HUNTED ~ STEVE ROGERS [2]

Chapter Ten

When I woke, Tasha was already up and dressed, while I was drooling on my pillow.

Tasha was nice enough to wait until I had dressed, put in my contacts, lined my eyes with black eyeliner, grabbed a quick snack from the mini bar for breakfast (a granola bar and a bottle of juice), pulled on my boots and left the hotel.

I hailed a sketchy looking taxi, and Tasha directed the driver to where she wanted us to go. The driver rattled on in Russian the whole way, and while Tasha and I tried to give short answers and get him to realise we werent in the mood to talk, he didnt get it. My Russian was good, but I couldnt pass as a native, and I couldnt always understand the fast babbling of the Russian people.

After about 35 mins of driving, we ended up in a shady part of Moscow, and the driver of the taxi began to look a little worried. He ushered us out of the car hastily and drove off with a cloud of smelly smoke from his exhaust as soon as we got out of the car.

We stood outside an old Russian townhouse. It was clean, but clearly run down, with peeling paint and rusty nails popping out from the boards of the deck. Tasha lead me around the back, to a side door.

"Wait here." She said firmly, before knocking on the door. Once. Twice. Once. Four times, and twice again. The door opened, and a hooded figure ushered her inside. I hated hooded figures. They reminded me too much of myself.

I waited on the steps, lighting a cigarette as I waited. People hurried through the alley, men stinking of meth and marijuana and other kinds of chemical smells that probably werent healthy. I absorbed it all, feeling the poison seep into my pores, run into my veins, pump around my blood with every heartbeat. Even just the atmosphere of the place, with all the mould spores, and dust, and smoke in the air was enough to make me feel strong after my terrible sleep.

A man with a scruffy beard and a cigar staggered around the corner, and, spotting me, came over.

"Привет красавица," he slurred. Hello pretty lady. I stamped out the butt of my cigarette and folded my arms. I asked him if he spoke English. He nodded, and swayed, the putrid smoke from his cigar blowing in my face.

"American?" He asked.

"Yeah, I'm American," I said in my American accent. It was my best accent. I could easily pass as a native, although, personally I thought it made me sound stupid.

"How much for you, two hours?" His English was broken, a result of poor lower-class schooling.

"Ahhh," I sighed. He thought I was a prostitute. Men like him were the worst kind, a breed of males I hated more than any other.

I thought I could teach him a lesson, that women werent always going to bow down to him.

I smiled, and he took that as an open invitation. He inched closer, dropping his cigar to the ground, his lust overtaking him. I beckoned to him with my hand, making sure he got as close as he could.

His hand brushed my waist, and thats when I struck.

I swung a powerful uppercut to his jaw, and his head snapped back. While he was dazed, I kneed him in the groin, and smiled at his muffled yell. He looked up, his brow furrowed and his chest heaving.

"Bitch!" he spat. I grinned, and not in a nice way. I grabbed his right arm, and twisted it around his back, and he grunted in pain. He knew that if he made a sound too loud, it would draw attention to us. And he sure didnt want anyone to see him getting beaten up by a woman.

"Who do you think you are?" He said angrily, trying and failing to get out of my grip. I leaned down close to his ear and saw the beads of sweat slip down his temple.