by S L Shelton
I looked at him for a moment, hesitant to ask anything of the man who had just saved my life, but Barb was more important than courtesy, and urgency moved my mouth before my thoughts had coalesced. “Do you know where the hostages are?” I asked plainly, my voice broken and gravelly.
He shook his head. “My brother would never trust me with such information. And I don’t even know if Serbs trusted him with it.” His face softened. “I would tell you if I knew. My brother was wrong to get us involved with this thing. This is his doing, and I am sorry for my part in it. But I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
“The phone—” I muttered. He looked at me in confusion. “On Majmun. May I have it?”
Elvis got up and walked away for a moment before returning with the phone. It was sticky with blood. I opened it and hit recall on the menu. All the incoming numbers said “UNKNOWN,” but there were two outgoing numbers. One was dialed recently, and the other was dialed many times. I reached for my bag on the couch but my ribs protested. I gasped as my eyes closed tightly in reflex to the pain. Maria, the blonde girl, reached for my bag and handed it to me.
I opened it and found my phone, noticing immediately that I had several text messages from Bonbon. I hit reply, typed in the two numbers from Majmun’s phone, and then wrote, “Where?” before hitting send.
It was late evening in Fairfax, so I didn’t expect an answer till morning. I put my phone back in my bag and handed the bloody phone back to Elvis. “Take the battery and sim card out before you dispose of it. Turning it off doesn’t protect you,” I said, closing my bag.
Elvis smiled and nodded before doing as I suggested. He and Maria got up and walked away. Nyla lit the joint again and repeated her actions from earlier, blowing cool smoke into my mouth. I was grateful for the relief it brought me and soon let the heaviness in my head pull me into a blissful unconsciousness.
**
When I awoke next, I heard Sobaka and Elvis talking in the kitchen. Nyla was still next to me, sleeping quietly and leaning against my good shoulder. She had placed a damp cloth on the back of my neck and was now snoring sweetly, her face pressed against my bare shoulder. It had been a tough night for them as well.
Sobaka looked at me through the bar opening from the kitchen and saw that I was awake. He stopped his conversation with Elvis before coming around to where I was sitting. He leaned forward and whispered so as not to awaken Nyla.
“Thank you for protect on Yefim,” he said sincerely. “He is more brother than my own.”
I smiled weakly and nodded at him.
“I’m sorry we can’t help with your woman,” he continued as Nyla began to stir next to me. “If it was my woman, I think I would do the very same.”
All the talking had wakened Nyla anyway, and she sat up looking at Sobaka. “Elvis says get dressed now,” Sobaka said. “You will drive Scott to home and stay with him until he is okay. Car is in front. You will be safer away from club and house until…”
“Until?” she questioned.
“Until, until,” Sobaka repeated impatiently. “Go.”
He looked back at me and said, “Nyla will take care of you. I wish you luck finding your woman.” He smiled at me, patted me gently on my good shoulder, and then disappeared through the kitchen door.
Nyla rose from the couch, stretching, and then grabbed her bag before heading toward the bathroom in the foyer. She shed her shirt as she walked. A few minutes later, she reemerged looking like a different person. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, her bruised eye had been artfully concealed with makeup. She now wore jeans, a loose-fitting pullover shirt, and a pair of flat shoes. I wouldn’t have been able to pick her out of a crowd.
I smiled my approval at her quick change, and she returned the gesture with a playful wink. She looked around the living room, saw no one, and then said loud enough to be heard throughout the house. “We leave now?”
“Da. Go. We see you later,” I heard Elvis call from the direction of the garage. Then the sound of a saw rang out. The sound diminished greatly when a door closed, and Maria stepped into the living room a second later. She made a face and a gesture that reflected her revulsion at what was occurring in the garage.
She walked over and hugged Nyla before turning toward me. She bent over, kissed me on my nose, and said sincerely, “Good luck, Yankee.” Then she walked upstairs with her oversized bag slung across her shoulder.
