WHITE KNIGHT - Soldiers of Fortune [book 3]

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SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE can be read as a stand alone series even though it is a continuation of THE SPECTER & BRAVO BOYS SERIES' stories and takes place in the same 'universe'..

If you are interested in reading more of my works, please check the following series order:

THE SPECTER SERIES

1. Hunting for Honey

2. Feilds of Clover

3. Silk & Steel

4. Secrets of Summer

5. Lace & Leather

6. The Colt & The Cobra

THE BRAVO BOYS

1. Killerwolf

2. Tigerlilly

3. Snake Eater

4. Devil Dogs

SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE

1. Red Reaper

2. Purple Heart

3. White Knight

SPECTER SHORT STORIES

1. Alfa

2. Bravo

4. Delta

18. Romeo

SPECTER SPECIALS

• Halloween Specials - ANGELMAKER The Southside Slayer & ANGELMAKER II The Southside Slaughter

• Christmas Specials - Dasher & The Dancer - Christmas In Aspen, Vixen & The Viper

• Valenines Day Special - Hellfire

• The Little Blook Of Love - A collection of romantic one shots

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⚠️WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, DRUG & ALCOHOL USE, EXTREME VIOLENCE AND SEXUAL ASSAULT THEMES THAT MAY BE DISTRESSING TO SOME

Konradt Volkov

I learned long ago that hell isn't a place…

It's a state of mind..

And my fractured mind is little more than a perpetual inferno of my own making..

But the dank underground cell that holds me isn't much of an improvement..Toxic black slime seeps down concrete walls in thick greasy ribbons, stinking of mould, old blood and human waste baked into clay stone.. It settles in my lungs with every breath, bitter, poisonous and acrid, rotting a man from the inside long before anyone extends the mercy of putting a bullet in his skull..

And Goddamn, most days I wish they would already..

The cramped room they keep me in has no windows, no clock, no comfort and no connection to the outside world.. Only an unbreakable steel ring bolted into the floor; a short length of chain locked to my ankle; a stained mattress thin as paper; and a rusted drain in the far corner where the tap-water runs an unsettling pinkish hue more often than clear..

I sit exhausted in the darkness with my back to the wall and my forearms resting over my drawn knees, conserving heat, conserving strength, conserving every last shred of myself these insurgent bastards have not yet stripped away.. My beard has grown in rough over the past months and my hard earned muscle has turned lean. My mouth tastes constantly of heavy metals and dust, while dehydration and malnutrition have robbed me of all energy.. One rib on my left side had healed badly after the third interrogation and now clicks faintly when I breathe too deep.. My left hand still doesn’t close properly after they smashed it with the butt of an AK, shattering knuckle and bone to prove a point.. In all my time at the Northern Liberation Front’s off grid compound, I had been beaten, lashed, cut and carved… But I'd never broken.. I’d never even been close..

I catalogue each weakness within my body the way I once catalogued ammunition, exits, and enemy positions.. Not with fear or regret…Not with self pity or misery.. With discipline.. Because knowing my new limitations will be critical in the coming days..

I mentally note every detail, every scrap of Intel that might somehow be of use; The guards change every six hours, sometimes five when they’re drunk.. The door opens inward and the hinge on the lower side has a fault; it would maybe give a fraction if approached with enough force.. The man called Azim likes to stand too close when he taunts prisoners, and the younger one with the lazy eye always leaves his knife on the table outside during evening prayers.. The overhead generator coughs twice before it fails.. And when it fails, the corridor lights die for exactly eleven seconds before the backup kicks in..

Eleven seconds..

A lifetime, if a man is ready, and I have been ready for weeks..

What I could not have accounted for is the woman..

I hear the commotion before I see her, my attention piqued by braying shouts ringing throughout the corridor.. Heavy boots stomp in my direction, accompanied by harsh laughter steeped in vodka and cruelty.. Something is being dragged, rough along the floor as a muffled cry wrings out in a broken voice that is unmistakably female..

“No please! Let me go!”

My spine straightens from the wall as I brace myself, but I say nothing.. I do nothing.. I have survived this long by becoming stone when they want spectacle and I do not intend to demolish my stonewall now..

The lock bolts screech before the timber door flies open and grey light from the corridor slashes across the floor; along with it comes four men and their reluctant prize..

They throw her in so hard she hits the concrete on her hands and knees, sprawling on delicate limbs to catch herself.. “Owh!” A strangled breath tears out of her, followed by the scrape of palms against stone.. A camera bag hits the floor beside her, then one of the men tosses a cracked laminated ID that skids all the way to the drain..

