Dangerous Games

12

I look at Swarthy Goatee. “You got any drugs on hand that’ll gimme enough juice to stay on my feet for that long?”

He looks at me like I’m nuts. “I haven’t even x-rayed you yet!”

I sit up, gritting my teeth against the wave of pain that wants to take me down. “Skip it, Doc. Just staple up my holes and gimme the meds. We’re working against the clock.”

When he throws his hands in the air and turns to Killian for help, Killian simply gazes at me.

“Fine with me. If you die, I’ll happily step in and take care of Eva for you.”

I stare at him for a moment, at his square jaw and perfect nose, then lie back down. “Okay, Doc. Do your thing.”

I’ll wait until he’s finished to tell him I’m gonna need his clothes.

FIVE

EVA

Alone in the dark, a minute is a year.

I don’t know how long I sit on the cot, lost in my thoughts, after the sound of Dimitri’s laughter fades, but eventually the cold gets to me, and I start to shiver uncontrollably, teeth chattering. Instead of curling up under the rough gray blanket, I walk slowly across the room, hands outstretched, until I reach a wall. I follow the curve around, moving blindly in the dark, cursing when I stub my toe on a stone step.

Then I make my way, inch by inch, up the uneven spiral staircase to the landing at the top.

The tall candles are still burning in their candelabras. I blow out all of them except one, then gather them up and carry them back down to my cell, ignoring the drips of hot wax burning my arm.

I stack the unlit candles on the floor near the cast-iron pot, set the lighted one into the guts of its burned-out kin in the niche over the bed, and take a long look around at my cage. It’s as dreary and inhospitable as a medieval dungeon.

Well, it could be worse. I haven’t seen any rats yet.

I want to take off my jeans and try to rest for a while, but the thought of Dimitri arriving while I’m asleep and half-clothed stops me. It’s then, thinking of my jeans, that I remember.

I’ve got Killian’s business card in my back pocket.

I whip it out and stare at it, breathless with some unnamed emotion that has my heart racing and my hands trembling.

“You’ll never be allowed near a phone,” I say, my voice echoing off the walls. “Even if he lets you out of here, Dimitri won’t let you out of his sight long enough for you to make a phone call.”

Unless . . .

I squeeze my eyes shut. Unless I earn his trust.

The thought makes my stomach churn. But I won’t think of it now, what hideous acts earning his trust will involve. Instead, I commit the number to memory, mouthing it silently over and over until I’m sure I can recite it in my sleep.

Then I hold the edge of the card over the candle flame until it catches on fire.

When the flame has eaten half of the card, I set it on the stone floor and watch until there’s nothing left but a smoldering curl of black ashes. I scoop up the ashes and dust my hands off over the cast-iron pot, blowing away any remaining smudges from the floor.

The acrid smell of burned paper hangs in the air, along with an odd metallic aroma I can’t identify. Something that smells like melted wires.

With nothing left to do but stare at the walls, I stretch out on the cot, pull the blanket over me, and close my stinging eyes.

I wake to total darkness.

“Shit.” I bolt upright, my pulse erratic. The candle burned out an hour or a year ago, and I won’t be able to light another. Dimitri left no matches behind.

What about his men?

I’m sure the bodyguards outside—if they’re even still stationed there—will be under strict instructions not to open the door. But perhaps I could coax one of them to pass a lighter through one of the c****s in the stone threshold?

It’s a safe bet to assume one or both of them smoke, as many men stationed for long periods of time in one position do, to keep alert and combat boredom. Though the two guarding my door are unfamiliar to me, most of Dimitri’s men smoke. Almost as much as they drink.

Decided, I creep carefully across the room, as blind as an earthworm. I know the general heading of the stairs now, though, and find the first step soon enough. I hurry upward, shivering but grateful for the cold because it seems to be helping the swelling in my cheek area. The stitches aren’t quite as tight, and the skin around them no longer feels hot.

My arm I don’t dare touch. God only knows what’s happening under the splint. I wouldn’t be surprised if I never regain full use of it again.

When I reach the landing of the stairs, I press my ear to the door and listen with held breath for any sign of life.

“. . . beautiful girl, though. Amazing t**s. And those lips. Woof.”

“Are you f*****g stupid? I told you already, shut the f**k up about her.”

“What else is there to do out here but talk? Who’s gonna hear us, the crows?”

“How do you know we’re not on camera? You think he’d leave a piece of ass like that out here alone with us without keeping an eye on what we’re up to? Use your head.”

“Psh. You worry too much.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I’m still alive.”

The men speak with a dialect common to those from the southern part of Russia, a hardening of the final consonants that’s distinct.

“I gotta take a piss,” says the one who’s discontent with all the chatter.