Page 4 of The Wicked

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re an idiot.”

“You trained me well.”

I flipped him off.

“Isn’t America overrated?” Upper cut in, playing lazily with his Rubik’s cube. “I heard it is.”

“We could go to Hawaii,” I chipped in. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.”

“And dreamy,” Milk added. “All those men walking around with those beach shirts they leave unbuttoned to show off their chest hair.”

“Yum.” Upper grinned. “I would love to see—”

“Or maybe we could travel around,” Devil interrupted. “Spend a month in each city, live like the world has always been in our favor. We don’t have to overthink it.”

I directed my smile at him this time. “Yeah,” I backed him up. “I think we need to draw up a—”

Something shattered in the distance, cutting me off. We all sat up—alert, ultimately quiet for almost two minutes, listening for any other suspicious noise. But it was dead silent.

I glanced at the wall clock just as the sound of pounding footsteps reached our ears.

Dog frowned. “Guys, I think—”

Our door exploded with a force that had my heart almost beating its way out of my chest. Masked men rushed into our space before white smoke filled the air. My throat started to feel tight, my limbs weaker by the second; I couldn’t see a single thing but blurry black figures all around me.

I could hear Devil shouting my name; I could hear gunshots, bone-breaking kicks, and grunts—more ear-numbing gunshots and Milk’s terrified screams. I tried to reach for her, but my lungs felt so heavy I couldn’t breathe, my eyelids fluttering furiously, fighting dizziness.

Come on, Zahra, get up.

Get up.

I fought to get on my knees and managed to open my eyes, only to find the hilt of a gun quickly approaching my face.

I didn’t get to feel the pain before I was out like a light.

CHAPTER TWO

Zahra

There was a ringing in my ears when I regained consciousness.

My throat was dry, and my skin felt singed. I could feel sweat rolling down my face, beading at the skin between my nose and lips.

I tried to open my eyes, but a thundering headache had me wincing. My vision was blurry for the first few seconds, but I soon adjusted to the empty pale walls around me. No windows. No opening. Just walls.

I couldn’t breathe properly. The air—it was hot, it was thick and dry, and I felt so dehydrated. I parted my lips, desperate for relief, but the thick, searing air filled my lungs like fire, and I quickly shut my mouth.

Why was it so hot?

I wanted to cry and scream at the same time. It felt like the air was suffocating me. I tried to move, but I couldn’t, and with the pounding in my head, it took me a good while to realize my legs were tied to the chair I was sitting on, and my hands were bound behind me.

The room was too fucking hot, and I could smell the tangy odor of something dead, of piss, of dried vomit—of torture.

I continued breathing through my nose, short inhales, as sweat dripped down my chin. I moved my head to my shoulder, wiping the irritating moisture with my damp shirt.

Suddenly, a door opened, and I jerked up, completely freezing when I saw who approached me.

Fear gripped my bones for the first time in years.