by Cate Clarke
“Our men are already in there?” Taras confirmed, turning to Andriy who had been listening in, leaning forward and swaying with a drunk confidence.
“Of course,” Andriy replied. “They have no chance.”
“She doesn't know how to hold her alcohol,” Taras said, pouring his brother another drink. “Shame.”
“The man with her…” Stepanov continued. “Should we take care of him?”
Taras looked at Andriy, making a silent gesture for him to field the question.
“I’ll get Fedoruk to deal with him when I get the girl.”
“If you’re not too hungover,” Taras said.
Laughing loud, Andriy replied, “I won’t be. Unlike the American bitch, I know how to handle my booze.”
Chapter 26
Dominic Ratanake
Las Vegas, Nevada
He paced in his hotel room, the small bottles of scotch lined up along the desk, half of them already drunk, derisive and unyielding. It had been terrible to watch her leave with him, to walk away with the only man Ratanake actually saw as competition. It had been even worse to hear about her fate on the plane.
He would do everything he could to get her out. Even if that meant going over there himself.
The call on the laptop rang several times before she finally picked up. The screen filled with her face, red hair down to her waist and round features except for a sharp nose.
“Agent Joubert,” Ratanake said, sitting down at the chair, ignoring the nattering scotch.
“Dominic Ratanake,” she said in perfect English despite being fluent in seven languages. “My contact told me he was connecting me to you.”
“I’ve taken over this case for now,” Ratanake replied. “How is the assignment?”
“Lots of intel,” she said. “You’ve read my most recent report?”
“Of course. Taras seems to be taking a shine to you.”
She thought for a moment, intense blue eyes staring past the camera. “Maybe. But he’s also getting suspicious. I’ve kept my distance for now. He’s distracted by the Weicks so that has been very helpful.”
There was a slight twinge of French in the word very. He could see why she was chosen for undercover work—she had an endearing cadence, and an innocent face, any man would trust her. She was stuffed in a dark room, light coming from behind her, a dim yellow aura growing as she moved the phone farther away from her face.
“Did the latest get to you now?” Ratanake asked.
“Quickly,” she said, covering the phone temporarily with her hand.
“The air marshal arrested her on the flight to Ukraine,” he said. “She’s on her way to a Kharkiv jail as we speak.”
The darkness was replaced by her face again as she hissed down into the phone, “What?!”
“Air Marshal Moroz,” Ratanake continued, leaving out the detail of Diana trying to knock the guy out. It didn’t paint her in a good light. But, it didn’t really help.
“That devil-may-care attitude is going to get her killed,” she said. “Sooner than Taras has planned.”
“What do you know about the cops in Kharkiv?”
“All corrupt except for maybe one or two,” she replied. “She’s totally fucked.”
The phone went black. A few moments later, the call ended. Ratanake slammed his open hand down onto the desk, the laptop trembling and skipping across the surface. He turned in the padded chair and began to walk back and forth in the small room.
It was clear that if Diana was going to get out of jail in Kharkiv, it wouldn’t be diplomatically. Of course Kushkin owned the police force. They owned everything east of Kiev. The only man on the ground they had was Rex, a middle-aged veteran who’d barely finished his first tour. Ratanake could call in backup from the UK, but then they were running the risk of blowing this thing up into all-out war on the streets of Kharkiv.
Running his finger along the laptop pad, Ratanake brought it back to life, shaking his head and sighing. He made the call to Rex—the dopey, smiling picture of Rex snowboarding popping up on the screen.
“Ratanake,” Rex breathed into the laptop’s speakers. “Thank God.”
“Happy to hear from me?”
“Happy to hear from anyone.”
“What’s happening over there?” Ratanake asked, leaning forward with his palms on either side of the laptop.
“They took her!” Rex exclaimed. “Straight off the plane! They dragged her across the terminal and threw her in the back of a cop car. Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Rex, calm down,” Ratanake said. “Where are you now?”
