by D STEP
The guard nodded, and she lifted the bag to the tabletop. Finding her lipstick and compact, she caught her reflection in its tiny mirror. Her chin-length brunette locks lay limp and flat after the long trip, and her face beyond pale. I look dreadful. She applied a coat of Red Fever to lips that people told her were lusciously full, but to her seemed oversized and pouty. She dabbed off the excess, and gave a sigh as she noted the annoying little gap between her two front teeth that she’d always hated. Her dark brown eyes had lost their usual sparkle and stared back at her in blank fatigue. She snapped the compact closed and returning it to her purse, spotted her cell phone that she hadn’t yet switched from airplane mode. She should call Andrew, let him know she’d arrived. Silly! She should call the Minister’s office, tell them to clear up whatever mess these airport goons seemed to have stirred up.
Perhaps it was nothing. The officer might come back any minute with his apologies. The security guards probably wouldn’t care for her making any calls just now. Instead she pulled out her wallet, and found Andrew’s picture inside. Steady, predictable Andrew. Her fiancé.
They’d set a wedding date—two years from now. Enough time for him to complete his own studies in Vienna, and Sophie to get her first tour of duty under her belt. They’d planned it all out, like everything else in her life. Where they would live, who would be in the wedding party, what bank to put their investments in. She stroked the glossy surface of his photo, her thumb caressing the image of his curly hair, square jaw and blue eyes behind executive-style glasses. My Andrew. My future.
She slid the wallet back into her purse. Her immediate future meant getting to her post at the Ministry of Industry and Trade, and starting her new job as aide-de-camp to the newly appointed Minister, Marat Borovski. She hadn’t met the man in person, but had already been briefed on everything that she would need to perform her duties. If she could ever get there! She shouldered her purse then slipped her high heels off to ease the pain in her feet.
At last, the door opened and the agent who’d escorted her into the room appeared again. Alone. He glanced nervously at the security men, and waved an ‘at-ease’ gesture with the palm of his hand. His face bore the look of someone who’d just screwed up big time.
“Miss Brant, it seems your papers are in order after all,” he said quickly, as though in a hurry to be elsewhere. “Sorry for any inconvenience…” His words were interrupted by a new presence barging into the room that nearly knocked the agent over.
Sophie jumped at the sudden motion, and stared in shock at the man who stood in the doorway. He seemed to fill the room, not only with his considerable height but with a palpable aura of strength and dominance. His attire did not befit an airport worker nor government official; a leather vest with a dozen zippered pockets draped over a plain white tee shirt. His exposed arms were muscular and marked from shoulder to wrist with swirling, tribal-like tattoos. Designer jeans stretched tightly over powerful thighs and heavy black biker boots covered his feet. He scanned the room, though his eyes were concealed behind a pair of sunglasses. His facial features were mostly hidden underneath a reddish-brown beard that could use a trim.
“What the fuck, Daniel? There were supposed to be three of them,” he barked. The agent’s face turned red and backed away from the huge man. “You,” he continued, jutting his chin toward the security guards. “Where are the others?”
The guards wobbled their heads in denial, looking between each other. “No show,” one of them said, then pointed at Sophie. “Just this one.”
“No, no, Yuri,” the red-faced agent argued, his voice rising in panic. “There’s been a mistake…the name was so similar, I thought…”
Yuri fixed his shielded gaze on him. “Mistake? I think you’re the mistake, all of you,” he said, his tone low but threatening. “Can’t take care of one simple job.”
Sophie froze in her seat trying to make sense of the exchange since her Russian was still elementary, but the agent named Daniel said her papers were fine. If they’d let her out of this damned room these men could argue all they wanted. She reached down for her shoes, getting ready to run past the burly tattoo guy if necessary.
Daniel and the guards became more agitated by the second. Clearly this Yuri held some authority over them, but couldn’t imagine why, given his appearance. She could tell he had quite a temper, the words between all three of them escalating in volume and harshness. Sophie gripped the handle of her wheeled bag and rose slowly from her chair, nursing an irrational hope of somehow sneaking past them.
