Page 64 of Theta

I peek through the gap and watch, not daring to breathe.

Silence.

Voices approaching.

And then the door crashes open with a startling slam, the frame splintering under the force of the kick.

Story thumbs the box cutter’s razor blade out, keeping her wrists behind the chair-back to make it look like she's bound—Enzo stands behind her, knife in hand, looking big and stoic and kind of irritated.

"What is this, hey?” he demands. "This is not my place, and you are breaking it all to pieces, you stupid idiots." He gestures at Story with the knife. "See? I find the girl. The boy is gone missing, but I have her, so now you go, hmm?"

The first man through scans the flat, peeking into the kitchen. "Check the bedroom and bathroom." His accent is American English, although his swarthy features, greasy black hair, and scruffy black beard could place him from just about anywhere.

The second man in line barks a reply in what sounds like Russian or Ukrainian or something like that, and then barks more orders at the men behind him. Three of them peel off and swarm down the hallway—the last four cluster in the doorway as the leader assesses Enzo, glances at Story, and then back at Enzo.

"Boss wants her intact, if you know what I mean. You didn't do nothin’ to her, did you?"

"What do I do? Nothing. I want to go home to my daughter. I go now, sì? I do my part. You have the girl for your sick boss."

The three men are now about to kick open the door.

Adrenaline turns my blood into jet fuel, and my senses hyperfocus.

I step out of the path of the door as the first operator lifts his hand to shove it open.

He steps through, the other two hard on his heels.

Training kicks in then, and all hell breaks loose.

12

Under Duress

I keep waiting for the bark of the pistol from the back room, but it doesn't come. I want to turn and look over my shoulder, but obviously I can't.

The leader is staring down at me, his dark eyes hard and cold—utterly unfeeling. This man would shoot his own mother and not think twice.

I clutch the box cutter in my left hand—I'm not truly ambidextrous, but some things I can do equally well with either hand. Wielding a knife in hand-to-hand combat is one of them. The man’s eyes rake over me, lingering on my chest. "You didn't even cop a feel? Who would know?" Confident in his numerical superiority, he lets his pistol droop to hang at his side, reaching for me with his other hand.

I grit my teeth against the incoming grope, let him see the hate in my eyes.

"Still got some spark there, huh?" He grabs my left breast in rough, clawed-finger grip, squeezing viciously hard. "Pugli'll break that spirit fast enough. Then it's our turn."

Nausea bubbles up in my throat.

I hear hinges creak as the bedroom door squeals open; I tense, my gaze focused on the sweaty pig's throat, picturing the red line that my blade is going to make in…3…2…1…

BAM-BAM-BAM! The shots ring out in lightning-fast succession. The gropey pig’s eyes flick up, and his pistol lifts. He doesn't seem concerned, though. "Raffa, Elbers, go see."

Two more men make for the hallway

Enzo glances down at me, and I give a tiny shake of my head.

The pig sees the exchange, and his brows beetle. "Hold the fuck up. Raffa, Elbers, wait—"

Too late.

BAM-BAM!