Then he’s back, sitting on the edge of the bed again, a plain white ceramic bowl cradled in his hands. He sets the bowl on the small wood table beside the bed.
“I’m going to lift you. It will hurt.”
Before I can protest that I’m hurting enough already, he drags me up by my armpits to a sitting position.
He wasn’t exaggerating: it hurts. It hurts like a bitch. A thousand knives stab into my stomach and slash it apart. The pain leaves me breathless and gasping.
Steadying me with one hand, he props the pillow against the headboard with the other. Then he helps me lie back against it, shushing me gently when I groan.
He sits next to me again, picks up the bowl, ladles the spoon into it, then holds the spoon to my lips. He waits patiently until I’ve controlled my ragged breathing and open my mouth, then he slides the spoon between my lips.
The soup is hot, creamy, and delicious. I swallow greedily, licking my lips.
He grunts in satisfaction and feeds me another spoonful.
It isn’t until I’m halfway through the bowl that I speak again. “How long have I been here?”
“Since last night. You spent six days in the hospital before that.”
I’ve been unconscious for a week? Impossible.
He sees my shock and says, “You were in a trauma unit until you were stable enough to be moved.”
“Trauma unit,” I repeat, struggling to find the memory.
There’s nothing. It’s a dead end. A blank wall.
“A place we use, off the books. You had surgery. You’ve been given analgesics, antibiotics, and hydration through IV. Blood transfusions, too.” He pauses. “You shouldn’t be alive.”
My voice faint, I say, “I told you I was stubborn.”
“Yes. You did.”
He gazes at me with such searing intent, I grow self-conscious.
The self-consciousness vanishes when my fried brain synapses decide to start firing again, and I remember something Spider told me when we were fleeing from Malek at the bookstore.
“He’s the right hand of the Moscow Bratva king.”
The important part being “Moscow.”
My heartbeat surges into a thundering gallop. My voice turns hoarse. “When you said I’m at your home…where are we, exactly?”
Holding my gaze, he says a word.
It’s not in English.
My instincts suggest it’s the name of a town, but it can’t be what I’m thinking. I refuse to believe it’s true.
I whisper, “Where have you taken me? Where is this place?”
He remains silent. His eyes are full of darkness. Such deep, impenetrable darkness, it’s like looking into an abyss.
“You already know where you are. And this is where you’ll be staying.”
Then he stands and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
24
Declan
“I have something.”
The sound of Kazimir’s voice on the other end of the phone is both a relief and an instant aggravation. “It’s been over a week!”
“You’re lucky I found anything at all.” He pauses meaningfully. “Your FBI contact come through for you?”
“You bloody well know he didn’t,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Yes. And I had to kill three men to get this information. So a little appreciation is in order.”
“Just get to the fucking point already!”
“Since you asked me so nicely, I will.”
His voice oozes sarcasm and self-congratulations. I mutter to myself, “This bloody minger will be the death of me.”
“With any luck. Do you want to hear this or not?”
He seems satisfied that my silent seething is a yes and continues.
I immediately wish he hadn’t.
“She’s in Russia.”
After I regroup from that shock, I say, “How? We had eyes on the whole country. Airports, bus terminals, ports, everything.”
“He’s a slippery motherfucker, that’s how. And the Canadian border is notoriously porous.”
Canada. He went north. Fuck. “Go on.”
“He stole a truck, changed the plates, and smuggled her though the border near Niagara Falls. Smart move, considering the amount of daily tourist traffic they get. The truck was found abandoned near a small airfield in Hamilton, Ontario. They flew out from there.”
“The final destination?”
“Malek’s hometown. Moscow.”
Moscow. The sixth largest city in the world, with over twelve million people.
And not a single one of them willing to help us find Riley.