“Fine, I’ll take this one,” Yuri said. In one swift motion he was upon her, twisting her by the arm and forcing her in front of him. She could feel cold metal pressing into the small of her back. “You’ll have to do, princess,” he whispered in heavily accented English. “Stay quiet, and you stay alive.”
Chapter Two
Sophie’s world blurred all around her. Visions of overhead lights, narrow corridors and sounds of echoing footsteps whirled together in an incomprehensible mash. All that seemed constant was the painful, solid grip on her arm and the gun barrel pressed to her spine, pushing her forward.
“Stop,” she gasped. “Let me go…”
Her outburst was rewarded with a stronger jab in the back and her arm yanked upward in an excruciating hold.
“Shut up,” a male voice hissed in her ear. Her back arched in an awkward position, and the back of her head butted against his chest. She smelled leather and a hint of cologne, faded but infinitely more pleasant than Massimo’s. His lips were only inches away as he hissed a command. “One more word will be your last.”
Sophie grunted in pain, but closed her mouth and gritted her teeth. They continued clumsily down a dimly-lit stairwell to a scarred, battered exit door at the bottom. Her captor jarred the door open with his shoulder. Cool night air rushed over them as he pushed her outside, her heels clattering against the rough pavement as she stumbled. Her wheeled carry-on had been abandoned somewhere along the way, and an additional wave of panic struck her at the realization that Daniel still had her passport and visa.
She was nothing and nobody without them. Her purse dangled from her shoulder, but not much inside it would help her now. Her panicked brain still did not comprehend the situation. Everything felt like a nightmare from which she desperately hoped to wake. “Please,” she whimpered, unheeding the man’s warning to be quiet.
“Don’t beg, princess. Just do what I tell you,” he answered harshly while marching them across a darkened back lot. The smells of garbage and gasoline assaulted her nostrils. Dear God, where was he taking her? Would she end up in a dumpster, dismembered? She had nothing valuable, nothing on her that would interest a murderer…oh, no. Her fear rose higher. Perhaps his intentions were much simpler, more basic.
They came to a stop at the edge of the pavement. The only thing in sight was a dangerous-looking motorcycle…the scary Sons of Anarchy kind…a massive chassis with imposing chrome-steel exhaust pipes and a frighteningly long front fork that harnessed intricately-spoked wheels. It sat parked in a leisurely pose, like a sleeping dragon awaiting feeding time. Its polished parts gleamed even in the absence of properly working lampposts in the vicinity.
“Get on,” he growled, pushing her toward the wide, smooth saddle.
“W-what? I…I don’t know how,” she stuttered.
The giant hulk of a man began to curse in Russian and pocketed his weapon inside his vest. Then he simply scooped her up and jammed her onto the seat, splitting her legs apart. The seam of her tight skirt made a ripping noise as it tore open. Sophie stifled an anguished cry as primal fear took hold of her. This man could do anything to her and she’d be powerless against him. His heavy grip held her in position as he mounted the saddle behind her.
“We go for a ride,” he grunted, sliding his big thighs on either side of hers. His crotch pressed tight against her butt and she felt completely encased by his thick body. In front of her the machine’s curved windshield spread
He donned the helmet that hung from the giant handlebars and snapped the chinstrap closed. No protection for her except his own musclebound, tattooed arms. He slipped one around her waist as he started the engine and gunned the throttle. If he meant to scare her even more than he had already, the horrific noise of the two-wheeled beast did the trick. Sophie screamed and covered her ears.
Yuri’s arm tightened around her. “Nobody hear you now,” he shouted. “Hang on.”
Hang on to what? Sophie groped at the dashboard and saddle. He grabbed her hands and hooked them around his powerful thighs that straddled her on either side. Then grasping the handlebars, he launched the bike into motion with a squeal of rubber against pavement. She ducked her head forward against the gas tank, her arms completely circling his legs and her purse crushed under her chin. The speed they were travelling terrified her. She hadn’t been to church in a long time, but prayed fervently for her life as the monster bike accelerated, swerving left and right at sickening angles.