My eyes track it automatically, collecting the invaluable data that could help me understand what the fuck is going on..

PRESS.

The plastic is fractured straight through her surname, but I catch enough of it..

O’Cleriegh.

Irish..

“Zapadnaya shlyukha..” (western whore) One of the guards barks his hateful condemnation in rough Strysaki-accented Russian that makes the others laugh..

They banter back and forth, slandering her with vicious humour, dubbing her a ‘pretty little witness’, an ‘expensive hostage’, a ‘stupid slut’, and worse.. Their voices trip over one another with the excitement of feral dogs gathered around a fresh carcass..

The petite woman pushes herself upright.. Not fully.. Not yet.. Perhaps she is not ready to face the monsters who salivate over her suffering.. Or perhaps she is more grievously injured than she appears.. I couldn't say..

Her breathing comes quick and shallow, an understandable panic, controlled only by an impressive force of will.. Long copper hair, dimmed with dust and damp with sweat, spills from a torn scarf and catches in curly tangles over her shoulders.. A split lip stains one corner of her mouth, there is dried mud on her cheek and blood on the collar of her pale shirt, though I cannot tell if it is hers..

Suddenly her eyes lift and even from across the room I see the shock in them when she realises she is not alone.. But that blue.. It’s captivating, unlike anything I have ever seen.. Velvety midnight, shimmering with innocence and melancholy as they anchor upon mine.. For a few fleeting moments, my breath catches in my throat and the world around me blurs away..

She's fucking beautiful..

But she looks at me as women in war zones have looked at me before; first fear, then assessment, then the dreadful question of whether I am just another danger..

I give her nothing, keeping my facade detached and unfeeling, because hope is a liability neither of us can afford; and this pretty little inconvenience has just thrown a devastating wrench in my carefully laid plans..

One of the guards steps in after her to catch her by the hair, wrenching her head back to reveal a delicate jaw and slender neck decorated in soft ginger freckles.. She winces at the brutality, but doesn’t give her tormentor the satisfaction of crying out..

She is defiant, resilient and stubborn..

Traits that should serve her well here..

Sometimes stubbornness keeps people alive, if only for a few minutes longer..

“Ona nemnogo ponimayet russkiy yazyk..” (she understands some Russian) The guard informs the others.. “No tol'ko samoye neobkhodimoye, eta suka tupaya.” (but only the basics, the bitch is stupid)

Another squats beside her, taking her harshly by the chin to tilt her face left and right, like he is inspecting livestock.. “Zhurnalist..” (journalist) He mocks with a sinister smirk.. “Spasite mir s pomoshch'yu svoyey kamery.” (come to save the world with your camera)

-CRACK-

He slaps her square in the mouth.. Not hard enough to break anything, just hard enough to humiliate and my jaw tightens at the savagery, but I keep my body still.. The first rule of captivity is simple.. Don’t spend rage where it can’t buy results..

The men look to me then, seeking more than just a reaction, and that is when the wrongness of the scene settles into my bones..

They didn’t throw her in here just to hold her..

They want something..

The meanest of them, Malik, a ruthless mercenary turned terrorist Amir, leans in the doorway with his rifle slung lazy across his chest and his snarled mouth twisted into a sickening grin.. He is not local, hard as he pretends to be, I can see the Russian written all over him.. A soldier of fortune wearing convenient religious ideology like borrowed clothing.. His accent is clean and educated, upper class, unlike my own.. And it is clear he enjoys the superiority; enjoys switching between polished language and barbarity as if it makes him better than all the savage animals who surround him..

“Volkov..” Malik drawls, taunting me with a sadistic smile that tests my temper.. “Ty byl odinok..’ (you’ve been lonely)

The air suddenly feels heavier and the room grows colder.. Whatever game he is attempting to play, I already know the stakes don't swing in my favour..

So I grit my teeth and keep my mouth shut..

Malik’s smile widens, pleased when I don't make it easy on him since my silence invites him to provoke me further.. “Poydem... Segodnya vecherom ya shchedryy chelovek... YA privel s soboy kompaniyu.” (come.. I am a generous man tonight.. I've brought you company)

The others laugh again, a chorus of simple minded lackeys without enough combined brainpower to compose a single thought for themselves..

Followers… Sheep..