Nyla helped me to my feet and then slid the shirt she had been wearing over my good shoulder before helping me lift my arm through the hole on my injured side. She put my bag on her shoulder along with hers and then put my good arm around her neck to help me to the car.
My side was throbbing from the pain as she helped me sit on the passenger side of Elvis’s Fiat, the car Sobaka had arrived in. She buckled my seat belt for me, and then she hurried around to the driver’s side.
“Where you staying, sweetie?” she asked. I had to force the cobwebs from my head before I could answer her.
“Dam en Warmoestraat, alstublieft. In De Wallen,” I said. My rehearsed line came back to me from the cab ride.
She raised her eyebrows in surprise and approval.
“Don’t be impressed,” I said. “I practiced it for half an hour before I landed. It’s the Old City Hotel.”
She laughed at my confession as she started the car and began to drive, but Elvis came running out of the side door of the garage, his hands and arms covered in blood. When he realized how horrible that must appear, he put his hands behind his back and stepped closer.
“I will call to check you later, my friend. Do not resist Nyla. She will do what is best for you.” Then he looked across to her. “Stay low, and say nothing to anyone. Park car off street. You will be safe and out of sight with Scott. If we are lucky, and act like nothing happen, no one will notice one less Serbian thug in world. Call Sobaka if you need anything.”
Nyla nodded and put the car back in drive. Elvis waved at us before he turned to the gate, clicking the remote in his hand. We zipped out of the driveway and onto the street—Nyla drove like an Indy car racer. As engine revved and slowed at intersections, I realized my whole plan had to be retooled…as soon as I woke up. I drifted off to the sound of Russian techno music on the radio.
**
I awoke to Nyla tugging on me to pull me from the car. I looked up to see we were in a dark, dirty garage or shed; the headlights were the only light in the space. She had closed the double-wide doors so not even the street lights were visible and was carefully feeling her way across my chest to make sure she didn’t accidentally grab at my wounds. She had our bags already slung across her shoulder and was pulling on my arm.
Groggily, I swung my legs out of the car and, between the two of us, I managed to stand, pausing woozily for a second before starting to tip over. I felt as if all the water in my body had suddenly shifted to the other side. She quickly reached around and grabbed me around my waist, provoking a wince from me as a stab of pain shot up my side. She immediately shifted her grip to my belt, nearly dropping me in the process. “Sorry,” she muttered nervously as she closed and locked the car.
“You’re doing fine,” I said reassuringly. “Thank you.”
We exited the garage, and then she helped me walk to the street, looking, I’m certain, like late night partiers who had partaken of too much chemical happiness. The sky was still dark, but there was no traffic, so I assumed it was around three or four in the morning—after party time but before early morning delivery times. The sun would start coming up soon. I didn’t even bother looking where we were going. I simply put as much of my weight on Nyla as she could handle and struggled to keep my feet under me with the rest.
I had to stop twice before we reached the front door of my hotel. Each time she was patient and doting, checking to see if I was okay. Once we reached the door, she tried to pull it open but it wouldn’t budge.
She was about to ring the bell when I remembered what the desk clerk
had told me about the after-hours entry. I asked Nyla to hand me my bag and then fished my electronic room key out before pressing it to the locking mechanism. The light flashed green, and Nyla pushed the door open. We slowly made our way up the stairs to my floor and to my room. Once inside, I sat on the edge of the bed, sending another flash of pain up my side and across my chest.
Nyla closed and bolted the door while I struggled to remain upright, and then, after putting our bags down on the dresser, she helped me slide out of my shirt.
“Careful,” she whispered. “The bandage weeped. The shirt is stuck on it.”
She fretted over my chest wound for a moment, and then eased me back on the bed before she going for my pants button and zipper. I raised my head, painfully, in protest.
“Hush,” she said. “I am your doctor, and Elvis said not to resist. Be a good boy and relax.”
