Tempest
Tears blur my vision as I’m dragged past the rows of bikes by a humongous, bald-headed dickhead. He’s taller than Sargent and has his hand fisted in my hair.
“Gently, Sergei,” my captor snaps at his bald-headed guard.
My captor being a very Russian, much older man called Yaroslava. The same man that Sargent told me about just last night.
I don’t beg anymore, not like I did for the first five minutes, insisting I had nothing to do with this. Yaroslava pushed a blade against my neck and that’s all it took to silence me for the journey here. I would have been safer hiding somewhere. They stopped us en route to the airport. They left Miles by his car in a b****y pulp after this bald f**k and another guard kicked the s**t out of him. He put up a good fight but it wasn’t enough.
