Page 51 of Saved By A God
The guards didn’t look worried about the FBI alert, which fills me with worry.
Where are we in Russia that they don’t see the FBI as a threat?
I press my forehead to the bars and close my eyes for a moment.
Enzo. God, how I wish I could hear him grumble something at me.
The pain grows again, stealing my breath.
Two weeks is a long time when every day looks exactly the same as the one before.
My family thinks I’m dead.
The thought sends a sharp pain through my chest, and I grip the bars harder, needing the bite of metal to keep me standing.
When I open my eyes again, I see a guard stop behind the woman who keeps puking. He leans down, says something close to her ear, and she nods quickly, her fingers flying over the keyboard while tears slip silently down her cheeks.
Jesus, I wish I had a gun. I’ve never killed anyone before, but I’d make an exception for the guards in this prison.
Anger creeps into my chest, and I glare at the armed bastards I can see.
I don’t know how or when, but I swear they will pay.
The anger doesn’t last as long as it used to, and soon hopelessness presses against me from every side, heavy and suffocating.
What if I never get out?
What if they kill all the hackers below, and once they have enough money, they put a bullet in my head as well?
A chill sinks deep into my bones.
Oh my God. I’m alive, Enzo. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive!
Yanking away from the bars, I walk to the bed and sit down. I lower my face into my palms and try to bring up images of my loved ones.
A sob pushes up my throat, but I swallow it down.
God, I’m going to lose my mind!
Chapter14
Enzo
It’s been a month since the fortress fell.
Thirty excruciatingly long days.
Looking down at my hands, I take in the rough and uneven skin over my knuckles. Some places have healed into thin pink lines, while others are still scabbed from where I keep splitting them open.
The backs of my hands are covered with faded bruises, more yellow than purple now, and the skin around my fingers is cracked.
Across the backs of my hands and up toward my wrists, the burns have healed into tight patches of pink and light brown skin, some smooth and shiny, others raised enough to feel when I drag my thumb over them.
I flex my fingers, and the healing cuts pull tight, the burned skin stretching with a dull sting.
The suit jacket covers my forearms, which don’t look any better. Scratches run through my tattoos, some shallow and silvering, others still angry and red. Burn scars mark the skin near my wrists and along the underside of my arms, rough patches left behind by heat, smoke, and falling debris.
A few deeper cuts from glass and concrete are still taking their time closing.