I lowered my head back down as she deftly removed my jeans. Once my legs were free, she swung them gently onto the bed and covered me with a blanket from the closet. She stood there for several seconds, staring at me before sitting down on the edge of the bed next to me.
“I have to check to make sure the blisters aren’t rolling up,” she said softly, stroking my head while she peeled back a corner of the bandage on my chest. She made a face. I guessed she didn’t like what she saw.
“That bad, huh?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Moving rolled the blisters,” she said as she went to her bag and pulled out the first aid kit she had taken from the house. “It was bound to happen. It just makes a mess.”
“Sorry,” I said.
She shot me a confused, incredulous look before smiling. “You really are too sweet to be doing this.”
If I had been sweeter to begin with, I wouldn’t have to be doing this at all, I thought.
She did her healer bit for several minutes, made a satisfied little grunt, and then re-bandaged the wound.
“There,” she said with a satisfied tone. “Now you heal properly.”
She checked my shoulder and arm next. They were more to her liking, so she just recovered them without replacing the bandages. Then she lowered herself off the bed to the floor next to me. Placing her hands on my side, she said, “This will hurt some, but I am only checking. Pain is not doing damage. Damage is already done.”
I nodded, and she proceeded to probe my ribs and the tissue between them with her fingertips. The pain was excruciating, and it was all I could do to keep from crying out.
“I know,” she said in a soothing tone. “Almost done.” She finished her examination and pulled the blanket back over me.
“I don’t think you have broken rib. But maybe separated. We will bind them after you wake.” She leaned over as if she were going to kiss me, but instead she lifted my lids one at a time to check my pupils—and then she kissed me gently on the lips, placing her hand on my cheek. When she raised back up, she smiled warmly at me and said, “No concussion—sleep.”
So I did.
**
Barb had returned—at least in my dreams. She told me how excited she was that I had come for her and how proud she was of me for being so brave in the garage. She hugged me warmly, tucked her head into my shoulder, and snuggled up close to me.
I could feel her heavy, soft breasts on my skin and her light kiss on my neck. I began to feel aroused from her closeness. Her hand slowly trailed down my belly but came to rest on my pelvic bone, not my erection. There, she made soft, loving circles on my skin with the tip of her finger, heightening the throbbing sensation in my groin.
I awoke suddenly. Nyla was curled up against me on my good side, under the blanket. Her breasts were bare, and one of them was resting on my bare chest. She felt me stir and opened her eyes, smiling. But when she looked up at my face and saw my discomfort, she slowly rose on one arm and flashed a devilish grin.
“You were shivering and calling out,” she said soothingly, coyly.
When I didn’t respond, she shrugged and hopped out of bed. The sun was up, and I looked at the clock radio to see that it was well after 3:00 p.m.—I had slept for more than ten hours. I rushed to sit up but was greeted with a flash of pain in my neck and a renewed throbbing in my side.
She turned her back to me as she slipped her shirt on and then put her hand out in a gesture to stay still. “Don’t move until I get back with food. Then I will wrap your ribs.” She reached for my wallet. “Compression will help.” She pulled out a handful of bills while looking at me with a grin. “I’ll need some medical supplies as well,” she said, tucking the money into her pocket.
She came around to my side of the bed and pushed me backward gently with the palm of her hand before handing me two tablets. I looked up at her suspiciously. “Ibuprofen,” she exclaimed innocently. “From the first aid kit.” Then she emptied the clothes from her bag on top of the dresser and slung it across her shoulder.
She winked at me on her way out the door. “Back soon,” she said, tucking my room key into her pocket with the cash.
I took a moment to gird myself, and then rolled over to the other side of the bed so I could reach my bag. I pulled out my iPad to check my mail but found nothing worthwhile. I pushed it to the side and picked up my phone next, hoping to have more updates on the secure messaging app. I was relieved to find several and began to read the messages from Bonbon and Storc.
