“As you can see,” Stefanov’s voice interrupts, “she’s very much alive.”
I’m going to crush that motherfucker. “How do you want the trade to work?”
“Come alone, unarmed, and I’ll let her go.”
Leonid, who’s listening in on the call, shakes his head.
“Do I have your word?” I ask.
“I swear on my mother’s grave,” the fat bastard says.
In that case, “I’m here.”
I end the call and hand my phone and gun to Leonid.
“Mr. Volkov,” Leonid says with a plea in his voice as he takes the items. “Alex.”
Opening the door, I step out into the gray light of the day. The snow has lifted momentarily. An eerie quiet has dawned on the landscape.
Leonid follows suit.
Four guards armed with automatic rifles walk through the gates toward us.
The one in the front says, “You’re to come unarmed. No phone.”
Raising my arms, I stand waiting, giving my consent to be searched. The man who voiced the command hands his gun to the one on his left before patting me down. When he’s sure I’m not wired or carrying hidden weapons, he motions for me to walk ahead.
Leonid looks on with helpless anger painted across his face.
“Don’t look at me like I’m already dead,” I say, lightening the mood with a smile.
He doesn’t reciprocate. He follows me with his gaze the way one would stare at a funeral march.
I don’t hesitate. Leonid disappears from my peripheral vision as I walk through Vladimir Stefanov’s gates.
35
Kate
The door rattles as it opens. A guard steps inside. I cringe on the bed when he approaches, flattening my body on the mattress. Without looking at me, he unlocks the cuffs around my wrists and stands aside. Another guard enters with a tray that he puts on the floor. Both men leave, and a second later, the sound of the key turning in the lock echoes in the space.
Rubbing my arms to get my blood circulation going, I push to my feet. The light in the room isn’t overly bright, but it reaches far enough to illuminate the contents of the tray. They brought me food—a sandwich and a glass of water.
I’m not touching it. It may be drugged. Regardless, I’m unable to eat in the state I’m in. At least Stefanov doesn’t want me dead yet. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sent food. He needs to keep me alive until he’s lured Alex into his trap. In the long run, I’m dead, but Alex is still free. I just hope he’s clever enough not to walk into Stefanov’s trap.
I look around the room for a way to escape, but the only way out is through the door. I expect it to be locked and guarded. Nevertheless, as soon as the circulation has returned to my legs, I run to the door and feel the handle. The door doesn’t budge.
My gaze falls on the tray. It’s metal. I could whack someone over the head with it. If I hit hard enough, I could give my victim a concussion that would cause a blackout. Knocking out a guard will win me time, but I’ll need more than a metal tray if I’m to make it over the threshold where another guard will be waiting.
I look around again. If there are cameras, they’re well hidden. Still, I can’t take any chances. I have to assume my kidnapper is watching me. In my circumstances, an aggressive outburst will be expected behavior.
Taking aim, I kick the tray with all my might. It goes flying and hits the wall with a thwack. The plate and glass shatter against the concrete. Water drips down the gray surface and the sandwich falls open, a slice of cheese on one side and the buttered side on the floor. Glass crunches under my boots as I walk over the mess and crouch down in the middle of it. Selecting the sharpest pieces of porcelain from the broken plate, I take them discreetly and hide them behind my back. Then I retreat to the far side of the room, sit down on the floor, and wait.
When the door opens again, I’m ready. I stand up, holding the broken pieces of the plate behind my back, but instead of one guard entering to remove the spoiled food like I expected, four of them enter.
My heart hammers as I make myself small in the corner and keep quiet, trying not to attract attention to myself.
The man in the front looks at the mess on the floor before lifting his gaze to me. He speaks English with a strong accent. “That was a foolish move.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Who knows? It could’ve been your last meal.”
I feel like stabbing him in the eye, but I bite my tongue and look away. I have to be patient and bide my time.
The one who addressed me stands guard as the others carry buckets and brooms inside. They throw water over the floor and scrub the mess away with the brooms. A smell of chlorine reaches my nostrils. Stefanov must be making sure no diseases break out in his prison.
Since they’re not attacking me, I dare a glance at the guard who spoke English. “Where am I?” I look around. “What is this place?”
“You’re in Vladimir Stefanov’s house.” He says it with glee, as if he wants the information to scare me.
It does. It also explains why they’re cleaning up. Smells and infections spread fast.
They sweep up the broken crockery and the wasted food. When the floor is clean, they mop up the water, rinse the concrete with clean water, and leave with their buckets and brooms.
Once again, I’m alone. It’s only then that I become aware of how much I’m shaking. It’s a natural reaction to the shock, but I don’t like it. In an effort to both calm and warm myself, I walk around and stretch my sore muscles.
My isolation doesn’t last long. A sound at the door alerts me. Backing up to the wall, I grab my makeshift weapons as adrenaline floods my veins. A plan takes shape in my head. I’ll ask them for a glass of water and stab whoever delivers it in the neck. I have no idea what waits behind that door, but I’ll just have to take my chances.
A sliver of light falls over the floor through the crack as the door opens. I remain immobile, measuring the danger, but the man who enters isn’t one of Stefanov’s guards.
It’s Alex.
Relief and fear war in my chest.
He stumbles as someone pushes him, and then the light from outside disappears as the door is shut.
At a loss for words, I stare at him. Despite the situation, the moment is sweet. I thought I might never see him again. In his long, tailored coat and fancy dress shoes, he looks as formidable as ever. His thick dark hair is brushed back. His long lashes dip as he takes me in from head to toe. Signs of strain are visible on his hard-featured face. His blue eyes are marred with worry lines, and the couple of days’ worth of stubble that darkens his jaw sets off the paleness of his skin.
His voice is rough. “Did they hurt you?”
The rasp of that timbre is like water to my ears. “No.”
He looks at me as if he may consume me. “Come here.”
I don’t hesitate. When he opens his arms, I lay my makeshift weapons on the floor and run into his embrace. His body is strong and warm, the heat emanating from him enveloping me. I inhale the familiar scent of cardamom as I burrow my face in the scratchy wool fabric of his coat. He lets me soak up his presence before holding me at arm’s length.
He conducts another visual evaluation, scanning the length of me. “Did they touch you?”