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She scanned him from head to toe for signs of distress. His blindfold was gone, but his hands remained bound in front of him. “Are you okay? Where’d they take you?”
“One gunman had severe lacerations and a concussion. No supplies or antiseptic. I used rusty tweezers to pluck about eighty shards of glass from his head, then I repaired the lacs with a sewing needle and fishing line. Primitive. Then they tied my hands again.” A grimace crossed Mark’s face.
“Was it the gunman clipped by the chandelier?”
Mark nodded.
“So, the thug gets to live.” Wishing Riku had been lucky enough to survive, she found her hatred for the gunmen deepening. Bile rose in her throat.
“When terror strikes, nothing’s fair. The guy’s wound is susceptible to infection, and he could die of sepsis.” He gave a grim nod and scanned the walls enclosing them.
Together, she and Mark surveyed the room, about ten square feet, with one wall stacked high with hay. The one light bulb remained off, leaving the room dim. Wood planks lined the floor, and drywall covered the smooth walls. A huge green plastic bin stood in one corner.
Mark shuffled over and wrangled the top open with his tied hands working as a lever. Once he lifted the lid several inches, she anchored her shoulder under it so they could peek inside. The smell of grain wafted through the room, probably livestock feed.
“We’re in a barn, a farm in the countryside.” He faced the door to inspect the lock.
About six feet tall, Mark carried himself with confidence, and his every motion exuded athleticism and strength. In the tight space, she registered his movements and her body hummed due to his presence. Flustered, she chastised herself for the distraction and focused on finding an escape route. Footsteps approached, and she tightened her muscles.
Mark swiveled to face her. “Whatever happens, stay calm,” he whispered.
The door burst open, and Yuri, the gunman who fractured her cheek, stood alone. With a menacing squint, he analyzed them from top to bottom before yanking a large hunting knife from his holster and holding it high above his head. The razor-sharp blade gleamed in the dingy light.
“Face wall.” Yuri growled in English and pointed.
She gasped but obeyed his order. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Mark beside her, his jaw clenched tight. Sweat coated her face with a sticky sheen. So, this is how my end begins. Please don’t let it be torture. At least Mark was with her, so she wouldn’t die alone. Panic buzzed loud in her head, followed by a vision of the afterlife. As a young girl, she attended church, and remembered sermons promising eternity in heaven, complete with angels in white, lounging on fluffy clouds. After tonight’s brutality, she doubted such a place existed and questioned what kind of god would permit this bloodshed.
Yuri grabbed her tied hands, yanked them up, and sliced off the rope binding her with one swift cut. He did the same with the rope confining Mark’s wrists. Without a word, he left.
Dmitry appeared a second later and threw two bottles of water into the cell. The door shut again, locking them in for the night.
After both men disappeared, she stared at Mark and opened her lips, but words failed her. Uncertain the danger had abated, she felt her heart race ahead without her.
“He didn’t kill us. Wow.” Mark dropped his chin toward his chest and relaxed his rigid posture.
“I thought…” As the knots confining her shoulders unwound, she found her breath again.
“I know what you thought because I did, too. Hey, what’s wrong?” He stepped closer and narrowed his gaze.
“I’m fine.” Her voice tight, she backed away in self-consciousness.
Scanning both sides of her face, he frowned. “You’re injured, and your cheek is a mess.”
“I’m fine.” Despite his blunt, direct assessment of her injury, she refused to admit an ounce of fragility.
“Don’t argue with me and let me examine the wound. Come here where I can see it.”
Weak light filtered into their cell through the metal bars, and reluctantly, Tess shuffled a few steps forward.
“I need to clean off the blood to see better. Lean back.” Mark tilted her beaten cheek to one side, before bending over to grab one of the water bottles. He opened it with his right hand, then poured a stream of water over the wound.
The tepid water stung as it splashed her laceration. Staring straight ahead, she gazed at Mark’s open collar and observed the smooth golden skin at the top of his chest where it curved upwards toward his neck.
Focused on her injury, he used his shirt cuff to dab away excess water and made quick, gentle pats to remove bloody debris. He inspected her swelling cheek from all angles and palpated her cheekbone.
Determined not to wince out loud, she bit her lip.
“The bone is cracked, and it’s going to bruise and swell. I’d recommend you get stitches right away. Might hurt a couple of weeks. If…” He paused, then exhaled. “When we escape, a plastic surgeon should evaluate your wound.” Diagnosis complete, he stepped back and regarded her again.