The first was from Storc, letting me know he had an update on the Bluetooth app I had already downloaded. “Faster code cracking,” was the subject on the update log. Next was a message from Bonbon at 2:00 p.m. yesterday. It read: “Haven’t heard from you. Hope everything is okay.” The third message was a couple of hours later. “Still haven’t heard from you. Still hope everything is okay.” Message number four. “Please let us know how it’s going.”
The next two messages were variations on the last. The seventh was a response from Storc about the two numbers I’d sent him. It read: “Whew! Was worried something happened to you.”
I had to chuckle aloud, resulting in an ache in my side.
“Nope, I’m just fine,” I muttered, feeling a little dishonest for not giving them a status update on my condition.
The message continued: “Neither number is showing GPS. Both are cells. May be turned off. Setting up a capture with a time stamp. Will display on the map as other did...if they pop up.”
The last message was from Bonbon. “Someone tried to hack your signal to the server at 1:23 a.m. your time. Didn’t make it past 1st dynamic. But adding more to be safe. Be careful.”
“Shit!” Too soon, I thought to myself.
I downloaded Storc’s updated app to my phone and then took the prepaid phone out of the bag, tethered it to mine and began to copy everything over—I needed a backup sooner than I had anticipated. While it was copying, I opened the GPS map on my iPad to discover that one of the phone numbers had its GPS signal captured while I slept. It was in Dusseldorf.
No sign of the other one. Barb’s phone was flashing on my screen in the same location I was appearing on the map. When the phone copy was complete, I rebooted the prepaid burn phone and tried to connect to the secure server with it. Everything seemed to work as it should, so I shut everything down and shoved it all back into my bag.
I laid back on the bed and rested a few moments. My stomach was rumbling terribly. I realized I had not eaten since yesterday around this time, and I was suddenly very hungry. Nyla had been gone for more than an hour. Fortunately, she arrived soon after with a bag of sandwiches, sodas, and some snacks in one arm and another bag with medical supplies in the other.
“Food and medicine,” she said as she closed the door and then joined me on the bed.
She handed me the bag with the food in it and began to unpack the contents of the other one. She had several elastic compression bandages, some ointments with labels I couldn’t decipher, and some over-the-counter pain meds. I grabbed a very nice-looking roast beef sandwich with a horseradish sauce from the bag.
The first bite was almost euphoric. I was truly hungry. I tossed the sodas to the side and picked up one of the bottled waters, drained it, and then opened another.
She laid out her supplies between bites from a turkey sandwich. When the first aid purchases organized, she grabbed one of the sodas and held it up in an offer to me. “Want?”
“Thanks, but no. Sugar syrup is bad for you.”
She laughed at me before opening the bottle and taking big gulp. “Ahhhhh,” she said, mocking my health consciousness. I shrugged and sat back against the pillows.
We chatted while we ate. She spoke freely and unapologetically about her life as a prostitute and how she’d become one. “I had to quit nurse school—bad husband,” she said.
I raised my eyebrow.
“I was too young and foolish. I thought love would make me a housewife,” she said. “It was his idea to be prostitute. I wasn’t exactly good girl to begin with, so it didn’t seem like a stretch.”
I nodded my understanding.
“One day he hit me for money I had,” she continued, shrugging once as if it wasn’t a big deal. “So I left and came here. The Russians don’t treat the ‘volunteers’ bad, plus I am medical trained. It works out.”
“Elvis said Rodka hits the girls,” I said gently, not sure how much leeway I had in the conversation.
She nodded. “New girls, yes,” she said. “But this is what it is—sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. It’s a violent life.”
“Elvis is hard to read,” I said casually, hoping to gain an insight.
She laughed. “Not so hard to read,” she replied. “Elvis wants to be Rodka, but his heart is too soft. He tries hard to make his brother proud, but Rodka is cold…all business. It’s good that Elvis, Sobaka, and Dima take care of us. The others are too rough…I think Rodka knows this. Is why he leaves Elvis in charge of the windows.”