by Nicole Fox
When I reach the end of the hallway and follow the right turn, I almost cry with relief when I see the door there, just as Sevastian guessed. Because that is what it was, after all. A guess. I could have found myself at a dead end.
I say a silent prayer of thanks as I push the door open and step into the cold night.
My instincts tell me to run for the trees, but that would give me away. I have to disappear into the night without causing any alarm.
I keep moving at a brisk, but normal pace once the door closes behind me. Then, I hear it open again.
“Where are you going?” the voice asks. He sounds slightly more suspicious now. I have to calm his worries.
So, I bend forward, grip my stomach with one arm, and throw the other above my head in a backwards wave as I groan deeply. “Sick.”
“Oh,” the man says. “Gross.”
The only crunch of gravel I can hear is coming from my own steps, so I assume my trick worked and the man has stopped following me. I stumble across the open space and into the trees.
I pause for one second, gripping a tree trunk and ducking my head behind it as though being sick. Then, I keep moving.
I don’t turn around to see if the man bought my lie. I don’t check to see if he’s following me. As soon as I know I am out of sight, I run.
21
Courtney
Sevastian was right again. Just beyond the crop of trees, there is a road. I follow the narrow sidewalk along a curved road until I reach an intersection. Most of the windows along the block are out, but there is one corner building with lights on and a few people inside.
As I approach, I see that it looks like a corner store. A young clerk stands in front of a wall of cigarettes and cardboard boxes of candy lighters, and scratch tickets clutter the counter. I pull the glass door open and step inside.
I feel the clerk’s eyes on me, but I take a sharp left and duck behind the aisles of snacks and candy.
I don’t have any money. No cell phone, no identification, nothing at all to barter with. But I need a telephone. Or change for a payphone. Do payphones even still exist? I’m not sure.
I round the corner and move to the next aisle, and glance up long enough to see the clerk frowning in my direction. If I spend too long here and then walk out with nothing, it will be suspicious. So, this time when I get to the end of the aisle, I walk straight back towards the counter.
The clerk is even younger than I thought. His facial hair is growing in thin and patchy, and he has blemishes clustered around his chin and temples. His eyes go wide when he sees me, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a woman or because I’m a woman in baggy men’s clothes.
Probably both.
“Hello,” I say.
He smiles and looks for my items to ring up, but the counter is empty. I hold my hands up to signify that I don’t want to buy anything.
“I need to use a phone,” I say slowly, as though that will bridge the language gap between us. “To make a phone call.”
“A phone?” he says slowly, his Spanish accent thick.
I nod. “Yes. Yes. Sí. A phone.”
He smiles and pulls an ancient cordless phone up from behind the counter. I reach for it, but before I can, his hand cuts across my path and points to a small sign next to the register. It’s written in Spanish, so I don’t know what it says, but I do recognize the symbol for the Euro.
I need money.
I bite my lower lip and hold my hands out, palms up. “No money. No dinero.”
Is “dinero” dinner or money? I’m not sure, but either way, the boy seems to understand what I’m trying to say.
“Lo siento,” he says, pulling the phone towards him.
I reach out and lay my hand over his, stopping him from putting the phone back under the counter. “Por favor.”
The only other Spanish word I know is baño, so I need him to help me.
“Por favor,” I say again, giving him the biggest puppy-dog eyes I can.
The kid’s shoulders sag, and he looks back towards a door in the far corner of the shop. A door through which, I presume, sits the owner.
Finally, he sighs and pushes the phone towards me, circling one finger in the air. “Rápido.”
I nod like I know what he means and grab the phone. As soon as it’s in my hand, I realize I don’t know who to call. I didn’t think that far ahead, and now I’m frozen in place with the phone in my hand, my mind blank.
The kid is tapping his foot on the ground, so I start dialing the first number I can think of. It rings three times.
“Hello?” My dad sounds out of breath, like he ran to the phone. It’s very early in the morning there, so I’m surprised he’s even still home.
“Dad? It’s me.”
Sobs. That’s all I can hear on the other end of the phone. My dad is weeping.
“Listen to me,” I say loudly, drawing the clerk’s attention. He can’t understand what I’m saying, but I’m sure he’s taking note of how loudly I’m speaking. “I need your help.”
“Where are you?” he asks, sniffling. “You’ve been gone for weeks. I had no idea what happened. The police don’t know. You were just gone. They told me you ran away, but I didn’t believe it. Not for a second. Now, here you are. I can’t believe it.”
“Dad,” I say again more calmly this time. “Listen to me. I need help. I need you to put me in touch with … someone.”
“Anything,” he says. Then, he adds, “Are you safe?”
I don’t want to lie to him, but I also don’t want to explain the truth. There isn’t time. If all goes well, I’ll see him again one day, and I’ll explain it then. Now, I need to focus on the mission at hand.
“I will be,” I say, trying to remain hopeful. “But I need your help to get there.”
“Anything,” he says, and I know he means it.
