The soft Georgia breeze blew over my skin, changing it, scattering freckles across my nose. I leaned back and kicked my legs, staring up at through the willow branches to the blue sky, listening to the breeze and the creak of the tire swing.

The rubber was hot under my skin and the rope was rough in my hands as I swung, humming softly. Soon enough my grandma would be calling me in for dinner, but for now, I would swing.

A shadow passed overhead, casting darkness over my little spot by the creek, and a shiver passed over my skin. I didn't like the darkness...

I kicked my legs harder and the tire swing floated higher in the sky. If I could just reach the light, I wouldn't be left in the darkness anymore.

I kicked again and pushed off of the tire swing, leaping into the air, arms spread wide like I could fly.

Fly free….

I ended up with a cast on my left arm for eight weeks from that little stunt, and both my grandmother and aunt were extremely displeased.

My aunt threatened to stop letting me visit my grandmother, and my grandmother's face was lined with sadness and disappointment—two emotions that I had never been the recipient of from her.

"You could have died!"

"You can't act so recklessly!"

"What would your parents think?"

What would my parents think? It was all meaningless to me…they were dead now, they didn't think anything. A violent drunk driving accident had taken them from me, leaving me sitting home alone in the dark, waiting for them for hours before the police had come and found me.

The only think I cared about was making sure that the darkness didn't take me too.

For years that's all I did, push back against the darkness; within me, around me, eating at me.

Now I'm not so sure I did any good.

I never imagined I would die this way….tied to a chair in a dank warehouse in Chicago, being tortured to death. I always thought much like everyone else I imagine, that I would die at an old age, surrounded by loving family, not at 32, surrounded by Russian mobsters that were eager to see me in pain.

But I guess being an Assistant District Attorney prosecuting violent criminals had finally caught up to me. My name is Katrina Woodson, and I think I'm going to die soon.

I sort of hope so.

It would be nice to rest.

I suppose I should be more upset at the idea of dying, but god, I can't even summon the energy for anger at this shitty situation anymore. All I really want is for it to be over.

The men were from the Russian mob, and they had been torturing me for three days…I think. They kept asking about a man in a suit, why had he saved me last year, what I knew about his location, could I get in touch with him.

At first I hadn't realized what they were talking about and had plead my ignorance. That had earned me a slap across the face and a backhand when I protested.

After being shown a blurry photo of a tall, dark haired man in a suit, I remembered.

Last year I had been prosecuting another member of their crew, and had been receiving multiple death threats. After a shot had been taken at me on the street, this man had shown up in my life, shielding me from bullets, car bombs, and ultimately, taking a bullet meant for me.

I had tried to find out how he knew I was in danger, because he wasn't with the police or any of the alphabet soup spy organizations, but he had remained tight lipped. "Good information" he had insisted.

For information like his, I would do a lot. That kind of information would have solved all of my cases and let me deal with these idiots before they ever came after me.

Unfortunately he had disappeared after the threat was eliminated, and I hadn't heard from him since.

My life had gone back to its normal routine of cases, bad boyfriends, and disappointing sex.

Now it seemed that one of my cases had put me squarely in the Russians crosshairs again. Only this time, the man in the suit wasn't here to save me.

A ghost of a smile crossed my lips at the thought-the man in the suit- after a few years of having their asses kicked by both him and Elias, the mere mention of him had been enough to send the Russians running from New York, and straight to Chicago, where they had set up shop.

When I met him, he had shrugged off that moniker and had told me to call him John. Quiet, intense, and deadly, he had come into my life when I needed him most, and then left.

I prayed now, as I sat tied to a chair, blood running down my face from multiple cuts, my chest laced with burns from cigarettes. I prayed that he would come and save me again.

I had tried to escape after a day here, but had only made it as far as one door before the men had caught up to me and had beaten me so badly I couldn't stand. They had begun withholding food and water soon after that.

I wanted to cry, but had no energy left for it. I hadn't eaten in two days. They had been sparing with the water, unless they were shoving my face into a bucket of ice water until I couldn't breathe.

I needed to rest, they would be back soon and I hadn't slept well last night…or whenever it was that I had slept last.

I had my eyes closed; trying to rest when I heard the door open to the small room they had me in. Two of my captors entered, speaking in Russian.

