Moscow Honey: A dark suspenseful spy thriller (Clarke and Fairchild Book 2) by T.M. Parris

Author:T.M. Parris [Parris, T.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-11-08T22:00:00+00:00

Georgia

37

The door opened.

“Boris! Boris!”

Boris heard his name echo around the washroom. He didn’t move a muscle. He knew they would find him there. He just needed some time to rest his throbbing, bleeding feet. He stayed perched on the toilet seat, covered in grime, knees bent, bare feet up on the pan.

The sergeant shoved the first cubicle door open. It crashed against the side. Metal smashed into metal. The noise surrounded and compressed Boris’ head, smothered his skull, pricked the backs of his flickering eyes, a stab of pain with the peak of every echo. Then the next door, and the next, the echoes building, points of pain sharper and sharper. He covered his ears though he knew it wouldn’t make any difference. The sergeant got to his cubicle. The lock rattled.

“So there you are, you snivelling coward!” He moved right up to the door and spoke through it. “You think you can get out of marching by cowering in here? I’ll send you out without even slippers this time! I’ll have you marching up and down all night, when everyone else is lying in bed!”

Boris’ army slippers fell apart long ago; they weren’t meant for marching. He’d been barefoot for hours. His feet had been covered in pus and sores for months. He held his arms up and braced. The lock ripped away. The door slammed against the side of the cubicle right in front of him. A tidal wave of noise, suffocating. His throat made a sound like an animal. The sergeant grabbed him and dragged him out. He threw Boris across the floor and kicked him in the ribs. Boris fought to breathe.

“Stand up!” He kicked again, on the knee. “I said get up, soldier!”

Boris hauled himself to his feet, trying not to catch the sergeant’s eye. His neck and face started to flush.

“Blushing again? What kind of a girl are you?”

His cheeks burned. A movement in the corner of his eye. The sergeant punched him on the nose. He heard it crunch, felt warm blood on his mouth. The sergeant punched again, on the jaw this time. His lip split. The room swayed. Boris staggered. He should be used to this. After months of training, there was no inch of his body which hadn’t been bruised. How did he not know it would be like this? So many people warned him, so many! But it was for Russia, for glory, father and mother, for pride, for Tatiana! That was what he expected.

The sergeant punched him in the stomach. The blow made him retch and he doubled up. A shove knocked him to the ground. His teeth clashed against the tile floor.

“Press-ups! Now!” A boot landed on his ribs. “Press-ups, you lazy little girl!” Boris turned face-down and started to lift himself up. “Count!”

“One!” he shouted. The sergeant kicked him in the mouth. His arms collapsed.

“Again!”

“Two!” He raised himself up. The sergeant kicked again. Blood was dripping onto the floor.

“Come on, little blond Boris! Time you grew

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