“I need you to get me the number for …” A million different names and places and faces rush through my head, some friend, some foe. Who can help us? Who has the power or desire to help us? Dmitry may have started cleaning up his act, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of people back home who wouldn’t be more than happy to see him wiped from the face of the earth.
“Giuseppe’s Bar and Pub.”
There is a long pause. “A bar?”
“Please.”
Any doubts my dad may have, of which I’m sure there are many, are pushed aside as he types out the name on his ancient computer. The clerk motions once again with his finger, and I nod and smile, trying to assure him I’ll be done soon.
“You have a pen and paper?” he asks.
I don’t, but I grab the pen on the counter for customers to sign receipts and scribble the number he reads me on the palm of my hand.
“Thank you so much, Dad,” I say. “Really. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just get yourself and those girls home,” he says, voice thick. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
When we hang up, I quickly dial the number my dad gave me before the clerk can take the phone away. He frowns disapprovingly at me, and I mouth “sorry” at him and hold up one finger. Truly, I don’t know how many fingers this conversation will take. But I will keep ahold of this phone for as long as it takes to ensure my family will be safe.
It rings eight times, and I can tell the clerk is growing nervous. He keeps glancing back towards the door in the back. I want to tell him that I’ve faced much worse over the last few weeks than a grumpy boss, but instead, I twirl the cord around my finger and turn away from him. If someone answers, I need to be focused.
On the tenth ring, someone answers.
“Hello?” The man sounds more confused than anything. Which makes sense. It’s a bar at the crack of dawn. They probably don’t get many phone calls until after noon.
“Hello, I need to speak with the boss.”
“I’m the manager,” the man says proudly.
I clear my throat. “Not the boss
of the bar. The boss.”
There is a pause. “Who the hell is this?”
I stand taller even though the man on the other end of the phone can’t hear me. If I want to sound confident, I have to look confident. I press my shoulders back and lift my chin. “This is the wife of Dmitry Tsezar, head of the Tsezar Bratva, and I would like to be put in touch with your boss. Now.”
I’m worried the man will hang up and block my number. I’m worried that I’ve just laid out all of my cards, and he’s going to call my bluff.
But then, he sighs.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I see the two men sitting in the park at the exact bench specified on the phone call. I know they are here to see me, but it doesn’t make me any less nervous.
These men are not my friends. They are not on my side. This is a business arrangement and it could go south at any moment. I need to remember that.
I keep a wide berth as I round the bench and step onto the sidewalk. They turn towards me the moment my foot hits the pavement. They are on high alert; I can see it in the dilation of their eyes.
“Courtney Tsezar?” one of the men asks. He stands up and keeps his hands in his pockets. His hair is dark black, and his face is pockmarked with scars.
I nod. “No one told me your names.”
“Good,” the other man says. He is older, with salt and pepper in his hair, and he doesn’t stand. I don’t know if it’s because he’s unable or because he doesn’t see me as a threat. “You don’t need to know who we are. We need to know who you are. And that you are telling the truth.”
“I am,” I say with a bit too much urgency. I clear my throat and try again in a calm voice. “It’s all true. Every word of it. My family is trapped in a dirt cell right now, and I am here to get them out. Whatever the cost.”
“You discussed the cost on the phone,” the dark-haired man says.
I nod. The clerk couldn’t speak English, but I still worried he’d understand some part of the conversation and call the police. I was talking about some seriously illegal transactions in the middle of a store.
“Then tell us what we’re dealing with.”
“And then you’ll help?” I ask.
The older man shrugs. “That remains to be seen.”
If I was less desperate, I’d demand a firmer answer. I’d demand a promise, a vow on his life. But in my situation now, a vague shrug is the best I can ask for. There is no other option.
So, I describe the army Devon and Elena are working with. I drag a stick through the dirt to make a blueprint of the warehouse. The sun is just starting to come over the horizon, so they both squint at it, but it seems to get the point across.
“It’s not a high-tech operation.”
“Not at this location,” I say. “But they were on a ship. Part of a trade route with the Yakuza. They have a helicopter and might have more people nearby.”
“We know what they have nearby,” the older man says. “More than you do, anyway.”
He is clearly not accustomed to dealing with a woman. I can see his distaste in the narrowing of his eyes and the thin line of his mouth. I want to tell him where he can shove his sexism. I want to tell him that I can handle myself just as well as any man.
Instead, I decide I’ll just have to show him.
“Then it sounds like you’ll be a great resource for me,” I say confidently. “Are you in?”
The dark-haired man opens his mouth to respond, but the older man clears his throat to silence him. He stands up for the first time and takes one hobbling step forward and then another, slowly standing tall as his hips straighten beneath him.
He moves towards me, but I stand my ground, refusing to back away. Refusing to show any fear in the face of his intimidation.
When he’s less than two feet away, he narrows his eyes at me, his dark gray brows creasing in the center. Then, he holds out a hand.
“Honor the terms you set, and we won’t have to hunt and kill you when this is over.”