The captive woman’s fearful gaze flicks between them, then back to me.. She understands enough now.. I see the moment clarity dawns and her skin blanches pale underneath the dirt..

No..

Not this.. Anything but this..

”Vstavat!” (get up) Malik jerks the barrel of his rifle towards me in a warning gesture that ignoring would likely see my nose broken in return..

Letting out a sigh, I push slowly to my feet, pain shooting down my ribcage as the chain rattles across the floor..

Every movement hurts, but I let none of it show.. I refuse to give Malik the pleasure of seeing just how low my morale has sunk..

I am a large man still, even half-starved, but the months had stripped me down to hard angles and lean muscle, even then they could never diminish what I am.. Spetsnaz.. Special forces.. A soldier.. My spirit remembers how to fight, even when the flesh fails..

“Pokazhi yey, kakoy ty zver' Konrad. YA znayu, ty etogo khochesh'..” (show her what an animal you are,. Konrad I know you want to) Malik makes it disgustingly clear what he wants and how savage he believes me to be, eager to prove his power and denigrate this poor girl all at once..

I step once toward her, towering over her huddled form to see her recoil in fear.. My gaze meets hers, holding it for a beat longer than I should and in that moment I wish I could tell her not to panic.. Not to give in.. Not give them what they want..

But she'd never trust my intention.. And I'd never blame her for that..

Turning slowly, I look to Malik..

“Nyet.” (no)

The laughter thins and the men fall quiet, incensed by my refusal..

Malik tilts his head, his face flushing redder than im sure he'd like for his men to witness; any show of weakness a cardinal sin among his kind.. “YA ne zadal voprosa, Konradt.” (that wasn't a question Konradt)

My voice comes out rough from disuse but steady.. “I vso zhe u vas yest' moy otvet..” (and yet you have my answer)

One of the younger guards rips the scarf from her neck and the button down shirt from her shoulders before he kicks the back of the woman's knee and forces her lower.. She catches herself with both palms, her bruised arms bare in a stained white singlet.. A soft sound escapes her this time, pain and terror swallowed down too late.. “Ugh..”

Malik steps towards me anls the others crowd the threshold, their eager eyes leering in the corridor light.. “Ty ne vprave mne otkazat', Volkov..” (you are in no position to refuse me, Volkov)

I shrug.. “Menya eto nikogda ran'she ne ostanavlivalo..” (that has never stopped me before)

The first blow comes fast..

Malik crosses the space and drives his fist into my injured ribs and an unforgiving white heat bursts through my side.. The wall catches me before the floor does and the taste of blood floods my mouth where my teeth bite through my inner cheek.. But I straighten anyway, blinking through the starry specks that swim in my vision with too much pride to show the pain..

So Malik hits me again..

And again..

Each strike lands with precise contempt.. Buckling blows focussed on the body, not the face.. Malik is the kind of man who knows how much injury can be inflicted without ending the game too soon.. He doesn't want to knock me out, he wants to knock me down.. He wants obedience..

But he will never get it from me..

“Zaberi yeyo... Trakhni yeyo..” (take her.. fuck her) Malik says conversationally, as though we discuss the weather and not the violation of an innocent woman.. “Ili ya nachnu otrezat' ot tebya kuski, i ona smozhet nablyudat..” (or I start cutting pieces off you and she can watch)

Silence greets his demands and somewhere above the compound, the generator chokes once, that familiar old rhythmic hum rattling down the corridor before the lights flicker out..

There goes my opportunity for the night..

I look past Malik to the shivering woman on the floor.. She is shaking all over now, not from cold but from all she is forced to endure.. I see her chest rising too quickly and the effort it takes for her not to recoil from me.. In my current state I probably look half feral; dark beard over a gaunt face, bruises fading yellow over old cuts, wrists ringed raw from steel cuffs..

A Russian prisoner in a terrorist cell..

Any sane woman would simply see another monster, justifiably kept in chains and deserving of his doomed fate.. Yet when Malik grabs her jaw and turns her face toward me, she keeps looking at me, those striking blue eyes locked on mine with an unwavering conviction.. “You like what you see eh? You want to fuck him, Mizz Sapphire? Da?”

Sapphire.. It is the first time I hear them speak the word and I know immediately it is her name.. It matches her eyes.. Those mesmerising blue oceans of sadness that plead with me; not for herself, but for me, urging my compliance with desperate calculation..

The understanding slices through me deeper than any unspoken code ever could.. She is offering herself to spare me and the suggestion of it makes me sick to my stomach..

