Whiskey Tango Foxtrot: The Atticus Files

Chapter Eight

Roza's leg had fallen asleep. She tried to shift position but couldn't. A spark of annoyance flared inside her and she struggled to open her eyes, her mind wrapped up in a heavy sleep she didn't remember falling into. Pain stabbed at her temples. She tried to rub her throbbing head but her hands were met with resistance.

She was tied to a chair.

Her body's reaction was visceral. Heart jolting, insides knotting with a fear damped by confusion. Her mind was slower to catch up and her awareness came back to her slowly. Like the last drop of water clinging to the rim of a cup her mind struggled to push free of the coma-like sleep she had fallen into. Something was digging into her arm, her hip and her leg. Her hands and feet tingled. Grunting, she tried to move them again but couldn't. Her eyes flew open in a searing moment of panic, heart lurching against her chest, panic finally throwing off the last vestiges of sleep. She struggled, straining against the ropes that held her to the chair.

"Hello?" she croaked, her voice refusing to cooperate. Roza coughed, hoping to clear her throat and lungs but the air was flat and stale.

"Hello?" she repeated but no one answered.

A bare light bulb protruded from the ceiling above her, giving off a weak light that did little to illuminate her surroundings. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, things slowly came into focus. The dirt packed floor under her feet was dry, marred by darker patches that Roza hoped wasn't blood. Her chair was positioned in front of a barred door, while the walls on either side of her were dull grey concrete. She was in a cell.

What had happened?

She remembered leaving Silas and Mr Jones at the station, and the long train ride into the country. They had reached Appleby and were going to catch the local bus that would take them to the college campus. Roza squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember what had happened but it felt like recalling a dream. The more she thought about it, the more her mind seemed to struggle.

Panic began blossoming in her chest like a poisonous flower, ready to sting her with barbs of fear and hysteria. She tried to suck in a breath but the air felt like a fat spider crawling down her throat and Roza gasped, half retching. Her chest tightened, constricting around her already racing heart.

She writhed her hands desperately, wildly, against the ropes. The hard cord burned as it scraped across her skin but she kept pulling and straining until her fingers were wet with sweat or blood, she didn't know which.

Roza screamed through gritted teeth. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice told her calm down! But the fear was under her skin now, crawling through her veins and making her body not her own, and she thrashed and strained and twisted.

Calm down. Her head throbbed. She struggled to draw a breath through her nose. This can't be happening, this can't be happening. Her cheeks were wet with tears although she hadn't realised that she was crying.

"Help!" Roza sobbed and screamed but there was no help and she was alone.

Calm down. She inhaled again, struggling to keep her breathing even, to push the panic down. Her body was tense and shaking so hard that for a fleeting moment Roza was glad she was tied together or else she might physically fall apart. Breathe. She exhaled. Her heart ached. Slow down. She took another shaky breath. Her throat tightened. Roza squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will the cell away, letting out her breath as evenly as she could.

Slowly, achingly slowly, she felt the waves of panic recede. After a moment, Roza opened her eyes. The cell's door stared back at her, revealing slices of freedom from between unforgiving metal bars. In the movies, she would miraculously escape by the hand of fate, or be rescued by a criminal with a heart of gold but as the chill in the room sharpened, Roza very much doubted anything like that would happen. Wildly, she wondered if she had been kidnapped. She knew her family could meet any demands put forth. All the warnings her father had given her, all the self-defence training and the chauffeurs and her mother's constant need to know exactly where she was suddenly made sense. She would be beaten and then ransomed. Or beaten, ransomed and then killed. Either way, only one party would come first in this game. And if Roza was sure of anything, it was that she hated coming second.