“At the airport.” He heard shuffling, muttering in Ukrainian as Rex tried to make his way through a sea of alien settings.
“You need to find her, okay? Get as close as possible to the jail,” Ratanake said. “I’ll send you the information that I can. But, listen, Rex...” Ratanake sighed, staring down at the cheesy grin on Rex’s picture. He borderline hated this man—he was, however, the only one that Diana had right now. They didn’t have to overcome their differences, but they had to work together to get her out. What had Diana seen in him to begin with? He certainly couldn’t match her strength or intellect in any capacity. How could she have chosen Rex over him?
Ratanake’s hands gripped around the lip of the desk, squeezing, his dark knuckles flexing with anger.
“Ratanake?” Rex asked. “You there?”
He was scared. Rex was terrified. Though Ratanake blamed him for more than he should, he was still an American citizen in need. Desperate need. Grabbing one of the scotch bottles and downing the alcohol in two swigs, he said, “I’ll send you what you need. We’re going to get her out. Trust no one, Rex. Everyone there is in Kushkin’s pocket, especially the cops.”
Rex let out a deep breath and said, “Okay.”
Some of the scotch got caught in Ratanake’s throat and he had to turn away from the laptop to hack out three burning coughs.
“The marshal’s name is Moroz and after a quick check, we’ve confirmed he’s been affiliated with Kushkin as well,” Ratanake said. “I’m not sure if it was planted. It very well could have been. Either way, keep away from him specifically because he’s seen your face. One thing you have going for you, at least until they circulate your picture, is that you’re anonymous. You speak any Ukrainian? Russian?”
“Uh, no…”
“Keep your phone on. Find a hostel if you need.”
Ratanake ended the call, closing the laptop. The scotch passed between his hands, the next bottle ready to be consumed. And he did. He drank two more small bottles and then went down to the hotel bar and had three more—drowning himself in it. Numbing the idea that Diana was about to die overseas with nothing but Rex Tennison to protect her. Usually he drank to forget her, but tonight, he would think about her with no restrictions. He would drink down every memory, every touch, every word that had ever passed between them until he blacked out on the hotel sheets, clutching to them as if they were her.
Chapter 27
Kennedy Tennison-Weick
Odesa, Ukraine
The shot still rang in her ears. The scenic countryside passing by the car window couldn’t erase the image of Jeremy’s still body on the concrete. Her only friend, dead, and it was her fault. If he’d never met Kennedy, if he’d just joined a different Discord server, he’d still be alive, living with his sick mom, maybe even going to college.
She cried again, but this time silently. Her eyes were dry from all of the sobbing she’d been doing. With the thoughts of Jeremy and the man with the gun in the front seat on her mind, Kennedy didn’t even notice the older woman sitting in the back row of the van until she moved to sit next to her.
Kennedy jumped.
“Dear,” the woman said, cupping a hand around Kennedy’s face. She pulled away, bumping her head against the window behind her. The woman tutted, clicking her teeth as she took some tissues out of her pocket and handed them to her. “I know it is tough.”
“I am Mrs. Babich,” she said, each word loud and over-pronounced. “I work for the Kushkins.”
Stiffening, Kennedy examined the middle-aged woman. Her graying hair was wrapped into a tight bun and despite some lines around her eyes and mouth showing her age, she looked younger than they’d dressed her up to be. An apron around her neck overtop of a simple gray and brown dress and stockings with practical clunky shoes. It was easy to tell that she had once been very beautiful.
“This must be quite scary for you,” she whispered.
Kennedy’s eyes flashed to the man in the front seat, to the man who’d killed Jeremy. Even though she wasn’t speaking, Mrs. Babich hushed her, drawing her attention back to her crinkled eyes.
“I am here to take care of you,” she said in her whispery foreign accent. “Taras sent me. You know him?”
Kennedy swallowed and said, “Not really.”
“He treats us well,” she said, nodding. “Much better than his father did.”
“Where are you taking me?” Kennedy asked. The man in the front seat shifted, listening.