Malik follows my gaze and smiles with dawning delight. “Ah.. Vidite? Yey eto nravitsya..” (you see? she likes it)

He shoves Sapphire toward me and she stumbles forward to land hard on her knees, bracing herself against my thigh before reeling back like she has touched a live wire.. The contact lasts less than a second, but it lingers where her ice cold fingers meet my warm skin..

I catch her elbow before she hits the floor, steadying her where she wobbles but nothing more.. My grip is careful despite the damage in my hand, wary of harming her any more than she has already been subjected to..

Helping her to her feet, she stares up at me from a breath away now, so close I can see the faint freckles on her nose and smell smoke in her hair.. And something clean beneath it; soap, maybe, or a sweet, vanilla perfume..

“It’s okay…” She whispers so softly only I can hear… ”Just do what they say..” The fluent English she speaks flows with a lyrical cadence, gently melodic with a graceful Irish lilt..

“No..” I answer, my own Moscovite accent thick and low.. “I will not..”

Her eyes widen and I see her surprise at hearing her language from the lips of this condemned man..

“They’ll kill you,” She shudders, glancing over her shoulder to where Malik watches our exchange with a curious glare..

But I cannot tear my eyes off her.. “Perhapz..”

Her lower lip quivers once before she bites it hard enough to stop.. Sweet little fool, she is brave enough to bargain with her own innocence if it means this broken man might survive..

Malik quickly grows impatient.. “Dostatochno!” (enough)

He yanks Sapphire away from me by the shoulder and hurls her back toward the mattress where she falls hard, auburn locks spilling over her face as one of the guards lunges forward meaning to pin her there, grinning with broken teeth..

That is enough to trigger a flood of outrage, burning hot through my blood..

So I move driven by instinct and fury.. And utter stupidity..

The chain snaps taut as I surge across the room to catch the guard by the throat one-handed and slam him into the wall with enough force to crack the back of his head against the concrete.. His rifle clatters away as the room erupts into chaos..

Someone shouts and another laughs in shock while Malik swings the butt of his weapon into my spine.. Pain explodes down my back but still I hold on, crushing the guard’s windpipe as he gags and claws uselessly at my iron grip..

“Volkov!”

A knife flashes, light glinting off the sharpened steel as it slashes through the air in a reckless arc.. I release the guard and turn just enough that the blade slices through my upper arm instead of my throat; and in an instant hot blood sheets beneath the torn fabric of my shirt..

“Oh God!” Sapphire cries out, drawing every eye to her..

“Zatknis!” (shut the fuck up) Malik backhands her so violently she pitches sideways across the mattress, her hand reaching up to cup her reddening cheek, shuddering sons now wracking her fragile form..

After that my vision turns red..

I’ve killed men for less, peeled through rooms of armed insurgents, methodical and merciless.. Even chained, even half-broken, the impulse to rage still simmers under my skin.. It is hardwired in me, etched bone-deep and coded into my DNA..

Unleashed like a predator starved for too long and suddenly given the scent of blood, I go for Malik..

But I don’t reach him..

Three outfitted guards hit me at once.. Rifle stocks greet cartilage, boots meet muscle and fists swing wildly.. One drives a knee into the back of my leg and sends me down hard enough to rattle my teeth.. Another loops the loose length of chain around my throat and hauls me backward, cutting off oxygen until black sparks dance at the periphery of my sight..

Through the ringing in my ears I hear Sapphire struggling..

Screaming..

“Stop!” She shouts in English, her pleas falling on deaf ears.. So, she tries again in stilted, clumsy Russian.. “Pozhaluysta, ostanovites..” (please stop)

One of the guards laughs, hitching a thumb towards her, taking twisted pleasure in the whole wretched scene.. Teper' ona poproshaynichayet, kak sobaka..” (now she begs like a bitch)

I plant my palm, shove upward, and manage one breath before a boot stamps my slashed arm.. Fire rips through me and the chain bites deeper into my neck.. I am outnumbered, and far too weak to fight them all.. But that didn't stop me from trying..

Malik crouches in front of me at last, his energy calm again now that I've been subdued.. Smiling that same sadistic smirk I've come to expect from the man..

“Ponimayete?” (you see) He sighs in disappointment.. “Vy mogli by sami sebe eto uprostit'..” (you could have made this easy on yourself)

“Poshel na khuy!” (fuck you) I spit blood at his boots..

