by Cate Clarke
“Us?” Wesley piped up, taking a step toward the bed. “You’re going to let me go?”
Laird took a step forward as well, his heavy boot like a sledgehammer compared to Wesley’s soft sneakers.
“I mean you said there’s going to be a salary, right?” Laird asked, ignoring Wesley entirely. “And I don’t have to go out in the field—I can stay with the SIS in that high-brow office?”
Placing both of his hands under Ratanake’s pillow, Wesley helped him sit up so he could look properly at the two of them. The pain in his chest radiated across him in a surging streak of heat.
“If that’s what you need,” Ratanake said, grunting and wincing. “Then yes.”
“All right, all right,” Laird droned. He wrapped his fingers around the bottom of the hospital bed, painted-black fingernails tapping against the metal railing. “When do we leave?”
They discussed the logistics of it—when they would meet and how they would get Ratanake out of the hospital and to the airport. It would be the first time that Ratanake would allow himself to travel outside of the United States for nearly thirty years, since his last SEAL mission. As Laird began to talk to Wesley about his latest technological hacking escapade, Ratanake had to tune him out so he wouldn’t incriminate himself just by eavesdropping.
On the TV in the corner, the news flashed by, explosions painting the corners of the screen. A banner appeared at the bottom of it: Kharkiv explosions deemed “terrorist attacks”—seventy-seven dead including four National Police.
“Turn that up,” Ratanake said, lifting a weak arm toward the TV.
Wesley had to stand on one of the chairs to reach the volume button, not even bothering to look for the remote. The screen showed shattered glass along the street, speckled with blood and black smoke billowing into the gray sky behind it all.
“The third of what seems to be a stream of attacks occurred today, again, in downtown Kharkiv, Ukraine,” a woman with long black hair said—a plain newsroom and projected city laid out behind her. “The first occurred three days ago at a downtown police precinct, followed by another at a public park and the third today at the Kharkiv Music Festival—this being the deadliest explosion of the three. With these attacks being targeted at crowded locations, the National Police of Ukraine are on high alert for any other improvised explosive devices in Kharkiv’s tourist locations and popular areas. Though, it’s still unknown who is behind these attacks. Several witnesses reported seeing drones overhead prior to the explosion at the Kharkiv Music Festival.”
The TV showed a cell phone video, shaky and nauseating, filming a collection of young people dancing with glow sticks in their hands. As the camera moved up, several drones streaked across the sky, completely silent underneath the thumping bass of the music. Seconds later, the screen was covered by thick black smoke.
It cut back to the reporter.
Wesley stood underneath it, looking up at the TV with his arms crossed. Laird was leaning against the foot of the bed. Ratanake had to turn his head away. It was unknown to these news reporters who was behind the attacks, but he knew, the United States Government knew, and the people of Kharkiv knew that behind the fire and the smoke was the temper and hurt feelings of Taras Kushkin.
Chapter 3
Rex Tennison
In the dark, the hours dragged on. It was too much time. There were too many thoughts, too many groans from pain and from his empty stomach, and way too many times that he stubbed his toe against the cement walls, pacing around the empty room.
What kept him sane and what kept him from running his head into the wall much harder than his toe was the fact that both Diana and Kennedy had gotten away. It had come at a hefty price, but at least they were out of Kushkin’s reach for now. Rex did wonder why Taras hadn’t just put a gun to his head and been done with it once the smoke grenade had cleared, the handgun that shot the Russian terrorist in the hip sitting in the space between them. But he supposed Taras needed something to hold on to after losing out on every one of the goals that he’d had planned. It wasn’t easy to lose. Especially not for a man—boy—like that.
That had been one of the most surprising parts of all this—how young Taras and Andriy Kushkin actually were. It was clear in their impulsiveness and their ability to hold their alcohol, but it really showed in their tempers once Diana had escaped.
Taras had shot a guard just out of pure frustration. Then, he’d unleashed everything they had on the people of Kharkiv, flexing his power, overcompensating because of his loss. Really, a second loss.
Weicks - 2, Kushkins - 0.
Rex was sure he was smiling in the dark but he put his fingers up to either side of his face, just to be sure.
The light turned on. The cement hovel lit up with the buzz of fluorescents. There were two clicks and the door opened.
Someone was shoved inside, wrapped in a bloodied tan coat.
“Since you two have so much in common…” a voice growled from the other side.
The door slammed shut again. Another two clicks. Locked.
The lights stayed on though and for the first time in two days, Rex was able to analyze his surroundings. It was pretty much how he’d pictured it. A cement room with four walls. There was a plastic bucket in the corner that he’d ran into on many of his circles, and a rusted metal sink bolted to the wall. There were two boarded-up windows at the tops of the walls, pieces of light-colored plywood fit into the frame.
The man groaned and turned over to reveal the bruised face of Andriy Kushkin. Dry blood was flaking off his beard. His eyes were so swollen and red that it seemed like he didn’t recognize Rex at first glance. The bruises around his face and down his neck were varying shades of purple and yellow. It was clear. He’d been beaten for hours on end.
“Andriy,” Rex said, standing back and away from him, unsure how the hell he was going to react to him being here and in better shape than he was.
Andriy turned his face, groaning again, moving his swollen eyes to Rex, analyzing his sweat-covered frame.
“You,” Andriy muttered. “Of course he kept you alive.”
