Page 2 of Thorns of Lust
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Screeching tires. Distorted voices. Throbbing headache.
“Kill him.” A firm order. A deep voice void of emotions
I blinked.What? Who?
My brain was enveloped in a fog. My ears still rang. My pulse raced. My lungs squeezed, and I desperately tried to inhale a lungful of air. I blinked to get rid of the dots swimming in my vision.
I turned to the driver’s side. Empty. As if I couldn’t trust my vision in the eerie yellow glow from the headlights, dark, my hand reached out. Nothing. Just air. Adrian wasn’t there. The silence lingered in the surrounding wooded and swampy area, even the crickets ceased their noise. As if they held their breaths in anticipation of what was to come.
The sizzling sound of liquid against the hot metal sounded from somewhere - too close or too far, I couldn’t distinguish. The pungent scent of gasoline and oil seeped into my lungs, suffocating me. A warm liquid trickled down my temple. Slowly, I brought my fingers to it. Blood. My hair was wet and sticky, plastered against my forehead.
“They both have to die,” the same voice commanded. The gruff sound of grunts and foreign words filled the air.
My heart stopped beating and panic slowly overwhelmed all my other senses. I had to get out of here. Whoever was after us wasn’t our friend. Where was Adrian?
More screeching tires. Loud voices. Foreign language. I struggled to process. Was it Italian? French? My brain was too slow, the buzzing vibrating through it too loud and overwhelming.
All I knew was that I had to get away.
I jerked against the seat belt. Unsuccessfully. The unbearable scent of gas drifted into my nose, and smoke filled the small space. My eyes burned. Although it wasn’t just the smoke. Tears stung the back of my lids.
“Wrong time,” I whispered.
Sasha, the brother I was closest to, always said it was the wrong time to cry. I was almost twenty-seven and had yet to learn when it was a good time to cry.
My trembling fingers frantically jerked on the seat belt.
“Please, please, please.” My voice was a soft whisper.
If I could get my phone, my brothers would come to our rescue. They always came to the rescue.
Where was Adrian? What if he was dead already? Who was out there?
The ache in my bones pulsed harder.
My fingers finally found the button and pressed it. The seat belt came undone, hitting the door with a loud bang. It sounded like a gong going off and instantly everyone stilled outside.
The popping of bullets being fired broke the silence.
Instinctively, I ducked down, although I was already crammed down, before placing both hands over my ears to block out the loud noises. It reminded me of the crescendo of a bad opera piece. The pitch became louder and harsher, piercing my brain. It felt like they went on for hours, when in fact it was just a few seconds.
It stopped. A deafening silence. I should be relieved, but it felt even more ominous than the sound of gunshots.
My heart squeezed in my throat, the pulse choking me slowly.
More voices speaking in a foreign language. Unrecognizable words. The voices were high-pitched, angry, and not holding back. Until I recognized one word.
“Moya.”Mine.Russian.
At least one of those men was Russian. Did my brothers come already?
More words. It was hard to hear them over the buzzing in my ears, but I recognized it. I was certain it was Italian.Russian and Italian.
More bullets. More screeching tires. Until it suddenly stopped. It would have been one second or one hour, I couldn’t distinguish.
“She dies. No loose ends,” one of them demanded in English, and instinctively I shrank further back into the car, although it was burning, coming dangerously close to an explosion.
