The first thing Dmitry noticed was a distinctive floral scent of smoky-sweet apple, reminiscent of the chamomile growing wild throughout Russia. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he tried to lift his hands to his aching head, but they were tied together behind his back. His feet were bound too, and he was lying on his side in a puddle of something sticky.
He wriggled himself up against a wall and into an upright position, leaning his shoulders against the wall. Light flickered in through the thick glass from a window above him. He must be in a basement with high windows onto the street.
As his senses sharpened, the sweet chamomile scent turned to sickly mildew rot. His shirt stuck to his back, whether from the dank room or a cold sweat, he didn’t know. He had to get out of here befor