Malik wipes one speck off the leather with the edge of his sleeve before turning to his lackeys and barks and order with the snap of his fingers.. “Voz'mi yego..” (take him)

They haul me to my feet as Sapphire lurches off the mattress on her knees.. “Wait!”

The room stills for that single word..

Malik turns his head toward her in slow amusement.. “Why I wait?”

Her chest heaves and her body trembles, one side of her face is already brusing dark red but still she drags herself upright and stands shaking on unsteady legs.. There is no fight in her body that can match any of the men surrounding her, but there is something else in her.. Something fiery and courageous..

“He did nothing..” She reasons as though persuasion stands a chance, naive to the ways of this place and the men who rule it.. “Please, let him go..”

Malik looks delighted, clapping his hands in mock amusement.. “Ah! The reporter takez pity upon the damned.. How vury sweet.. I suppoze you would like to take hiz place..”

She swallows.. “We both know I’m worth more to you alive..”

“You are worth much to me, Printsessa..” Malik stalks over to where she stands, sizing her up..

“Then let me live..” Sapphire glances at me, calculations running like a program behind her cool blue eyes as she tries to determine just how much rope Malik will give.. “Let both of us live..”

I recognise the risk.. Sapphire is woman stepping onto thin ice because standing still guarantees death, and there is little else I can do but admire her efforts.. While I'd seen many prisoners come and go, easily defeated by compound life, she holds her own in a way that is both impressive and idiotic all at once..

Why the fuck would she try to help me, when she should only be thinking to save herself?

Malik considers her carefully as he circles her once, studying everything from her desperate expression to her brave posture.. “You think you are in position to negotiate?”

“Yes..” She answers, confident yet cautious.. “I think you need me intact..”

Reaching out with grubby fingers, he lifts a lock of her auburn hair before leaning in with a sniff, breathing in her scent.. “And if I agree?”

My fists clench at my sides, defensive in an inexplicable way that makes no sense..

I hate to see him touch her..

At my reaction her gaze flicks to me just once, so quickly none of the others have a chance to read the meaning..

But I see her.. I understand her..

She is urging me not to react, not to fight back..

So, I bite down on my rage, even though it throbs hot through my veins, demanding vengeance..

“I will cooperate..” Sapphire plays her hand, but the words seem to blister in the air and several guards laugh at once, ugly with implication..

They have no respect for her and they see no value in her humanity; their only interest lies in what her life might be traded for..

I surge against the hands pinning me and earn another kick to the ribs for it..

Malik lifts a finger, silencing the others. He stands very close to her now; close enough that she has to tip her chin back to meet his eyes.. “Cooperate how?”

Sapphire’s face loses what little colour remains, but she holds steady.. “Proof of life.. Interviews.. Statements.. I will deliver whatever message you want sent..”

‘Smart’, I think despite the fury knifing through me.. Her offer is clever and quite possibly her best bet.. Using what little worth they believe she has to buy herself time..

Malik considers this, then smiles.. “Vury well.. You will live, Mizz Sapphire.. But I cannot permit Volkov the same generosity..” He turns back to the men holding me, eyes black as coals with sadism stark in his stare.. “Take him to the yard..”

Sapphire’s composure shatters as a raw and horrified sob catches in her throat.. “No.. Please! You don't have to do this!”

I look at her across the room while the guards haul me brutally towards the door..

Her eyes lock to mine.. Wide, wet and fearful..

But she had tried, and for that I can’t leave her with these evil monsters thinking she traded her only bargain chip away for my life, just to watch me die anyway..

So I give her the one thing I still possess.. A choice she can survive.. A rationale she can live with if by some miracle she survives this hell.. “Thiz iz not your fault..”

“Oh god..” She sobs, falling to a crumpled heap on the floor, mourning me; a man she doesn't even know..

The guards drag me backward by the chain twisted around my neck as Malik laughs softly.. “How vury touching..”

Then the corridor swallows us and I am led through the compound with a series of brutal shoves and snaps of chain..

Outside, night wind cuts through the compound in bitter knives, carrying smoke from cookfires and the metallic stink of blood.. Even beneath all the filth of this place, the crisp air tastes sweet of snow not yet fallen.. The yard is little more than packed mud ringed by floodlights and razor wire, beyond which the outer wall of black mountains rises under a blackened sky..

My boots scrape trenches through the dirt as they drag me to the crude centre post, a place I have been many times before; for beatings.. For executions.. For punishments.. And already I know this experience will be no different..

