He smiles.
I scream.
“Son of a b***h!”
There are no bullets.
The f*****g gun has no bullets.
Fucking i***t.
He fooled me the whole time.
His hand tightens in my hair and he stands up, towering over me with all his intimidating height.
I stare up at him, my head forced back by the fist tangled in my hair.
“I’m not your pawn, or your lackey,” he whispers.
“No, not mine, but you are Demyan Ivanov’s.”
“You don’t know anything.”
He tightens his grip even more, gathering a painful amount of my hair in his fist and forcing my head back almost to the point of hurting.
“What is it that I don’t know, Killian? That you take shelter under the tree that gives you the most shade?”
He doesn’t reply; he just reaches back with his free hand and grabs his second gun, then gently aims it at my
