Cassiopeia Vitt wasn’t sure if they would kill her now or later. But they would kill her, that much was certain.
Or at least they’d try.
Which meant she needed to do something, but her options were limited. Her hands were bound behind her back with nylon twine, her feet chained to the rock wall that encased her like a dark cocoon. She was deep in the Rila mountains, more than two hundred kilometers south of Bulgaria’s capital, Sofia, alone. Worse, no one knew her location, and the deep cirques, sharp peaks, and glacial moraines surrounding her were among the remotest in the Balkans.
She’d arrived yesterday, finding the camp at the base of a forested slope.
A low methodic hum rising from one of the tents, and two black cables snaking a path into the mountain, signaled a generator. She was just about to follow their trail and enter the cave when a man appeared in the entrance. He was short, thick through the shoulders, with tanned features and a thin mustache. He wore sooty blue coveralls with butterfly stains in botharmpits. Surprise flooded his face when he spotted his visitor, but it quickly vanished.
He said something to her in Bulgarian. Slavic languages were not her strong point, so she tried English. “I was in the village and learned of your camp. I thought I would have a look.”