I had long ago stopped trying to understand them. Their expressions often told me all I needed to know about what was coming. Guessing from all the hand waving and the angry looks, it seems I'm in for a long night.

I wish I could tell them something about John, but I never learned anything about him. He was just there at the right time and place, according to him. Well, now would be a nice time for him to show up.

The men came over to me and proceeded with questioning me about John's physical appearance. "Why, are you boys going to ask him out? I don't think you're his type. Too butch." I laughed at their faces until a punch from one man nearly knocked my chair over.

My face exploded with pain. Looking up at them I spat out blood, "Hmm, well maybe since you both like it rough you should just fuck each other." The other man punched me in the gut, knocking out what little air I had.

I sat gasping for a few minutes until the man on the right spoke, "Have you had enough? Then tell us what you know about him."

I looked up at him through my rapidly swelling eye, and choked out a laugh, "I've already told you everything I know, which isn't much. You want to talk about how the Cubs are going to do this season?"

This earned me another slap to the face. I stared down at my feet, bare and freezing, and felt the pain starting to overwhelm me. I was going to black out soon and I thanked God.

I didn't want to feel this pain anymore. I could tell they were losing their patience, and soon they would move on to less pleasant forms of torture. Eventually they would decide I wasn't worth keeping alive and someone would decide to rape me before they killed me.

God I hoped I was unconscious when that happened.

I hadn't noticed the bucket of ice water they had with them until they tilted my chair back and stuck my feet into it. Hissing at the cold, I knew this was bad. My body would eventually go into shock at the cold, possibly hypothermia depending on how long they kept refreshing the ice, but first my feet would get frostbite.

Shit this is going to suck.

I shuddered, waiting for the blows to start. When they didn't, I glanced up and saw that the men were just watching me. Closing my eyes, I waited, knowing there was nothing I could say or do to prevent whatever they had planned.

When I heard the door shut, I knew this was it. I would be left here to freeze and starve. I closed my eyes, exhaustion taking me. The world went dark.

I was running…someone was chasing me….I looked back and saw a gun….BANG..BANG..BANG!

My head snapped up into wakefulness as the sound of real gunshots penetrated my sleep. The sounds of fighting and gunshots were getting louder. Fear and anxiety pulsed through me, making me sick to my stomach.

"What the hell is going on?" I whispered to myself. Was a rival gang attacking the Russians? It sure sounded like someone was hitting them with heavy weaponry. Whoever it was, I hoped they killed all of them.

Suddenly, there was silence. The door to the hell I was caged in swung open, and there, in all his suited glory, was John.

A choked sobbed ripped from my throat and I thrashed against my bonds, desperate to be free. His expression hardened further when he saw me, and when a Russian darted into the room, he didn't hesitate to put a bullet in him.

After clearing the room from the doorway he jogged over to me and pulled out a knife, cutting my hands and feet free. I gasped in pain and drew my hands into my chest, rubbing at my raw skin gently.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I bit my lip, fighting it. John gave me a reassuring look and took my arm, "Come on" he murmured softly, helping me to stand and get out of the bucket of ice water.

I crumpled, unable to stay standing. My feet were white, totally numb and unable to move. My entire body was one large screaming wound, and all I wanted was the blissful peace of unconsciousness.

I felt his arms go around me, lifting me effortlessly into his arms, preventing my body from dashing to the concrete floor. My head spun as I laid it against his chest, and before I sank back into the darkness of exhaustion murmured, "Thanks John."

A repeat number was unusual for the machine, especially when I had already saved the person from near certain death. If your number was coming up again, it was usually domestic violence, gang involvement, or stupidity.

A brief smile crossed my lips at the memory of Leon…a repeat number who never seemed to learn to stay out of trouble. I sighed softly, at least he kept things interesting.

In this case it was a little bit of the last two. Not on the part of our number, but on the gang of Russian mobsters. Apparently they hadn't learned their lesson the last time I had been in town.

I lifted Katrina higher onto my shoulder and kept my gun trained on the doors as I strode through the building, intent on keeping her alive. She had been through hell already; the last thing she needed was to get shot on her way out.

I had promised her last time that she would be safe, and I had thought we had defanged the Russians enough to keep them away from her, but apparently my work here in Chicago wasn't done.

A grim smile crossed my lips; that was fine with me, I had plenty of issues that could use some working out on Russian kneecaps.