Chapter 6
986 Words
The screen faded to black for a heartbeat before flickering back to life, showing the same dimly lit warehouse. The man holding the phone to Sasha’s ear stepped back, smirking, unaware of the storm about to be unleashed.
Sasha’s soft, flat voice carried through the speaker.
"Affirmative."
Her demeanor changed in an instant. In one fluid motion, she slammed her booted heel down onto the man’s foot, grinding it into the bones beneath. He howled and leaned forward instinctively, and that’s when she struck. Her forehead smashed into his nose with a sickening crunch, blood spurting across her cheek.
With her legs still bound to the chair, Sasha braced herself, then suddenly snapped her knees outward. The wood cracked under the force. She leaned forward, tightening her core, and launched herself into a front flip. Mid-air, the momentum drove the chair down hard as she landed on her back. The brittle frame exploded beneath the impact, splinters scattering as the bindings shattered. Sasha rolled to her feet, free and ready to kill.
The men around her barely had time to react.
One lunged toward her, gun halfway raised—but Sasha was already in motion, flipping forward and catching him in the neck with the jagged edge of wood. Arterial spray painted the floor as she spun, catching another man’s arm mid-swing, snapping it at the elbow. His scream was cut short by a precise kick to his throat, crushing his windpipe.
She moved with a surreal elegance—like a dancer executing a perfect routine in slow motion, except each movement was laced with lethal efficiency. Her body twisted and flipped, using her momentum to deliver devastating strikes with machine-like precision. Every kick, every punch, every motion was deliberate, flowing from one to the next.
Another attacker fired, but she dove to the ground, rolled forward, and launched herself into a backflip. Her boots connected with his face on the way down. Bone cracked. He collapsed.
Two men remained. One raised a crowbar, the other a switchblade.
Sasha caught the man with the knife first. She ducked under his s***h, twisted around him, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Using her core strength, she flipped backward, slamming him into the ground headfirst. He went limp instantly.
The last man hesitated.
Big mistake.
She landed on her feet and sprang at him with a roundhouse kick that sent the crowbar flying. She caught it mid-air and buried it in his chest without hesitation.
Silence.
The only sounds were her steady breaths and the low hum of distant machinery.
Except one man was still alive.
He crawled toward the exit, blood leaking from a wound in his side. His breathing was ragged, desperate.
Sasha walked over calmly, eyes narrowing on the hook hanging just above the ledge.
She grabbed the rope and swung it like a pendulum before letting it fly. The curved metal end latched into the man's calf with a wet thud. He screamed—high-pitched, broken—as she yanked the rope. He slid across the blood-slick floor, screaming and flailing.
With a sharp tug, Sasha hoisted him upside down over the ledge.
Blood poured from his leg, dripping down his body and onto his own face. He sobbed, trembling.
Sasha tilted her head slightly, almost curious.
"You know," she said in that soft Russian, emotionless voice, "most men scream louder."
He whimpered, trying to speak through the blood.
"Please... please... I don't know anything..."
Sasha narrowed her eyes. "Mm. We'll see."
She grabbed a nearby jagged pipe and jabbed it into his shoulder, just enough to make him scream. She twisted it slowly.
"The Hand of Justice. Where's the main base?"
"Germany! Berlin, I think! Please!"
She leaned in. "Who else? Who’s embedded?"
"They said... they said we have people everywhere. Even in the CIA... I swear that’s all I know!"
Sasha pulled the pipe free, blood oozing.
"That's all I know! Please! They don’t tell us much. Just orders. We move things, clean up... we don’t ask questions."
She leaned in, her expression unreadable.
"Spies. Where?"
"Everywhere. CIA, MI6, Mossad, Interpol... even the f*****g UN. They're ghosts. Embedded deep."
Sasha gave a slow nod. Then she gently tapped his cheek with her fingers.
"Thank you. You've been... very helpful."
His eyes widened in horror.
"Wait—"
"Unfortunately..." she said flatly, "no witnesses."
And with that, she let go of the rope.
The man dropped. His scream cut short by a sickening crunch that echoed up from the darkness below.
Sasha turned and calmly walked away. Her boots clicked against the concrete, not hurried, not triumphant—just calm, methodical. Her white-blonde hair was matted with sweat and blood. Her hazel-green eyes locked onto a small, blinking red light embedded in the corner.
She stopped, stared at the camera, and raised her hand.
With two fingers, she offered a lazy, sarcastic salute.
Back at the safehouse, Calvin leaned back in his chair, watching the feed fade to black. He clasped his hands over his stomach, a small satisfied smile on his lips.
Mason’s mouth hung open slightly. Gary was ghost-pale. Quinn’s jaw was clenched.
Calvin turned to Mason. "Well? What do you think?"
Mason took a moment before she managed a breath.
"She's... she's a monster."
"Yea," Calvin said shrugging, still smiling. "She's the monster we need."
Gary rubbed his face with both hands, then muttered, "Jesus Christ, she tore them apart like they were nothing."
"They were nothing," Calvin said simply. "They just didn’t know it."
Quinn narrowed his eyes at the older man. "You sent her in there to be tortured. To make it convincing."
Calvin raised a brow. "She volunteered."
"That doesn't make it better."
"She understands the stakes. You will too. Sooner or later."
No one said anything.
Finally, Mason asked, "What happens now?"
Calvin turned back to the dark screen.
"Now? Now we go to Germany."
- Writer