It takes three guards to tie my wrists above my head to the rusted overhead hook that has been bolted into a crude timber frame.. Not high enough to dislocate anything, but just high enough to strain the shoulders and leave the body exposed..

Unfortunately efficient; torture seems to be the one field in which Malik excels..

The yard slowly fills as fighters wander out with cigarettes and rifles, drawn in by boredom and a lack of any other form of entertainment.. A pair of boys barely old enough to shave climb onto crates for a better view, while someone passes a bottle and another shouts up to a window, calling for others to join the audience..

Betting begins among the spectators, taking guesses at how long I will last.. Or if I will survive at all..

Terror always becomes theatre in places like this.. And tonight, I am the star of the show..

Malik stands before me with a length of black cable coiled in one hand.. “Konradt– krutoy paren..” (tough guy) He sneers.. “Posmotrim, kak dolgo proderzhitsya vasha chest'.” (let's see how long your honour lasts)

-CRACK-

The first strike wraps clean around my ribs and tears a grunt from me before I can stop it.. Fire follows, burning across my skin.. Then a wet heat seeps out of the welt, a radiating wash of pain and blood spreading across my torso..

-CRACK-

The second lash lands hard across my back, ripping skin from spine..

-CRACK-

The third brands its vicious mark over my thighs.

I clench my jaw until I taste blood again..

Count..

Always count..

Not because it helps.. But because numbers are structure, and structure is survival..

Four..

Five..

Six..

Somewhere around eight the world narrows to impact and forced breath..

At twelve, a woman’s voice breaks through the roar in my ears and I lift my head to see Sapphire standing at the barred window above the corridor, fingers white-knuckled around rusted steel bars.. Two guards flank her, holding her by either arm, perhaps to force her watch, or perhaps to keep her from throwing herself down into the yard.. It is difficult to tell at this distance and the woman has demonstrated she is not beyond irrational decisions..

Her hair streams wild around her face and even from afar I can see tears on her cheeks, though I cannot hear whether she is crying out because the howling wind steals all sound..

For a few fleeting moments our eyes meet, and that is my mistake..

Seeing this torment reflected back through her eyes, It makes the pain more real.. I could manage when it was only my own, but now it is shared with this sympathetic stranger, it causes more agony than I’ve felt in such a long time..

Sapphire looks stricken.. Terrified.. Helpless.. And beneath all of it, there is something else..

Recognition..

Not of who I am.. But of what I chose..

Because I did choose this.. I chose my own suffering over her violation.. And I would do it again..

Malik follows my line of sight and smiles without turning.. The next strike lands across my chest, cruel and diagonal, designed to leave a mark visible through any half-buttoned shirt for months..

“Svidetel..” (witness) Malik calls up in Russian, speaking to her loyalists like the ringmaster of this whole sick circus, putting on the performance of a lifetime.. “Vot chto proiskhodit s muzhchinami, kotoryye otkazyvayutsya ot podarkov..” (this is what happens to men who refuse gifts)

Laughter ripples across the yard, onlookers revelling in my misfortune..Above Sapphire shouts something back, her voice swept away by the winds..

But I think I hear her say;

Animals..

Cowards.

Bastards.

At least that is what I hope she is screaming.. Let them hear her hatred, for hate keeps the soul warm when there is nothing else left..

For me, the beating continues and by twenty lashes I can’t feel my fingers anymore.. By twenty-four one knee buckles and I hang more than stand.. By thirty the floodlights have halos around them and the mountains beyond the wall begin to tilt strangely sideways.

Then, mercifully or perhaps merely because Malik grows bored, it stops..

I sag in the ropes, my breath reduced to weak shredded gasps.. Blood runs warm down my sides and cools too quickly in the icy evening chill and soon the yard noise begins to fade as the audience disperses..

The spectacle is over..

Malik steps close enough that only I can hear him.. “Tebe sledovalo prinyat' moyo predlozheniye..” (you should have taken what was offered)

I force one eye open, exhausted and edging on unconsciousness.. “Vy prinyali menya za sobaku..” (you mistake me for a dog)

Malik’s smile vanishes before he drives the handle of the cable into my skull.. Blackness bursts and I am sent spinning into the darkness...

When awareness returns, I am moving.. Or rather, being moved..

My boots drag and mud scrapes my knees.. harsh hands are hooked beneath my armpits hauling dead weight down the corridor while the fluorescent lights overhead blur in and out; buzzing white, shadow, white, shadow..

