“Do we need to take you to a doctor?” he asked in a voice that betrayed his darkest fears.
She shook her head. Her entire body trembled. Bewildered, Vadeem did the only thing he could think of. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. She sank against him willingly, clutching his leather jacket, digging her fingers right thought it to his soul. Her wretched sobs peeled away his heart in jagged chunks until he, too, wanted to weep. He smoothed her hair, feeling completely undone.
What had happened while he lay sprawled on the sidewalk like a side of meat?
“I need to get you to headquarters. Figure out what is going on, tuck you away someplace safe. Did they get your bag?”
She shook her head, but didn’t pull away.
Wow. Yes, he could sit here on the sidewalk, the cold digging into his backside, his head screaming, her hands clinging to him like he was her lifeline, all night if he had to. He could stay here for a year. He tightened his grip and pressed his cheek against her head. “Shh,” he soothed.
It took a moment for him to realize she was speaking. He felt movement against the hollow of his neck, felt her lips moving. For a wild moment thought she might be… no, she was speaking, mumbling. He pulled away, and cupped her face in his hands. She met his eyes with the most desolate expression.
Her words stabbed his soul.
“He took my key.”
Chapter 8
Kat curled her hands around the warm cup of cocoa, inhaling the aroma, profoundly grateful for something to focus on while the Twilight Zone shifted around her. She could now describe the layout and general procedures of the FSB stations in two different towns in Russia, as well as the one inside Sheremetova airport. She should write her own chapter, and send it in to Lonely Planet Travel Guide, “how to conduct yourself in an FSB interrogation.”
It helped that Vadeem hadn’t left her alone. Not once. Not during the ride over, not for the last hour, as an FSB doctor gave her a cursory exam, not even when a parade of agents filtered through the office she supposed was Vadeem’s, eyeing her as if she were a stolen icon.
If Kat harbored any doubts about Vadeem’s connections or abilities as he lay bleeding on the sidewalk while a goliath thug wrestled the key off her neck, they were obliterated when Vadeem called one of his FSB chums on his cell phone, and within moments, an unmarked black sedan screamed up to the curb. She conjured up a plethora of Cold War era images as the car whisked her through Moscow towards the infamous Lubyanka Square and KGB Headquarters.
Because, she realized that’s exactly what organization Captain Vadeem Spasonov was with. New initials didn’t hide old identities. FSB—the acronym spelled out meant Federalnaya Slyuzhba Bez-Opostnosti—Federal Safety Service. It wasn’t a gargantuan leap from the old, traditional moniker, KGB, Kommunisticki Gosyudarstvani Bez-Opostnosti—The Safety of the Communist Government. And, even though Captain Spasonov had ceased his menacing posture, well, that is if she ignored the fury that crossed his face moments after she’d revealed the thug’s crime, his boys in the brotherhood definitely had KGB aura. Take the skinny agent, with the crew cut coal-black hair and darting hazel eyes. He scurried in like a beetle in answer to Vadeem’s barked commands and scrutinized Kat like she was a prime cut of beef bleeding secrets all over their floor. She had no doubt he was the type to turn on the bright lights and wear a tread around an unlucky suspect.
As if in contrast, the one who now huddled with Spasonov in the corner of the sparse office looked like a DC Comics villain, all stubby hair and etched glower, muscles that had to be chiseled from pumped iron, a stance that screamed, “Make my day.” Even his gun, tucked in his arm holster, seemed a toy under his timber-sized arms, now clamped over his massive chest. He would produce equally effective results, maybe better, by using those burly hands digging into his biceps to take down a suspect.
They were a cookie-cut bunch, she thought, comparing the hulk to the FSB agent who’d freed her from Vadeem’s custody only yesterday morning.
A situation she couldn’t seem to shake.
Kat shivered and took a sip of the hot cocoa Vadeem had managed to conjure up. It was just barely keeping her composure glued.
Night blackened the windows, but the overhead light glared down on two metal desks that had been shoved into opposite corners of the shoebox-size office. A coat tree divided the room, and beside it, a wooden straight-back chair mirrored the one in which she now sat. Her backside ached, and fatigue pushed against her eyes like weights. She shivered, feeling cold, raw and hollow, tasting despair as it rose in her clinching chest.
The key was gone.
She had a multitude of reasons to be grateful she’d only earned a scrape on her chin, but that didn’t stop frustration from burning her eyes. She swiped at her tears, determined not to dissolve into a fresh mass of blubbering, although the now somewhat-common act of unloading her sorrows into Vadeem’s capable chest, sheltered inside his protective arms, battled her feeble stoicism. The last thing she needed, was to encourage his mission to pack her up and send her home. Thankfully, he’d abandoned that crusade in favor of justice and retribution.
Poor Vadeem. He looked like he’d been run over by a truck. He held an ice pack to his head while he talked, obviously not heeding the advice of the resident medic to run down to the hospital and get a CAT scan. Kat stared at her hands, still stained with his blood, dried now and cracking in the creases of her palm. She’d have to toss her formerly white blouse and her khakis—well, maybe she could use them for paint pants. She gulped a breath as she teetered on the edge of shattering. She’d made the mistake of checking out her appearance in the pocket mirror of her backpack, and now tried not to conjure up the sight of the face that had stared back, chunks of mascara clinging to her eyelashes, eyes streaked red, a bruise circling an ugly scrape across her jaw. She wasn’t sure how she’d added that last feature. Probably when her attacker shoved her up against the building, face first. She could still feel his grip crunching her neck muscles, the icy scrap of his ring finger chafing her skin. The memory of the thief’s hot breath on her neck as he growled in her ear sent a prickle down her spine.
She’d never forget the man’s voice. Never. Low and animal-like, in control and purposely driving fear through her body. If it weren’t for her desperation, she would have collapsed. But the brute wanted her key, and that knowledge kept her upright. Tensed. Furious. The key had brought her to Russia and tangled her into this mess, but it also unlocked answers, and perhaps peace.
He would take it off her over her dead body.
No wonder she was sore. Her hand went to her neck, felt the raw burn from where the thug yanked on it, again and again, hoping it would snap.
New shoelaces don’t snap. It had to go over her head. He’d nearly ripped off her ears, had surely taken a chunk of her hair in his fist with it.
And still, she’d lit out after him as if she was Wonder Woman, completely abandoning her common sense, along with the man who had saved her life only twenty-four hours earlier.
Thankfully, she’d stumbled to a halt, guilt hitting her like a fist, in time to run back and pull Vadeem into her lap. She was mortified to think she nearly deserted him on the sidewalk.
As if he knew her secret, Vadeem suddenly turned and looked over at her.
The look in his blue eyes said everything his unfaltering presence confirmed. Guilt. The guy was beating himself up for being comatose while some mugger roughed her up. The FSB captain had left a huge swatch of pride on the sidewalk.