Page 87 of Betraying Family Vows
The SUV turns sharply, throwing me against someone who pushes me off of him. Through the hood, I can make out movement, shadows, nothing more.
Men's voices filter from the front seats, speaking rapid Greek. I strain to catch words, phrases, anything that might tell me what the hell is going on.
"Take her to the secondary site," one of them says.
"Okay. Kastaris won't be far behind. We should have just…"
My heart stutters in my chest. Kastaris. They have to be talking about Dimitri.
He's alive.
And if he survived, he'll come for me.
After some time, the SUV slows, tires crunching over what sounds like gravel. We're turning, heading down a rough road. Since I can't see, I can feel every bump and dip.
"Call ahead," one of them says. "Tell him we got the girl."
My breath quickens. Who is "him"? Is it S?
The vehicle slows to a crawl before stopping completely. The engine idles for a moment, then dies. Car doors open and slam shut.
My door is yanked open, and hands grab me, pulling me roughly from the car. I tumble out, unable to catch myself with my bound hands. My knees hit gravel, small stones digging painfully into my skin through my pants.
Someone drags me upright. I sway on my feet, disoriented.
"Don't fucking try to run," a voice warns, close to my ear. His breath is hot against my neck, smelling of cigarettes and something sour.
A hand shoves between my shoulder blades, forcing me to walk forward.
Metal groans somewhere ahead of me, a door opening. Where am I? A warehouse? A garage?
My shoulder collides with what feels like a doorframe. My hood muffles my hiss of pain.
The hand grips my arm and pulls me forward. I stumble, unable to see where I'm going. The ground changes beneath my feet, concrete now, firm and hard.
The air smells different too now, damp and weirdly like old metal. The temperature also drops several degrees, making me feel cold.
A rough hand clutches the back of my neck.
"Sit," the voice orders.
I don't move fast enough.
A boot hooks behind my knee, knocking me off balance. I drop hard onto what feels like a wooden chair.
The bag stays over my head.
My breathing sounds too loud inside it. Each inhale draws the material closer to my nose and mouth, creating a suffocating pocket of recycled air that tastes like dust and something metallic, maybe blood. I try not to think about who might have worn this hood before me.
A door opens somewhere to my right. Footsteps, two sets, maybe three, cross the concrete floor.
"She awake?" a different voice asks.
A hand pats my cheek through the bag, jarring my head to the side.
"She's awake," a man says.
A long pause.