I smell the cell before the door opens.. Damp.. Rust.. That same faithful old misery..

The guards throw me in without ceremony and I hit the floor on one shoulder, rolling hard enough that my vision flashes silver and spotted as the door clangs shut behind me..

Silence floods in to meet the rushing sound of my blood ponding in my ears.. Soon the rhythm of a dripping pipe becomes clear and the tat of distant gunfire bursts far off in the mountains; Then the cough of the generator sputters above, rivalled only by my own ragged breath..

And a second breath..

Closer..

For one disorienting moment I think I might have imagined her..

But when cool hands touch my face, I jerk instinctively, a snarl catching in my torn throat.. “Ne smey menya trogat', blyat'!” (don't fucking touch me)

“It’s only me..” She whispers in the darkness, soft and tender in a way I have never deserved..

I force my eyes open, blinking through the blackness to make out her silhouette.. Sapphire kneels beside me in the dark, one hand hovering near my jaw, the other clutching a stained rag she had torn from her own shirt and a dented tin cup.. Her face is shrouded by shadow, but even in the dim I spy the mottled bruising that marrs her creamy Irish complexion.. One side of her lip has split and there is dried blood on her sleeve where someone else’s hand had grabed too hard..

I try to push myself up, but my body shrieks and protest and pain flattens me..

“Don’t try to move..” She sets the cup down and braces a palm to my chest, then seems to remember who she is touching and snatches her hand back. “Sorry.. Sorry– I didn't mean to–”

Her apologies are ridiculous and confusing, but hardly surprising.. With a groan I roll onto my side and manage to lever myself against the wall, guided by sheer stubbornness and failing muscle.. Each breath scrapes along my ribcage and my shirt is mostly tatters s now, sticking wet to my skin..

Sapphire stares at the damage and goes pale.. “God..”

“He iz not here..” The words fall from my lips rougher than I intend, but they have an unexpected effect.. A startled laugh escapes her, brief and cracked before she covers her mouth as if ashamed of it.. Still, better her laughter than sobbing, though both are equally useless in this nightmare..

“You’re bleedin’ quite badly there..” Her eyes rake over my mutilated muscle, wincing when she discovers the deepest of my wounds..

“Da..” (yes) I acknowledge her observations, as unrequired as they may be..

She lifts the dampened rag with a gentle gesture.. “I need to clean the wounds..”

“Nyet..” (no) I wave her hand away.. “Do not bother..”

Her chin lifts.. “Do you want to die from infection?”

For the first time since entering the room, something dangerously close to amusement touches the edges of my pain.. ‘Ov’ course not; I would much rather another beating tomorrow.. And the day after that.. And the day after that–”

Sapphire shakes her head.. “Oh grand– so you’re fucking insane..”

I look her over more carefully now that the adrenaline burns off..

The woman is tough.. Late twenties perhaps, with pretty feline features, long black lashes and a delicate upturned nose.. Journalist’s hands tremble slightly where she holds her improvised first aid tools, ink-smudged along the side of one finger and callused where camera weight rests.. She wears casual but smart clothes turned practical by necessity; laced up boots, cargo pants and a jacket designed with too many pockets to hold lenses, memory cards and batteries.. She’s clearly a civilian, but not a naïve tourist.. This woman knows danger exists, she knows it runs rampant through this country.. However, she had not been expecting it to affect her in this precise shape..

Nobody ever does..

“Your name–” I prompt, curious to hear it spoken in her natural accent and not butchered in the mouth of Malik and his men..

She blinks, as though surprised I’d asked; surprised I'd care.. “Sapphire.. Some people call me Saffy..”

I nod once.. “Konradt..”

“I figured..” She answers bluntly as I watch her dip the rag into the cup.. “Now sit still, this'll sting a wee bit..” The water is brownish and certainly not clean, but likely better than nothing.. I become a statue, unmoving as she cleans away the sticky blood and tears strips from the hem of her own shirt without hesitation; folding them with shaking fingers I to makeshift bandages..

“You should not have done that, Konradt..” She utters finally after what feels like an eternity of her sitting all too close..

“Done what?” I frown..

“Refused..”

Lifting my eyes from where her hands work, I hold her gaze until she looks away first.. My answer, when it comes, is simple.. “I should..”

The delicate cords of her throat work.. “They nearly killed you.. And if you refuse again — they will kill you..”

“Promise?”

She makes that sweet, tiny sound again; not quite a laugh and not quite a cry.. The sound of someone trying to fit a gambit of emotions inside a body too small to contain them..