Sophie began to cry, her lungs heaving in huge sobs and tears streaming from her eyes. All she could do was hang on, and trust that this beast of a man had no more wish to die in a crash than she did. Her legs were numb from the vibration as they hurtled down the highway. She lost track of time and had no idea how long they’d been riding or where they were headed.
Suddenly, she felt the bike gear down and begin to decelerate. It slowed and cruised to a stop. When she had the strength to raise her head it appeared they were at an abandoned gas station. A dilapidated shack sat back in the shadows and a pair of ancient gas pumps stood silhouetted like frozen sentinels against the night sky. Was this where she would meet her end? Raped, shot and discarded in the overgrown bushes beyond?
She felt Yuri steady the bike and attempt to dismount. Her arms felt glued to his legs. He pried her loose and pulled her upright. Her body went limp, and her purse slipped off her shoulder and onto the ground. Stars swirled in her vision as the blood rushed from her head. Strong arms lifted her off the bike and sat her down on some kind of concrete platform. She was glad to be still, and still alive.
“You’re cold,” he said, rubbing her hands as he crouched down in front of her. “Stay there.” He stood and removed his helmet before reaching into the bike’s saddlebags. He pulled out a jacket and a metal flask. “Put this on.” It sounded like an order, not a request. She slouched like a rag doll, wanting her limbs to move but couldn’t quite make them do so. He draped the jacket over her and shoved her arms into the sleeves.
“Wake up,” he snarled, then slapped her on the cheek.
Sophie jerked and cried out. “What do you want from me,” she sobbed. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“It’s not what I want, it’s what the Pakhan wants,” he answered. “Drink.” He held the flask to her lips and the sharp vapor of alcohol stung her nostrils. She started to turn away, but he caught her chin with his other hand and twisted her face forward again. Pressure on her cheeks forced her mouth open and he tipped the contents of the flask down her throat.
Sophie had no choice but to swallow or choke. Vodka. It burned its way down her esophagus until she coughed and spit some of it up. Yuri lifted the flask away while she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Again,” he said, pressing the neck of the flask to her lips.
This time, Sophie grabbed the flask herself. “I’ll do it. Better drunk than drowned,” she said, unsure where her bravado had come from. She took another swig then handed it back to him. The booze had an immediate effect; she felt awake and a teeny bit braver. She looked up at Yuri’s face for the first time since the airport. He no longer wore the shades, but couldn’t see much of him in the dark.
Weak moonlight outlined his features, a high-bridged nose, chiseled cheekbones and brow; his eyes were lost in dark hollows, but strands of glossy hair on his head and beard shone by what little light was available. Crescents of light reflected on the curves of his generously muscled arms. It dawned on her that he’d given her his jacket instead of wearing it himself. A small and insignificant courtesy, considering the brutality of everything else he’d done so far.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she lied, as a tiny spark of opportunity lit in her brain. Surely he wouldn’t hold on to her or watch while she relieved herself. Maybe there was a chance to run for it, even though she knew nothing of her whereabouts. She could hide in the tangled bushes that surrounded them—just long enough to call the Ministry. She reached for the strap of her purse that lay in the dirt by her feet. They were still near the highway—she could hear traffic. She could flag a ride, or police or something, anything that moved.
Yuri placed a booted foot on the handbag. “Nyet,” he said. “You wait. The Pakhan wants to see you.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. Not even a bathroom break? Beyond cruel, it bordered on inhumane. Her fear and fatigue gave way to irritation. The word Pakhan meant ‘boss.’ She decided to play ignorant. “I don’t know who or what is a ‘Pak-han’, but Minister Borovski wants to see me. I work for him, and his people will be looking for me. Let me go, and I swear I won’t tell anyone about you.”
Yuri capped the flask and hid it in a vest pocket. “Never heard of him. The Bratva controls you now. Get used to it.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. “We go.”
“No,” she protested. “You don’t know who I am, you’ll be in big trouble when they find me.”
