Colds are the worst. They come out of nowhere and stay for way too long.
Иуда! = Judas!
Mistakes are mine.
Bostitch took his sweet time returning to the basement, anticipating a broken and near-death shell of Eva Krayevsky. She would have been a capable ally had her last name not been tainted with so much weakness. He grimaced and ran a tongue across his teeth. Bostitch was still able to taste the poison of a woman he once loved who was unfortunate enough to be cursed with the Krayevsky name. She wore her pride like a warm, winter coat yet smelled as if she spent her life on her knees or prostrate on someone's bed. He hated her. His killing of her body was meaningless as he aimed to kill her soul and free her from the curse that would forever follow her should he not liberate her spirit.
He had moved on with his life when Hiram strolled gracefully into his life like a gazelle leaps into the eye line of a predator. Through the eyes of another, Bostitch learned that Hiram was angry, vengeful, and everything Bostitch assumed the Krayevsky's were not. Had he not been so blessed to have a person on the inside, Bostitch would have lost his life that night in his car. But Fate shone down on him and gave him another chance to rid the world of such filth.
Many had asked why he despised the Krayevsky's so, and Bostitch had no answer. There were no actual feuds, family disagreements, or ancestral conflict that fueled his hatred. It was merely an instinct. He was an Alpha, an apex predator, and he was able to sense weakness. He found it in that woman, in Hiram, and he found it in Eva.
Turning the corner, Bostitch paused at the door leading to the basement. He heard no cheering, no laughing, no obscene sounds of anything other than the silence. Motioning to one of his personal guards, Bostitch told him to open the door and see what was happening. Minutes passed, and his man had yet to return.
"You, go," he ordered another.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
"Gah, you two, go," he ordered the last two.
Those never returned either.
"I grow tired of the appetizers, Petrov. Send down the entrée, if you please."
The voice, although stable, was not familiar. Adjusting the collar of his jacket, Bostitch wound his way through the bodies littered along the stairs, men unfortunate enough to get caught moments before they could escape, and once he reached the bottom, he saw his four men kneeling in the center of the room. However, that was not what caused the slight gasp of air to leave his lips. His men lay splayed across the cement floor, their bodies gutted like fish, and their heads twisted so far back that their bones protruding from their skin. The blades of knives stuck out from their necks, chests, and groins while some skulls seemed as if there were caved in by a sledgehammer.
He found himself impressed. There were no emotional attachments to any of the people lying before him, only pity that he couldn't pick stronger men. Bostitch's eyes roamed along the back walls of the room, catching glimpses of teenagers bathed in blood, staring at him, and though their postures screamed solid, their eyes reflected fear.
He chuckled under his breath but stiffened when one of the teens stepped out of the shadows. She held her hands behind her back with her head cocked, and Bostitch crossed his arms in front of him. He could sense she was American regardless of her skin tone.
"Where is Eva?" he asked.
The girl blinked and looked over her shoulder. He followed her gaze and Bostitch forced himself not to retch at the sight of an alive, yet severely injured, Eva Krayevsky. He took a step forward, uncaring about the squelching sound under his shoes, and gestured crudely.
"You are like a roach," he spat. "You will not die no matter how many times I step on you."
Eva's eyes were nearly swollen shut, and her body seemed to be bruised from her neck down to her ankles, yet she held herself like someone with merely a papercut. She said nothing, but the knife in her hand twirled between her bloodied fingers.
"Surely you do not think you can take me on in your state?" he taunted. "You are like a leaf. One breath," he exhaled sharply and grinned, "and you will topple over."
Eva coughed violently, splatters of blood mixing with the dried liquid already found on her hand, and once she was able to breeze, she wheezed and dropped the knife to the floor. "I am not going to fight you. Though it would be honorable to my fathers, I know my limits," she panted, wavering for a moment. "And I have reached mine."
Bostitch laughed and removed his coat, dropping it on the floor and uncaring about the blood and gore beneath his feet. He stretched his neck and pulled a pistol from his side holster. "Ah, so this is why your friends are here? It is many of them, and one of me. Would that not be considered an unfair advantage for your friends?" he asked.
Eva gave a half-hearted shrug, the dislocated limb barely moving, and said, "The group you see is not here to fight you either."
"You expect me to let you walk out of here?" he exclaimed.
"No," she whispered. "I said the group you see is not here to fight you."
"These games are-
A knife flew past his nose and clattered against the brick wall, and Bostitch turned his head to the side. Three strangers came from behind the pillars of his basement, and he stiffened. He recognized one of them.
"YOU!" he shouted, pulling out his weapon. "TRAITOR! Иуда! I SHOULD KILL YOU WHERE YOU STAND!"
"My name, Petrov, is Simone Carter. Unofficially, on behalf of the CIA, the Polícia de Segurança Pública, and the Federal Police, Petrov Bostitch, you are under arrest for murder, first-degree rape, statutory rape, drug possession, intent to sell, money laundering, sex trafficking…" the woman paused, unfazed by the outburst, and shook her head, "you're under arrest for pretty much every felony in the book."
