Òyì nke e mepụtara

The Caracorum River roared through the mountain gorge like a living thing. Black water churning over rocks with enough force to snap bones. Malik Vulov stood on the stone bridge, his breath misting in the frigid air, watching his men drag the American woman to the edge. She wasn't fighting anymore. Three days of interrogation and minimal food had left her exhausted, her wrists zip tied behind her back, blood crusting on her split lip. Any last words? Vulkoff asked in accented English, his AK-47