“They did mean for me to uze you,” I say.. “They seek to hurt you and make it mine.. There iz difference between dying in this place and becoming it..”

Her eyes lift to mine then, curious, cautious and incandescent in the dark.. “I told them I’d cooperate,” She whispers.. “I thought if I gave them something useful, they might stop..”

I muster the closest to gratitude I am capable of despite being of the mind she’d been utterly foolish to think she'd sway Malik from his madness.. “It waz— appreciated effort..”

A small sniffle gives away her tears.. “I’m sorry..”

That stops me..

I stare hard though the darkness, struck by disbelief.. “You apologize–” I say slowly, “becauze armed men torture me after threatening to violate you..”

She swallows a sob and wipes at her eye with the back of her hand.. “I know how it sounds.”

“Da..”(yes) I scoff.. “Stupid..”

A heartbeat passes..Then, to my surprise, Sapphire huffs a real laugh through her tears, brief and offended, but genuine..

“Charming..” She mutters..

Despite myself, despite the pain splitting me open in layers, my mouth almost moves..

Almost..

She leans in carefully and begins to clean the cut on my cheek and it burns like acid.. But I don’ flinch..

“You speak English well..” After a moment she attempts another exchange, her fingers steadier now that they have found purpose..

“You speak Russian badly..” My cool reply earns me a dark glare this time, but I don't begrudge her that, after all anger is even better than tears..

“Whatever... I speak enough..”

“Enough to get yourself killed.”

“Enough to understand exactly what they wanted you to do to me..”

I go still and her hand pauses against my skin.. The air between us changes; sharpens, thins, strips itself of all but truth.. She knows.. Not abstractly and not in the way hostages dread as possibilities..

She knows the exact nature of the degradation intended for her.. And still she offered herself to spare me..

What kind of woman does that?

A brave one perhaps... Or a broken one..

For now, I file the thought away for later..

Tonight, Sapphire had proven one thing.. That she would make an incredibly valuable asset, and she may be useful to me.. To the plan..

“There are twelve men on night watch,” I start slowly, trying to gauge her reaction..

She looks up sharply.. “Including Malik?”

“Da.” (yes)

“You know their rotations?”

“I know everything in this place worth knowing.”

Her breath catches and for the first time, beneath the fear and the shock and the impossible grief of the day, I see it bloom in her expression..

Hope..

There is fight in this woman, and I would not underestimate her instinct to survive..

“You’re planning something?” She arches an auburn brow..

I hold her gaze, waiting as the scuff of boots pass down the corridor and recedes.. Somewhere overhead a dog barks twice and the generator coughs its old warning again..

Eleven seconds..

Not tonight.. Not with my body torn open and a new hostage they are watching too closely.. But soon..

Very soon…

“I am..” I admit at last..

Sapphire’s fingers tighten around the bloodied cloth.. “Then I’m helping..”

A lesser man might laugh..

A smarter man might refuse..

And apparently I am neither..

I look at the ruined press badge lying half-submerged near the drain and at the camera bag they tossed so carelessly aside, not realising what tools they might become to the observant opportunist.. I look at the pretty copper-haired foreign journalist, kneeling in filth with a torn shirt, shaking hands and eyes too bright for this darkness..

Not a victim, then..

Well, not only that.

An asset..

A witness..

A problem..

Perhaps even a weapon..

I lean my head back against the wall and let my eyes close for one brief second.. When I open them again, they fix on her.. “Then listen carefully, Sapphire O’Cleriegh,” I warn.. “From thiz moment on, you do exactly az I say..”

She lifts her chin, defiance sparking instantly, pride warring with what she knows may be her only chance at salvation.. “You haven’t even told me the plan..”

“No.”

“Uhh–” Sapphire hesitates, her brow furrowed into a scrutinising scowl.. “That’s not very reassuring, Konradt..’

“It iz not meant to be, Irish..”

I take a single beat, and another measured breath.. Then, quietly, in the dark caught between one nightmare and the next, I tell the first truth I’ve allowed myself in months..

“We are going to kill them,” I growl, low and dangerous, plotting the steps in my mind, visualising victory.. “And then we are going to leave.”

★★★

A note from the author

Hey besties, if you read this far I'd love for you to leave me a little feedback!

Let me know if you'd like to see this book continued, as I am on the fence about leaving it up or starting something else entirely!

I need y'all to help me choose my next WIP!

Love,

Leela❤️ x