Finally she yanked her arm clear and shoved it upward, hand open, palm upraised, exactly as she had done to the guard at General Gregorovich’s mansion two nights ago. She struck just under his jaw, snapping his mouth closed and cutting off his words mid-syllable.
Their close proximity prevented her from generating enough torque to do any real damage, but her goal was simply to stun him and get him to release his grip.
It worked.
His barrel arm loosened around her waist slightly, just enough to allow her to wrench herself free.
Then her training took over. She dropped into a fighter’s stance as the man blinked in confusion. He was apparently unused to victimizing women who knew how to fight back. He reached out to pull her once again into his embrace, and when he did, she throat-punched him, her right hand snaking out in a whippet-quick shot to his Adam’s apple.
He toppled backward, rolling off the cot to the floor. Strangled moans were coming out of him as his hands wrapped themselves around his throat in an effort to cradle his injury.
Tracie dropped onto him, straddling him and lifting his shaggy head in her hands. She realized only now she was grunting, “Keep your hands to yourself, predator.”
She smashed his head against the concrete-block wall once, punctuating the action with the words, “This is for your other victims.” Then she did it again for good measure, repeating her statement in case he was having trouble concentrating.
She leapt to her feet and viciously kicked him in the ribs, aware in the back of her mind that this whirlwind of violence was an overreaction to a threat that no longer existed and had been nothing more than minor at best. But she didn’t care. Her fears about the nuke and her frustrations about losing valuable time to Kuznetsov—and maybe even sorrow and guilt about her dad; those feelings were never far from her consciousness—were coming out all at once.
The man moaned and tried to roll away but there was nowhere to go. His prone body impacted the wall and by the time his torso rebounded off the concrete, Tracie had struck again, another kick to his ribs eliciting another moan. Blood stained the lower part of the wall and dripped to the floor, adding more discoloration to the concrete.
She backed away until reaching the iron bars. She was spent, breathing heavily, her attention fully on the vagrant lying on the floor. She’d been trained to assess for threats and that’s what she would do, even though she knew this man was no longer a threat to anybody and wouldn’t be for a long time.
That was when the metal cell block door burst open and the same cop who’d brought the vagrant into Tracie’s cell a few minutes ago came rushing in.
Tracie moved laterally, putting as much distance as she could between herself and this new threat while still remaining out of the reach of Loverboy on the floor, just in case he managed a second wind.
The cop was angry, repeating, “What have you done? Look what you did to him!” as he frantically searched through his keys to unlock Tracie’s cell door. The cop’s hands were shaking visibly and the ring of keys jangled. Finally he located the proper key and swung open the cell door.
“He got what he deserved,” Tracie said, “and it’s your fault for putting him in here. You understand that? This is your fault.”
She took one step in his direction and stopped in her tracks as he lifted his gun from its holster and leveled it at her. The barrel jittered and danced with the cop’s shaking hands and Tracie guessed this was one of his first nights on a job for which he seemed woefully underprepared.
She eased back against the wall and raised her hands. “I’m not going to hurt anybody,” she said softly. “I’m not a threat.”
“Tell that to him,” the young cop said, nodding at the man still moaning on the floor.
“You can put your gun away,” Tracie said. “Or at least point it toward the floor. You’ll have plenty of time to lift it and shoot if I come toward you.”
He blinked and looked at his gun in surprise, as if it were some kind of alien protrusion growing from the end of his arm. Then he slowly lowered it as she’d suggested.
“I need to get him help,” the cop said.
“Knock yourself out.”
“What? I do not understand.”
“I said that’s a very good idea. You go call for an ambulance. I promise I won’t hurt him anymore, as long as he doesn’t come at me again.”
“I don’t think he could even if he wanted to,” the cop said, his tone one of wonder.
“Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”
The cop shook his head. Now that he was up close, Tracie could see how young he looked. She doubted he was any older than twenty-two, maybe not even that. His hands were still shaking.
He took one sideways step toward the open cell door and then stopped. Said, “All that damage you did, it took only a matter of seconds. I have never seen anything like that before.”
Tracie shrugged. The pain in the side of her skull had abated—or at least she’d forgotten about it—while fighting off the attempted rape, but now it was back, seemingly intent on reminding her it meant business.
“He’s actually lucky,” she said.
“Lucky? He doesn’t look lucky to me.”
“Oh, he is. If he’d caught me in a foul mood, you would be calling the coroner right now, not an ambulance.”
The cop’s eyes widened and he backed through the cell door. He slammed it closed and began hurrying out of the cellblock.
Before he could close the metal door, Tracie called out, “Oh, by the way, officer?”
He stuck his head back through the door. “Yes? What is it?”
“Do me a favor and give Kuznetsov a call. Tell him his plan to shake me up and get me to spill my guts to him backfired. I think he’ll want to know.”
“I do not understand.”