I reach out and grab his hand. “Save my family, and I’ll give you everything I promised and more.”
When I break through the trees, the sun is a quarter of the way across the sky. For the first time, I can see the warehouse in the light. It’s rusted and abandoned and looks like it should be demolished. If I hadn’t gone for help, no one ever would have found us.
I’m halfway across the gravel when I hear the first alarm bell.
“Who is that?” a deep voice shouts.
I don’t respond. I just keep walking. Unlike the last time I was here, I’m not trying to move quietly. I want them to see me.
“It’s her. It’s her!”
I keep walking even as eight guards rush towards me, guns drawn. They command me to get on the ground and put my hands behind my back, but I refuse. I stay on my feet until one of the guards physically kicks my legs out from under me.
They haul me inside by my armpits, legs dragging behind me, but I keep my chin lifted. Head held high.
The guards drop me in the center of the room in the same circle of light where they beat Dmitry the first night. I see dark spots on the ground that must be dried blood, but I try not to look at them. That’s easier when I hear Elena’s voice approaching.
“What do you mean she surrendered?” she hisses.
“They mean I surrendered,” I say, standing up and facing her. “I escaped, but I came back.”
Her top lip pulls back in a snarl. “What did you do?”
“I tried to run,” I say, looking down at my feet. “I tried to get away, but I couldn’t leave them behind. I’d rather die with my children than live without them.”
She studies me for a cool second and then tips her head to the side. “There really is no place for such sentimentality. It will only get you killed.”
“Maybe,” I shrug. “But I’d rather be sentimental than a cold bitch.”
A hand cracks across my face and heat blossoms in my cheek, and my jaw twinges. The guard responded to Elena’s silent command before I could prepare for it.
“Let’s see what your insults are worth when you’re dead.”
Devon turns to his mother, mouth open, ready to argue, but she silences him with a raise of her hand. “She’s a liability. We have to kill her and go. It’s the only way.”
Devon looks at me with his mouth pulled down in a frown, looking like a child whose favorite toy was just taken from him. Then, he sighs and follows behind his mother as she marches towards me. Elena stops only a few steps away.
“Take off those ridiculous clothes.”
I hesitate, and she nods to the guard on my right. This time, I anticipate the blow, but it does little to ease the pain that radiates through my brain.
“Take them off,” she growls.
I maintain eye contact with her as I slide my belt from my waist and drop it on the ground. Sevastian’s pants don’t need much convincing; they are nearly to my knees already. I hesitate with the shirt, but the guard raises his hand in a warning, and I continue, peeling it over my head until I’m left in nothing but my bra and panties, both of which are dingy.
“All of them,” Elena says. “I want everyone to see you for exactly what you are. When you die, I want everyone to know what a coward you are. I mean, what kind of woman runs away from her own family?”
“What kind of woman drugs her own son until he can barely tie his shoes?” I spit.
The third blow is closed-fisted, and I go down hard. I take most of the fall in my elbow, but my hip scrapes across the cold ground as well. I wince at the burning cuts, and Elena just laughs.
“You really don’t know when to give it up.” Elena shakes her head and then gestures for a guard’s attention. “Get everyone else. I want Courtney to perform for an audience.”
I’m too disoriented to know what she means. The blow to my temple knocked me slightly off my foundations, and I’m still blinking the stars from my vision when I see a blurry group of people arrive.
Then, I hear his voice.
“You fucking bitch,” Dmitry roars. He lunges forward, separating from the crowd, but before he can even take a step, a guard throws him backwards.
Usually, it would take a lot more than a single shove to knock Dmitry down, but he’s still weak and healing.
I blink until he’s in focus, and then I smile at him, trying to tell him that it will all be okay. Because it will be. I think.
If things go the way I hope, it will all be okay.
“Let her go,” Dmitry shouts. “Kill me.”
Elena laughs maniacally, silencing everyone in the warehouse. She sounds fully unhinged, almost as crazy as her son. When she’s done, she looks at me while she talks to Dmitry.
“Killing you would not please me,” she says. “I want to kill the one you love. In front of your face. I want you to watch her die, and then, maybe, I will kill you. If you’re lucky.”
Elena commands two guards to finish undressing me. They rip my underclothes off me until I’m naked in the center of the large space, but I can’t even find the energy to be ashamed or embarrassed.
Even as Elena tells the guards to beat me. Even as I spit blood and fall to the floor, I feel strong. I feel more powerful than I’ve ever felt in my life.
Because like a true queen, I found a way out for my people.
No matter how badly Elena has me beaten, help is coming.
All I have to do is stay alive until they arrive.
22
Dmitry
Every time Courtney lifts her head out of the dirt, she looks at me.
Somehow, amidst the dirt and blood and pain, she finds my eyes. Again and again. And I know it means something. I know she’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what.
My body hurts. My mind is fuzzy. I feel like I should be able to read her glances, but I can’t decipher them. I can’t understand why she isn’t begging me for help. Why she isn’t trying to save herself.