warning of the storm rolling in.
I knew my eyes widened as a single large hand closed around my throat, constricting my airway to a pinhole size passage. It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t breathe or the fact that he had a gun pressing into my side, it was the bone-crushing pressure he applied around my neck.
I wasn’t tiny or dainty by any means, yet he made me feel weak and helpless. I knew better than to fight him. That’s how people got shot. If you rebelled, then they became more aggressive, right?
I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t think. All I saw was a tall, heaving international male with a gun, an angry sneer and no mercy before me. He was capable of more; that registered. Somehow the nonsensical and the obvious computed in my overwhelmed, oxygen deprived brain.
“We will be watching. ” The menace in his tone sent chills chasing down my spine.
Panic slammed through me, knocking the last of my breath away. My head began to pound; the room began to spin. My flesh prickled, as though my physical presence was fading. My vision blurred at the edges, obscuring his features.
The moment he released me, I fel l to the floor, panting and wheezing. Pain sliced down my windpipe. Each inhalation hurt, like breathing, moving, with a body covered in bruises. Hazily, I recorded their footsteps retreating, but couldn’t bring myself to check.
Rahmi. I needed to get a hold of Rahmi. I needed to know that he was alright, to warn him, to ensure they didn’t – wouldn’t – get to him.
Shoving my hefty curves up, I used the sofa to hoist myself upright. I felt around the surface are a of the couch for my cell phone. My stomach tensed when I couldn’t locate it.
Blinking in rapid succession, adrenaline pumping through me, I looked around the room. I knew the moment I spotted it across the space on the entertainment center that it had been compromised. Either they had bugged it or they had placed a tracker on it or in it. That’s what Michael Westen would assume anyways.
I glanced down at my clothes. It was my day off. I was in my slum-bum clothes, as I had affectionately deemed them, which consisted of comfortable black sweats, hiked up on my calves, and a tight grey tank top. I still wore the same faux diamond stud earrings from yesterday and hadn’t bothered to remove my make-up either. I had taken the time to do a fishtail braid this morning, between Burn Notice re-runs, but I was nothing short of a mess. I didn’t have time to change, though; I didn’t have time to make myself presentable to the world. I had to move.
Thunder rumbled loud overhead, vibrating the walls and sending me into motion. I grabbed my neon yellow running sneakers near the door, ready to go with a pair of no-show grey socks stuffed inside. I had them on in record time. I raced to my room, not the least bit shocked to discover it had been destroyed. Locating my purse, near the other side of the room on the floor, I grabbed it. Thinking ahead, with a tinge of paranoia, I realized that they could have put anything in my purse to track me, knowing a woman typically took her purse wherever she went.
Think, think, think, Aeren.
Rifling through the contents, I pulled what was necessary from my wallet: my driver’s license, my insurance cards, an emergency credit card I’d yet to activate, my car keys and all of my cash. I tossed all else aside and quickly opened my bottom nightstand drawer for my personal documents packet. Most people put all of their important documents in a file cabinet, in a safe or in some other inaccessible location that required they re-pack it in an emergency. Perhaps I had an overactive imagination, but I’d stashed mine inside of a black wristlet, able to be grabbed in a hurry, no matter the emergency.
And this was an emergency.
I shoved everything I needed inside the wristlet, zipped it, and pushed it up my arm. I didn’t know what was going on, the extent of trouble Rahmi was in, but I wasn’t about
I knew my eyes widened as a single large hand closed around my throat, constricting my airway to a pinhole size passage. It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t breathe or the fact that he had a gun pressing into my side, it was the bone-crushing pressure he applied around my neck.
I wasn’t tiny or dainty by any means, yet he made me feel weak and helpless. I knew better than to fight him. That’s how people got shot. If you rebelled, then they became more aggressive, right?
I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t think. All I saw was a tall, heaving international male with a gun, an angry sneer and no mercy before me. He was capable of more; that registered. Somehow the nonsensical and the obvious computed in my overwhelmed, oxygen deprived brain.
“We will be watching. ” The menace in his tone sent chills chasing down my spine.
Panic slammed through me, knocking the last of my breath away. My head began to pound; the room began to spin. My flesh prickled, as though my physical presence was fading. My vision blurred at the edges, obscuring his features.
The moment he released me, I fel l to the floor, panting and wheezing. Pain sliced down my windpipe. Each inhalation hurt, like breathing, moving, with a body covered in bruises. Hazily, I recorded their footsteps retreating, but couldn’t bring myself to check.
Rahmi. I needed to get a hold of Rahmi. I needed to know that he was alright, to warn him, to ensure they didn’t – wouldn’t – get to him.
Shoving my hefty curves up, I used the sofa to hoist myself upright. I felt around the surface are a of the couch for my cell phone. My stomach tensed when I couldn’t locate it.
Blinking in rapid succession, adrenaline pumping through me, I looked around the room. I knew the moment I spotted it across the space on the entertainment center that it had been compromised. Either they had bugged it or they had placed a tracker on it or in it. That’s what Michael Westen would assume anyways.
I glanced down at my clothes. It was my day off. I was in my slum-bum clothes, as I had affectionately deemed them, which consisted of comfortable black sweats, hiked up on my calves, and a tight grey tank top. I still wore the same faux diamond stud earrings from yesterday and hadn’t bothered to remove my make-up either. I had taken the time to do a fishtail braid this morning, between Burn Notice re-runs, but I was nothing short of a mess. I didn’t have time to change, though; I didn’t have time to make myself presentable to the world. I had to move.
Thunder rumbled loud overhead, vibrating the walls and sending me into motion. I grabbed my neon yellow running sneakers near the door, ready to go with a pair of no-show grey socks stuffed inside. I had them on in record time. I raced to my room, not the least bit shocked to discover it had been destroyed. Locating my purse, near the other side of the room on the floor, I grabbed it. Thinking ahead, with a tinge of paranoia, I realized that they could have put anything in my purse to track me, knowing a woman typically took her purse wherever she went.
Think, think, think, Aeren.
Rifling through the contents, I pulled what was necessary from my wallet: my driver’s license, my insurance cards, an emergency credit card I’d yet to activate, my car keys and all of my cash. I tossed all else aside and quickly opened my bottom nightstand drawer for my personal documents packet. Most people put all of their important documents in a file cabinet, in a safe or in some other inaccessible location that required they re-pack it in an emergency. Perhaps I had an overactive imagination, but I’d stashed mine inside of a black wristlet, able to be grabbed in a hurry, no matter the emergency.
And this was an emergency.
I shoved everything I needed inside the wristlet, zipped it, and pushed it up my arm. I didn’t know what was going on, the extent of trouble Rahmi was in, but I wasn’t about
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