Saturday Story 2025 #39 (Four Days – Part 5)

The newest Alexandra Ryder story continues today on my Patreon. Synopsis below:

When Alexandra Ryder’s vacation is interrupted so she can track down a known terrorist, she discovers she has only four days to prevent an international catastrophe.

In Part 5, feeling bored at the safe house, Alexandra has some fun with an agent stationed there.

https://www.patreon.com/posts/141535386

To read this story before anyone else, head over to my Patreon page and become Spell… B-O-U-N-D, too. The minimum pledge for this type of early access is $5 per month.

An excerpt is available below:

V

Alexandra lay in bed, hands folded behind her head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Sleep refused to come. Her body ached – the sharp, almost pleasant kind of pain that followed a close call – and yet her mind wouldn’t still, each thought chasing the next around in a relentless circle. She counted the cracks in the plaster. She replayed the interrogation in her head, dissecting Gálvez’s body language, Melvin’s clipped voice, and the haunted gaze of the prisoner. Whatever Torres’s plan was, it wouldn’t wait for her to get a full night’s rest.
At some point, she gave up entirely. She rolled out of bed and wandered the perimeter of her temporary cell, feeling the tension in her own limbs, the growing sense of isolation.
The guards outside were professional, but they weren’t subtle. She found the blinds parted just enough to look at the front gate. Two men in plainclothes lingered there, one scrolling through a phone, the other bouncing restlessly on the balls of his feet. The second one, the tall one, looked up just as she did. Their eyes met. He hesitated, then offered the ghost of a smile.
She smiled back, letting the moment linger before dropping the curtain. In the barely-lit room, she studied her own reflection in the black glass. Her hair was a mess, her skin still flushed with the day’s violence, but her eyes were sharp and glassy with adrenaline. Despite her injuries, she felt untouchable, and that was a dangerous illusion. She needed a distraction.
She tried television, but the channels were all local, with annoying voices jabbering at triple-speed. Instead, she got up, wrapped herself in a bathrobe from the closet, and padded across the bare tile to the kitchen. The place was stocked to the gills; every surface gleamed, and the fridge was packed with groceries. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and took a sip, the tartness making her pucker her lips.

(…)

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