we became something neither of us planned for.
Partners. Allies.
Maybe even something more
- Writer