“I’m as surprised as you are,” Rex said, sitting down with his back flush against the cement. They’d given him some food. A cup of rice and a soupy boiled egg that he had to feel around in the dark for, but it was food nonetheless. Andriy, on the other hand, looked like he hadn’t eaten, drank or slept in days. His lips were chapped with white skin and as he reached out one hand to Rex, all of his fingernails were peeled back and bloodied.
“He likes men like you,” Andriy said, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. “Stupid thick-headed Americans like you.”
“Seems like he might like stupid thick-headed Americans more than his own brother,” Rex replied.
Andriy let out a dry laugh that he choked on. Several coughs hacked out of him as he tried to turn over to spit something from his mouth, but he struggled and began to choke even more. His face went from the purple and yellow of his bruises to a bright red. Clear tears burst from the sides of his bulging eyes.
Rex hopped forward, using the minimal strength that he had to turn Andriy into the recovery position. With three more coughs, Andriy managed to spit out a colossal chunk of blood and mucus onto the cement beside him. Rex patted his back from behind, crouching and then collapsing onto his knees when the muscles in his legs began to scream at him.
After a few more laboured breaths and a deep sigh, Andriy muttered out a “thank you.”
It did cross Rex’s mind to let the man die. Maybe he wanted to die after all that had happened—getting caught by Rex because he was absolutely shit-faced, used as bait to get Kennedy back only to be shot in the stomach by his own brother.
Rex looked down to his own wound where they had stitched him up. The bandages had bloodied many hours ago and the side of his torso lurched with pain every time he moved, but it was getting better. He was healing.
Andriy has his arms clutched over the middle of his body, holdi
ng his own bullet wound like his stomach would lurch out if he took his hands away.
“How is it?” Rex asked, looking at the blood caked between the hairs on his arms.
“Hurts like hell,” Andriy said. “Taras is not much of a surgeon.”
“He did it himself?” Rex scoffed.
“He certainly tried.”
“Let me see it,” Rex said, jutting out his chin. Though the bullet had gone through Andriy to hit him, Rex had only been grazed, and he couldn’t watch this man die from sepsis over the next few days. That would put him behind on the whole staying-sane thing.
Reluctantly, Andriy took his arm away, revealing a wound that had been stitched up with too thick a thread at the top of his torso.
“You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything major,” Rex stated as he slid closer and examined the Frankensteined injury.
“I think a couple of my ribs are broken too,” Andriy mustered, seemingly too weak and too in pain to resist Rex’s help. Either way, it seemed that he’d given up—if not on his own brother, then on himself.
The wound was inflamed and red, the skin raised around the edges of the thread like a rising bread. Luckily for Andriy, there wasn’t much seepage and any remaining blood around it was dry. Rex took the edge of his soiled T-shirt, ran it under the water of the sink and brought it back to where Andriy lay still, looking out at the concrete, softly groaning.
With practiced hands, Rex touched the damp T-shirt to the bullet hole, cleaning it up with soft dabs. When he’d served, near the end of his Army career, he’d stepped into the role of combat medic specialist because there was a need for it and Rex had no clue what else to do. He was willing to do whatever he needed to help out his fellow soldiers and to make the time go by quicker in the stank of tent-city Afghanistan.
Andriy winced as he cleaned the wound. For the first time, he seemed to make an effort to actually look at him as he asked, “Why are you helping me?”
Smiling slightly and still dabbing, Rex said, “Well, first off, I don’t really want to just watch you rot away on the concrete here.” He cleared his throat and added, “Secondly, seems like we may have something in common now. We both hate your brother.”
“Now?” Andriy coughed, leaning his head on the floor. “I’ve always hated him.”
Rex nodded. The smoke grenade coming back to mind, the sound of it rolling across the marble, the hiss of the white smoke filling the room so no one could tell the two of them apart.
“Why’s that?” Rex asked, trying to pull Andriy’s focus away from the wound as he began to groan again.
“Do you have any brothers?” Andriy asked.
“Yup. A younger one,” Rex said. “Three years apart.”
“You are lucky to be first-born,” Andriy replied. “You are blessed.”
“Uh, yeah…” Rex looked around the room and down at the wounded Russian terrorist under his hands. “I don’t know if I’d say that.”
“I suppose you’re right. You may die here.”
“Well, you too.”
Rex scrutinized the cleaned wound and a small drop of puss leaked out from under one of the dark threads. Not good. He swallowed hard.
“I will die in good company then,” Andriy muttered, his eyes closing, his bruised face pressing against the concrete. It was only a few moments before he began to snore with long wet breaths. And Rex couldn’t help but temporarily wish for the darkness again as he set himself up in one of the blank corners, the fluorescent lights humming overhead like a mosquito constantly buzzing in and out of his ears. Maybe, he would have to give Kushkin a point for this. He knew how to torture people, even his own family.
This close to the wall, he could hear the very light sound of a TV in the next room. If they behaved, if they complied, would they get the opportunity to watch TV? Would they get a tattered futon to sleep on?
Rex did worry about Andriy’s words—that Rex was Taras’s “type.” What did that mean for his future as a Kushkin prisoner? Maybe, it would be better to end it now. There wasn’t much to use here but he was sure if he ran himself into the wall enough times, it would make a difference. Diana would be livid. He was almost certain that she was coming back for him because that was how she was—absolutely, obsessively determined. And the kids. Kennedy had already been through this in some ways. Rex had to stay alive, stay observant, and stay mildly sane.
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