Page 122 of Dual
Poor, stupid Mikalai.
He’s leaning in close, knife hand extended, completely absorbed in his work. He’s forgotten the first rule of restraining dangerous people—never get within range of their legs.
I shift my weight slightly, testing the chair’s balance. Heavy, but not immovable. My legs are free, and years of survival have taught me that legs are the strongest weapons that too many people ignore.
I wait until he leans even closer, savoring his handiwork on my destroyed fingernail.
Then I strike.
I shove the chair back just far enough so that when my right leg shoots up in a vicious kick, my heel connects with hiswrist with a wet crack. The knife goes flying, clattering across the expensive hardwood floor to land several feet away.
Mikalai staggers backward, clutching his broken wrist and cursing in rapid-fire Belarusian.
Before he can recover, I drive my other leg forward and up, the top of my foot catching him squarely in his dick. The air rushes out of him in a whoosh, and he doubles over, gasping.
I use his momentum against him, hooking my ankle behind his knee and yanking forward while pushing with my other foot.
He crashes backwards, the back of his skull cracking against the corner of a solid tabletop behind him with a sound like a melon splitting.
I like that sound.
He doesn’t get back up.
I rock the chair backward, feeling the weight distribution shift. The expensive piece of furniture is top-heavy, all that mahogany craftsmanship working against its structural integrity.
Another hard rock, and it topples over sideways with a satisfying crash. The impact jars my shoulder, but more importantly, it brings me within reach of the knife.
I strain against my restraints, fingers stretching toward the gleaming blade. So close. Almost there. The zip ties bite deeper into my wrists, but I don’t care. Pain is temporary. Death is permanent.
My fingertips brush the handle. I walk my fingersalong the smooth surface until I can grip it properly, then carefully maneuver it until the sharp edge presses against the plastic restraints.
The blade is wickedly sharp—it cuts the zip ties like they’re made of paper. In seconds, I’m free.
I stand slowly, testing my balance, knife held loosely in my right hand. Mikalai is still unconscious, a small pool of blood leaking from the back of his head onto the pristine floor. His breathing is shallow and irregular.
He’s dying. Probably has been since his skull kissed the corner of that table. Brain bleed, most likely. He’ll be gone in minutes.
I could finish him now. Quick and clean. But watching him fade is more satisfying somehow. More poetic.
I step over his prone form and walk to where his phone has fallen from his pocket. It buzzes with an incoming text from Pavel:
PAVEL: How is our guest enjoying the hospitality?
I type back:
MIKALAI: She’s singing beautifully. Will need at least another hour.
His response is immediate:
PAVEL: Take your time. Enjoy yourself.
Perfect. That gives me a window to work with.
I flip the knife in my hand, feeling its weight, its balance. The motion is automatic, meditative. Like a pianist running scales.
Time to go have a conversation with Pavel about the nature of contracts and the importance of keeping one’s word.
The hallway outside is empty, just expensive carpet and soft lighting. I move silently, my bare feet making no sound on the plush fibers. The knife feels warm in my palm, eager to be useful again.