“To our manor,” Mrs. Babich said. “You will love it. It is beautiful. It is by the sea.”
Kennedy nodded. She looked over her shoulder, green pastures passing by that morphed into rolling hills, filled with budding trees. Springtime had painted everything with dew, giving everything a young shine. Not a pine tree in sight.
“And what’s going to happen after I’m there?” Kennedy asked, turning back to the woman. Reaching forward with hesitation, Mrs. Babich tucked a curl behind Kennedy’s ear. She let her. There was something warm and comforting about her presence. There was a reason they had sent this woman and not another man like Jeremy or the one in the front seat. They wanted her to feel safe. They wanted her to feel as if she wasn’t just a prisoner or sex slave or bait. Even though that's exactly what she was. Kennedy couldn’t forget that. “Trust no one,” her mom used to say as they would sit at the kitchen table playing cards, occasionally cheating until Kennedy pulled out the extra aces in her sleeves.
She ran her palm along the stain on her sweatshirt, some of it rubbing off onto her hand, still not entirely dry.
“That I cannot say,” Mrs. Babich said. “Because I don’t know or else I would tell you.”
“Do you trust these people?” Kennedy whispered. “Do you trust this Taras guy?”
“With my life,” Mrs. Babich said, putting a hand on Kennedy’s leg. “They have taken care of me for a very long time. In return, I will take care of you.”
“What if they want to kill me?”
Mrs. Babich didn’t flinch, but she intensified her stare, analyzing every feature in Kennedy’s face. It was clear she was a touchy person. The woman placed both of her hands on Kennedy’s shoulders so she could say, “It is not you they want to kill.”
They drove for several hours. Kennedy fell asleep in Mrs. Babich’s lap—she stroked her hair and spoke to her in Ukrainian, soft stories and songs to keep her calm. Kennedy was stirred awake when the car rolled onto uneven ground, gravel kicking up underneath the tires.
The man, whose name was Alek as Mrs. Babich told her, let her out of the backseat, and Kennedy stepped out. The air was thick with the smell of salt and algae. They were at an ocean. To her right, black waves swept along rocky shores. Further down the coast, she could see the outline of a great light city, white stone built up along the water, ancient buildings with more history than Kennedy had ever seen before.
“That is Odesa,” Mrs. Babich whispered in her ear. “Unfortunately, we are not going there, but one day I will take you for shopping.”
Alek leaned against the hood of the car, looking out at the sea.
“This is the Black Sea,” Mrs. Babich continued, swiping her hand in front of Kennedy’s vision.
“I thought it was an ocean…” Kennedy said with a distance in her voice that even she recognized.
“It is as powerful as an ocean,” Mrs. Babich replied. “Very dangerous for girls like you.”
Kennedy looked at her. Mrs. Babich smiled. Could she not already see that Kennedy was in danger? She was either brainwashed, ignorant or lying. Kennedy chose to believe it was the first because she couldn’t bear any more lies and broken trust.
“Where is he?” Alek said in English, after a few moments of admiring the sea—the first words Kennedy had heard him say.
“It is Andriy that is coming?” Mrs. Babich asked, hobbling her way around Kennedy. She was short, and she had a slight limp that seemed to be made worse by the rocks.
“Of course,” Alek replied.
“You know how he is.”
“That’s not an excuse,” he snapped. “I’ll take her for myself if he’s not here in five minutes.”
“Alek,” Mrs. Babich tutted, putting herself next to him and placing a hand on his arm. “With patience, it is possible to dig a well with a teaspoon.”
“Quiet, old bitch,” Alek said.
Nodding her head and taking a step back, seemingly unfazed by the insult, Mrs. Babich returned to where Kennedy was standing next to the car, away from the man. There was a road with consistent traffic behind them. She wondered what would happen if she ran, waving her arms in the middle of the highway until someone stopped to help her. What if they didn’t speak English? What if they took her somewhere worse than this? Mrs. Babich had told her all about the beautiful mansion with its endless supply of snacks and drinks, and there was a part of Kennedy that really wanted to see it despite the obvious danger she was in.