“Sure you do. You don’t have to play stupid. I know Kuznetsov told you, or one of your cop buddies, to go roust this guy and dump him in the cell with me. This is a small town, and there’s no way this guy was unknown to law enforcement. Kuznetsov knew he was a sexual predator and wanted to use him to break through my defenses.”
The cop shuffled uneasily, looking down at the floor before raising his eyes to meet Tracie’s. “I do not want to wake Detective Kuznetsov in the middle of the night.”
“Trust me,” Tracie said. “He’ll want to know what happened.”
The kid’s lips were pursed as he considered her words and then he nodded subtly. “I suppose he will,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
He turned to go and then he stopped again. Looked at Tracie quizzically.
“What is it?” she said.
“How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
“About Sergeant Kuznetsov. How did you know he had us round up Comrade Chernov and place him in the cell with you?”
She chuckled bitterly. “Two reasons. First, Kuznetsov struck me as a nasty little weasel from the second I met him. Second, he as much as admitted he had something unpleasant waiting for me after he dumped me in this dungeon. I just didn’t know what it was going to be.
“But this,” she shook her head and nodded in the vagrant’s direction, “this was despicable, and I intend to tell him that the next time we chat.”
The cop nodded. He was still standing in the open doorway, not making any move to leave. Tracie wondered if it was because he thought the same thing about Kuznetsov and was letting it sink in that someone had had the nerve to say it out loud.
The man on the floor—the young cop had called him Chernov—moaned and rolled partway onto his back. Tracie glanced down at him and then across the room to the cop. “Go call for medical help.”
At that, the kid pulled the door closed and disappeared.
28
June 14, 1988
Approximately 3:15 a.m.
Rostov City Jail
Rostov, Russia, USSR
Maybe fifteen minutes after the young cop
exited the cellblock, the dented metal door swung open again with a creak. A different cop stepped through with a pair of emergency medical technicians right behind him.
The cop drew his gun and held it in his right hand, pointed more or less in Tracie’s direction, as he unlocked the cell door with his left. He pulled it open and then used the gun barrel to gesture from Tracie to the far corner of the cell.
“Move into the corner and stand facing the wall,” the cop instructed. “These men are going to remove your victim for medical treatment and if you so much as move one millimeter while they are doing so, I will put you down like the animal you are.”
Tracie lifted her eyebrows. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I am totally serious. Do it now.”
She couldn’t help but grin. Her head was pounding and blood trickled sluggishly from under her stitches. She’d scraped her knuckles raw banging Chernov’s head against the cement, and her right ankle throbbed with every beat of her heart. Every joint in her body felt as though she’d just completed a marathon.
And this idiot was worried about her attacking the EMTs?
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
“Do as I say!” he barked. “I will not tell you again.”
She shook her head and sighed, and then shuffled across the cell, stepping over Chernov’s body, crinkling her nose against the foul smell surrounding him. How long has it been since this guy showered?
When she reached the designated corner, the cop said, “Now raise your hands and place them on top of your head, fingers interlocked.”
Tracie spun around, exasperated. “Come on,” she said. “Don’t you think you’re being a little overdramatic?”
The cop raised his weapon slightly and fired, and the slug struck the wall less than a foot above her head. Tracie ducked instinctively as small chunks of concrete sprayed the cell and dust wafted around her in a mini-snowstorm.
“Jesus Christ!” she shouted. “You’re all insane in this town, every last one of you!” She spun back toward the wall, raising her hands as instructed, but as she did so she caught a glimpse of the two-man ambulance crew, still standing outside the cell waiting to do their jobs. Their faces were chalk-white and both men looked as though they would happily trade places with anyone else in the world at this moment.
Tracie knew how they felt.
Behind her, the cop muttered something to the EMTs, and a moment later she could hear the sound of the men entering the cell and assessing Chernov’s injuries. It was a rapid process, as they clearly wanted nothing more than to roll their patient onto a stretcher and get the hell out of the Rostov City Jail.
Inside of ninety seconds they had done just that. Tracie breathed deeply, relishing the now-slightly less pungent musty air of the cellblock.
The cop stepped out of the cell and clanged the door closed. Then he departed without another word.
Tracie lowered her arms and turned away from the wall. Adrenaline was pounding through her system. Along with the pain from her car-wreck injuries, her stomach was still rolling and pitching. She guessed it was from whatever meds she’d been given at the hospital interacting with the shock of nearly being shot in the head.
The last thing she felt she could possibly manage was getting a little sleep, but she was determined to try. If the first cop she’d spoken to, the one who’d come in after her confrontation with Chernov, had done as she asked and called Detective Kuznetsov, Tracie felt certain she would be getting a visit from him very soon.
And she was exhausted. The accident and the near-rape had taken just about every last reserve of energy she possessed, and if she was going to spar again with Kuznetsov, the rejuvenation that would come with even a short nap was critical.
She dropped onto the dirty cot and lay on her left side. She typically slept on her right side but that wouldn’t be happening for awhile, not with a couple dozen stitches sewn into that side of her shaved skull. It was just one more reason why she assumed she wouldn’t be able to manage a wink of sleep.