Once again he lifted her unceremoniously onto the massive saddle. He snatched her purse from the ground and shoved it in the saddlebag. “They won’t find you, princess,” he said, settling his solid body close behind her. “Because after tonight, even you won’t know who you are.”
Chapter Three
The rushing air grew colder as the bike sped onward to a destination only its driver knew. Sophie shivered uncontrollably despite the heavy leather jacket around her. She no longer cared where they were going, only that they would arrive soon and end this nightmarish ride through hell.
The ungodly roar of the bike’s engine had become a monotonous drone to her ears after listening to it for so many hours. Its rhythm had beaten all thought of her normal, predictable life out of her head. Sophie Brant the diplomat was a vision, a ghost, slipping farther and farther into the distance with each passing kilometer.
The engine shifted gears, and Sophie felt dimly aware of the bike climbing uphill. Their speed decreased as the vehicle took several winding turns and then mercifully slowed to a stop. Bright lights flashed on and off, and voices echoed all around.
“Yuri,” they called, followed by rapid, jumbled conversations in Russian. Sophie’s numbed brain refused to isolate or interpret any of the words. She felt the bike tilt as Yuri dismounted, pulling her upright along with him. Footsteps approached. A flashlight shone cruelly in her face.
“Take her,” were words she could make out from the din. Yuri released her, and new hands ushered her up a flight of stone steps. She looked up briefly to see a massive structure, castle-like in its grandeur, with soaring classic columns and arches across its enormous façade. She caught only a glimpse of it before her heavy eyelids closed and her escorts rushed her inside.
*
“Yuri Kovalenko,” the elderly man called out. He shuffled with the aid of his cane across the great expanse of tiled floor toward him.
“Pasha,” Yuri answered the aging councilor softly; the only person for whom Yuri reserved a compassionate voice. “You’re looking well.” He placed a burly arm around the old man’s shoulders. “You shouldn’t be up so late, Sovietnik.”
Pasha gave a faltering smile. “Thank you, Brigadier,” he replied. There is no need for official titles tonight. I am well, but Pakhan Anatoly is not. He is calling for you. Where have you been? You must go to him.”
“I will, Pasha, immediately. I was on business, as you well know. Receiving a shipment, as ordered.” Yuri’s face clouded with anger. “The idiots at Sheremetyevo lost three girls tonight. I should have killed Daniel and his two byki bulls where they stood. Maybe I still will.”
Pasha shook his head topped with snowy-white hair. “All three girls? I heard you brought one back. That will not be enough to keep up with demand, Yuri. The brothels in Prague are requesting more Russian girls every day, and they know the Kovalenko Bratva supplies the best.”
“I know. Daniel claims this one is different. He got her name mixed up with one of the three we were expecting.” Yuri showed Pasha the ID he’d taken from Sophie’s purse. “Sofia Bratslava was one of them. This says Sophie Brant. Fuck knows where the others ended up.”
Pasha clucked his tongue. “Sloppy. What do you intend to do with this one? She’s quite pretty, but a bit old for the trade. What on Earth were you thinking, Yuri?”
Yuri frowned. “I wasn’t about to come back empty-handed. I just took her. She’s trouble. She mentioned Borovski’s name.”
“The new Trade Minister? Der’mo! What’s she got to do with him? He’s going to make our business difficult.”
Yuri patted the old man’s shoulder. “It’s not your concern, Sovietnik. Go to bed. I will see father now.”
As Pasha Svelski, Councilor to the Pakhan Anatoly Kovalenko, bid his goodnight and hobbled away, Yuri squared his bulky shoulders and prepared to meet face to face with his father, the Pakhan himself. He dared not disappoint the man any further than he had already. Anatoly’s mysterious illness had weakened and dwarfed the once-powerful leader of the Kovalenko Bratva, the Brotherhood, one of the oldest and most feared organized crime factions in Russia. As one of four Brigadiers of the Bratva, and the Pakhan’s son, Yuri had a double obligation to the business.
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