A phone rang. Alek answered, immediately yelling. Kennedy had no idea what he was saying, but it was clear both parties were angry, negotiating something in huffs of resentment.
Kennedy whispered to Mrs. Babich, “What are they saying?”
“It seems that Andriy is…what is word...” She thought. “Occupied! Yes, he is occupied so Alek will bring us to manor. But, they must discuss his increase in pay for this because it is not his usual task.”
“Occupied with what?” Kennedy asked.
Mrs. Babich smiled up at her, placing a hand on her arm and gently shushed her once again.
“You must learn your place,” she said, so soft that Kennedy barely heard it under the sounds of the sea and Alek’s harsh yelling.
After he hung up the phone, he screamed at them both to get back in the car, a vein erupting over his pale forehead and pulsing with his every movement. And even though Kennedy still felt unsafe and alone, there was a certain comfort in being able to lean on Mrs. Babich and to sit in her warmth. But she also knew that was exactly what Kushkin wanted and exactly what her mom would tell her not to do. She closed her eyes, sitting away from Mrs. Babich in the backseat. Reminding herself: trust no one.
Chapter 28
Diana Weick
Kharkiv, Ukraine
Handcuffs behind her back, wrists weaved through the chair. Head bowed forward, blood dripping from her lip and onto the metal seat between her legs. Pain, everywhere. Rex, gone. Kennedy, alive or dead? The hangover, persistent.
Another fist came flying at her face, hitting her just under the jaw, sending the blood spattering across the concrete walls. The men laughed, chattering in Ukrainian as they celebrated every hit they landed on her. These were not cops. They had the uniforms on, they had the building—the desks, the jail cells, this concrete interrogation room—but they were as far from law enforcement as Taras Kushkin was.
They asked her questions in broken English. They spat in her mouth. They touched her everywhere as she flailed her legs against them, kicking and never once stopping her resistance. They went through her things in front of her, sorting through the guns that Ratanake had left her as well as a pile of expensive explosives. Then they made it to her clothes. Diana had to shut her eyes.
But one of them came up behind her, pulling at her hair and forcing her to ope
n them.
The main one was a man that they called Arthur—he was older with gray curly hair and thick glasses. He had a short beard and his uniform was too tight, as if he were in denial about weight gain. The one with toys—TASERs, nightsticks, the dagger that he’d stuck under two of her fingernails.
This wasn’t even for information. It was because they were Kushkin’s men, and Diana was the American bitch. If it was up to Taras, the whole country would be in this room, slapping her one at a time.
Still, they pretended like it was business as usual—like it was commonplace for them to drag drunk passengers off of commercial flights and beat them senseless.
“You can’t keep me here forever,” Diana said after an unknown amount of hours and punches to the stomach.
“You are in custody,” Arthur said. “You assaulted an officer. We can keep you here for…” He did some fake thinking. “Five to ten years.”
He laughed. They all laughed. Diana kicked her feet, screaming. From frustration, not pain. They did take breaks. Every hour or so they rotated out of the room to get coffee or booze, the smell different every time they returned. One guard was always left on duty. And it wasn’t until the seventh or eighth break when they left someone watching her that they shouldn’t have.
The guard was pacing in front of the door, struggling with something. He had blond hair that flipped out around his ears and thick dark eyebrows. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, and he kept pulling at his uniform.
All of the officers wore the National Police of Ukraine uniforms, the only actual police service in the whole country. Because of this, Diana also knew that they weren’t in Kiev. Not only because of the length of the car ride here but because Taras didn’t have control over the national police in Kiev like he did in Kharkiv—that was, at least, still out of reach. But it was clear, these guys were still tied in close with the Party of Regions, a pro-Russian political group, and Taras was their excuse for acting without their president, who’d fled the country five years ago for sharing and radicalizing the same beliefs.