"But, officially, we are not here at the request of those agencies."
Bostitch scowled at the dark-skinned man who spoke, and said, "And who exactly are you supposed to be representing?"
"Are you aware of Madam Krayevsky's designation?" the man asked.
"What?"
"Are you aware of her designation, her title, her role?" he asked again.
Bostitch twitched and said nothing.
"Ah, I see. You merely thought she was free game. Easy misunderstanding to rectify." The man stepped forward and bowed at the waist. "My name is Miguel Forest. Recently, I was stationed in Berlin as what many people would call a distraction. I have been in Germany for nearly three years, and within those three years, I have experienced many changes. One, in particular, would be the complete upheaval of an organization I have been a member of for nearly two decades. I am sure you have heard of the Collective?"
"The Collective no longer exists!" Bostitch exclaimed. "I murdered your precious leader and sent your people into hiding!"
Miguel chuckled and shook his head. "Yes, you did murder our 'precious leader,' as you say, but you did not send our people into hiding. We were instructed to go dark on many of our more public operations, but we are very much so still alive and breathing and well under the rule of someone different, someone more effective when it comes to getting the job done."
"What my long-winded associate here is trying to say," Simone cut in, "is that you signed your death warrant the moment you took Eva Krayevsky into your possession."
Bostitch frowned. He glanced at the nearly unconscious form of Eva from the corner of his eye and said, "I do not understand. Why would it matter? She is not blood-related to Leroy."
"No, but she is blood-adopted, and legally Leroy Berry's daughter, heir to the Collective throne, to keep with the theme."
"Impossible! There are no documents to-
"Because it was done under a law that doesn't translate into Western or Eastern understanding. All you need to know is that it is very much so legal."
"And because it is legal, and you kidnapped, tortured, and attempted to murder her, you are officially under Collective jurisdiction," Miguel chimed in.
"So, our reports will say that we received word of your location from an anonymous source," Simone said. "But when we arrived, your precious castle was burned to the ground, and we found your corpse buried beneath the rubble."
Bostitch screamed in frustration and lifted his weapon, but the gun clattered to the ground as a small blade protruded from the back of his hand. He snapped his head to where Eva was sitting, found the girl with her eyes closed, but there was a smile on her face. Bostitch felt something wrap around his neck, and Miguel moved into his direct line of sight, sitting on his heels.
"Officially, on behalf of the Collective, it is with great pleasure that I find you guilty of kidnapping, torture, and attempted murder of a recognized individual in power. You have been sentenced to death, and personally, if there were something worse than death, I would be vying for that, but since there isn't…" Miguel trailed off and jerked his head. "We'll just take our sweet time in escorting you to Hades's Gates."
The item around his neck forced Bostitch's head back, and as it tightened, spots appeared in his eyes, and his vision blurred until it faded into black.
Noah was careful as he carried Eva. There was a gun pointed at the juncture of his spine, and he was not interested in being paralyzed because he couldn't hold a hundred and thirty pounds. No one spoke about anything, and the only sound was that of the wind blowing through the trees. Quinn and Brittany were huddled together for warmth. Tina was as stoic as usual, and Santana, well, Santana was as prickly as she was when they arrived. Brief flashes of what happened back at the castle went through his mind, the sheer violence they'd walked in on, and he swallowed down his bile. Santana was a monster. She moved so fast that Noah couldn't even blink without missing something. Quinn and Brittany joined in out of necessity, as did he, but there was no stopping his former friend.
Yes, he said former.
Noah was no idiot.
It would take months before Santana would look at them the same again. He predicted that the moment they touched down in America, Santana would steal Eva away and they would not hear from them until she was ready.
"There's the car," Santana said emotionlessly. "Put her in the backseat with her head in your lap."
Noah nodded and walked in the direction of the massive SUV Miguel gave them the keys too. He told them that there would be a doctor waiting for them at the airport, and that was enough to sate Santana's worries. Noah held Eva tighter and stood as far away from the swinging door as possible. He ducked down and placed Eva on the seats. Santana took his place, holding Eva up, and he scrambled to the other side to get settled. Santana placed Eva's head on his lap, and she shut the door. Noah waited, running his hands through Eva's hair, and he had his head down. When the driver's door opened, and only Santana got in, Noah frowned and caught her eye in the rearview mirror.
"They decided to walk back."
Noah knew that was a lie, but he said nothing. He merely nodded and tightened his hold on Eva. He desperately hoped that doctor was waiting at the airport and would provide good news because, though Noah was no doctor, he could see that Eva was battered, bruised, sliced, and broken in places she shouldn't be. It would take a long time for her to heal, both physically and emotionally. Since her mental state was already up in the air, Noah figured it would either balance out in the end or send her down a path that no one was ready to experience.