Within five minutes she’d dropped off.
***
June 14, 1988
Time unknown
Rostov City Jail
Rostov, Russia, USSR
“Get your ass up, right now.” Kuznetsov was growling at her before the metal cellblock door had even finished swinging open.
Tracie opened her eyes, again immediately aware of her surroundings and situation despite this time having been deeply asleep. She shoved herself into a sitting position and swung her feet to the floor, doing her best to ignore the shooting pain in her head and her ankle, determined not to let her Russian law enforcement nemesis know how badly she was suffering.
Kuznetsov stomped to her cell and Tracie said, “If this is what you look like before you’ve had your first cup of coffee, I suggest you start getting up a little earlier to make time for it. You’re looking a little raggedy, and I’m the one who got run over by a truck last night.”
“Shut up,” he said. He stood outside the cell glowering at her as he picked through the keys on the big metal ring, angry and frustrated that he couldn’t find the proper one.
Good, Tracie thought. If I’ve managed to get under your skin, maybe I’ll have the upper hand with what’s coming. God knows I need something on my side.
She watched in amusement as he fumbled, trying one key that didn’t work before trying another, still with no success.
Finally she said, “You really should learn to ask for help when you need it. The key you want is the fourth from the end.”
“I know what key it is,” he snapped.
“Sure you do,” she said. “That’s why I’m sitting here slowly growing old while you continue to embarrass yourself.”
He picked through the ring, selecting the key Tracie had suggested and unlocking the ancient cell door.
“See what we can accomplish when we work together?” she said.
“You talk too much,” Kuznetsov said. “Has anybody ever told you that?”
“Once or twice,” Tracie answered. “But you need to make up your mind. A few hours ago you were mad at me because I wasn’t saying enough, now you’re telling me I talk too much. Which is it?”
“Shut up and come with me.”
29
June 14, 1988
6:40 a.m.
Rostov City Jail
Rostov, Russia, USSR
Given the age and general state of disrepair of the holding cell in which Tracie had spent the night, she expected the rest of the Rostov police complex to be in equally poor condition. She was surprised to see that was not the case.
The administrative portion of the building was just as old as the detention wing, but it appeared to have been reasonably well maintained, particularly by Soviet standards. Kuznetsov led her by the elbow along the same hallway through which he’d brought her in the middle of the night, but when they’d gotten roughly halfway between the cellblock and the front entrance, he pushed through a door on the right and led her up a set of stairs.
The stairs opened onto a second-floor hallway filled with offices, interrogation rooms and conference rooms, and it was into one of the latter he brought her. He shoved her inside, stepped in behind her and closed the door. Loudly.
A clock hung on the wall, the first Tracie had seen since being escorted into the Rostov jail. At least she could orient herself slightly by time now. It was almost quarter to seven in the morning.
Kuznetsov nodded toward an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair that had been placed behind a small table. “Take a seat,” he said.
Tracie sat as instructed and said, “This is all very cozy. I’d love a cup of coffee, thanks for asking.”
“Cooperate with me,” Kuznetsov answered, “and I will consider getting you that coffee. But you have to earn it first.”
“Cooperate and earn it how? By putting out like your buddy Chernov tried to get me to do?”
“Co
mrade Chernov is not my ‘buddy,’ as you call it. He was picked up last night for vagrancy and had to be detained, just like you.”
“Bullshit,” Tracie said. “You knew exactly what you were doing putting that pervert in the cell with me, and you knew exactly what would happen after you did. You just didn’t expect me to defend myself.”
“Is that what you call putting a man in the hospital with a serious concussion and a gash on his head that required dozens of sutures to close? Defending yourself?”
“It is when that man tries to rape me. And I’ll tell you something else: he might be in the hospital, but he’s lucky to still be breathing. I could have ended him, and I’m almost sorry I didn’t. Now some other poor woman down the line is at risk, because you know as well as I do that guys like him never change.”
Kuznetsov ignored her comment. He sat heavily in the chair across the table from Tracie. He leaned back and crossed his arms and stared at her.
“What?” she said. “Do I have spinach in my teeth again?”
“Who are you?” he finally said. “And I don’t mean ‘what is your name?’ We are past all that. I mean, who the hell are you? Besides the guns and the knife the medical personnel took off you last night, we found materials suitable for espionage inside the canvas bag we retrieved from the wreckage of your vehicle.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Including,” Kuznetsov continued as if she hadn’t even spoken, “an electronic tracking device. A device which is not available to ordinary civilians anywhere in Russia. Anywhere in the Soviet Union, for that matter.”
“Still don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a simple Russian girl who was trying to get home last night when a truck ran me over. Maybe you should be spending your time grilling that guy, because judging from the way he was driving I would almost guarantee he had enough vodka in his system to euthanize a horse.”
The Nuclear Option Page 15
