Page 61 of Silenced

The courtyard is as big as a soccer pitch, split up into outdoor seating arrangements that, in different circumstances, would be a great place for a family BBQ if the family had five hundred members in it.

While I can also see a pool and a tennis court close by, there’s…

I swallow and raise a hand to shield my eyes.

There’s a kind of enclosure with a chain-link fence. Even from here, I can see a sign that says: ‘Danger: Keep Out.’

And…

“No. Fucking. Way,” I whisper, trying to unsee the shadowed illustration of a crocodile.

Or, I guess in these parts,alligator.

I don’t know where we are, but I know it’s sunny as hell in November… We’re in the South. And alligators live in the swamps.

As well as private estates.

Estates that belong to Bond villains, maybe?

Then a random factoid hits me—if thisisFlorida, and thisisthe Everglades, crocodiles and alligators coexist because of the blend of lake water from Lake Okeechobee and salt from the Atlantic Ocean.

So, great.

Double the reptiles to gnaw on me if I try to escape.

Yay.

I only stop studying the enclosure when something catches my attention in my peripheral vision.

It’s him.

Nikolai.

Like he’s walking out onto a stage on Broadway, he crosses the courtyard.

For such a heavyset man, he’s incredibly light on his feet.

“I bet he’s a great dancer,” I mutter to myself, then I cringe and rub my eyes. “It’s too early for Stockholm syndrome, Cassie. Get a goddamn grip.”

Still, in that suit of his, the delicious tailoring that shields him as if it were poured onto him, it’s difficult not to be impressed.

‘You are safe now.’

The words ricochet in my brain like a game of ping-pong, a match that only ends when Nikolai steps in front of my window and two men carry what I can only assume is an Albanian who saw me as a debt repayment plan.

When they drop him to the tiled floor before Nikolai’s feet, he doesn’t even stir.

Death will probably be a relief.

He’s so far beyond black and blue that he’s on a different color spectrum altogether.

Nikolai leans down and grabs him by both ears. I flinch at the sight and watch as the guy shrieks into consciousness and, with a sob, hustles into whatever position Nikolai wants him to take.

I’ve been the Albanian.

I’ve been Nikolai’s doll.

He moves me around like I’m a puppet, and the parallel I’m drawing only makes the unease in my stomach turn into a whirlpool.

---