Hidden in the envelope was a note, handwritten by Alexei himself, offering his heartfelt apologies for the accident and explaining that in his culture there was only one way to make things right. He'd have me in his home, an honored guest for as long as I pleased until the debt had been repaid.
I was shocked. Over the moon, really. I'd never left the States, and the idea of visiting a country far from the tourist trail excited me. What's more, I'd get to stay in a palace. Me! I grew up in a two bedroom house in the suburbs, and at that time I was sharing a cheap studio with a fellow student who had a bad habit of bringing a different guy home every night.
I was so excited that I didn't really notice the warning look in the eyes of the Ambassador. His words didn't seem to match his expression. He told me it was a great honor to be invited to the home of the Romanovs, but there was something not quite right about his expression, almost as if he was trying to discourage me with his eyes.
The flight to Istanbul was incredible. First class. I was plied with champagne and fed dishes I'd never even heard of (my usual diet was ramen noodles and Diet Coke). I felt a little out of place in my sneakers and jeans, but the flight attendants treated me like royalty.
It wasn't until we reached Istanbul that things started to go awry. I was led from the plane by a couple of security guys, all black suits, Aviators and bulges where they obviously carried pistols, just like in the movies. They led me out through a few fire escapes down to their car, a beat up old Toyota, and drove me out to a private hangar far away from the terminal.
The plane waiting for me was... well, it wasn't first class. I don't know airplanes, but it was some kind of military model. A huge panel in the ass of the plane was lowered down to make a ramp wide enough to fit a tank, and the guys drove right in.
As soon as we were on board the back of the plane closed and I heard the engines begin to run. The guys climbed out and left me in the back seat with the child locks on. I was worried now, getting angrier by the minute, wondering what was going on. I really needed to pee but there was nobody to shout to. Just me, in a car, in the middle of a huge cargo deck.
A little after take off I climbed to the front seat to try the doors, but they were also locked. The horn worked, though. I blasted that thing for ten minutes until someone heard me. The man who finally arrived wasn't one of the men who'd driven me onto the plane, but a military looking guy in fatigues and a red beret. By that point I was screaming bloody murder, banging on the windscreen with my palm, and when he finally sauntered over to the car I was ready to kick the door off its hinges.
That was the moment I realized something was seriously wrong. The guy calmly drew his firearm, a mean looking pistol, and tapped the barrel against the driver's side window. He raised a finger to his lips and shushed me, and then just turned and walked away. I shut up right away. I just couldn't believe this was happening.
I don't remember much after that. I know I cried the whole flight and at one point, whether it was through desperation or just fear, I wet myself. I just sat there staring at the growing dark patch on my jeans, watching it as if it wasn't really me. As if it was just a movie.
The last thing I remember was a few hours into the fight when the military guy returned wearing a gas mask. He grabbed a long, thick hose attached to something that looked like a diesel generator by the car and held it against the air intake below the windscreen. Smoke began to pour through the vents. I remember it smelled like fruit, just like the gas I was given when I had my wisdom teeth extracted. That was that. I wasn't awake when we touched down.
If you've enjoyed this story you can find many more by Aya Fukunishi at her author page at Amazon.
Table of Contents
ALSO BY AYA FUKUNISHI
Copyright
Unrequited (Books Like Fifty Shades of Grey)
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Excerpt from The Dictator's Concubine,
Unrequited (Books Like Fifty Shades of Grey) Page 4