Chapter 9 Adrian
ADRIAN
We're in the grand hall in between a surprisingly packed schedule of events. If there is any trafficking here, or anything reasonably close to it, they've done a good job of keeping that away from us.
I stand near Victor, my shoulders tense beneath this goddamn tuxedo. The starched collar digs into my throat, and the bow tie feels like it's choking the life out of me one shallow breath at a time.
I don't like tuxedos. Suits, yes. These, no.
The politicians laugh annoyingly loud, their voices echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
I shake my head. These sick bastards all just gassing each other up in between their sick business deals.
They slap each other on the back, shake hands, and light cigars. It's like a big boys' club where everything is a transaction or an agreement that probably benefits them over the people they're supposed to be representing.
I scan the room again and see the same faces and fake smiles. It's the same fucking bullshit, but no Maxim.
I've been looking for him since we arrived yesterday evening, but the event schedule makes it damn near impossible.
People move in and out of rooms like chess pieces.
Deals are made in private, behind closed doors, in hidden corners.
Men slip away into various rooms of this sprawling mansion, reappearing minutes or hours later.
It's hard to keep track of everything. It's like a damn maze, and I'm losing my mind.
I suppose I'll have to wait until dinner tonight, where everyone is finally supposed to be in one room.
Victor is beside me, sipping champagne and nodding politely at some Austrian diplomat who won't shut up about economic policy between Romania and his country. Victor almost looks like he's enjoying himself, and being this is the kind of shit he does, maybe he is.
"I will say, sir," the diplomat says to Victor. "Your insights on the Romanian infrastructure reforms are quite compelling."
Victor smiles. "Thank you, Ambassador. I believe pragmatism is the only way forward in these uncertain times."
What the hell does that even mean?
I look away and tune them out and focus on the crowd.
A waiter passes with a tray, and I step aside to let him pass, my gun rubbing against my side.
It's there, hidden beneath my jacket, perfectly legal since I'm Victor's bodyguard, but every second I don't use it feels like a waste.
I crack my neck. Victor doesn't need me watching him. I mean, nothing's going to happen.
And I can't just stand here, not when Maxim could be just a few doors away.
Victor catches my eye and gives me a subtle shake of his head. The keep cool, don't move look.
I look away, acting as if I didn't notice. A German diplomat approaches Victor, pulling him into another conversation, and Victor's attention shifts entirely. He's cornered now, and I take my chance.
Victor looks at me, and I wink and walk away, leaving him to fend for himself.
I blend into the crowd and no one notices. They're too busy being pompous and arguing about how far the stick goes up their asses to care.
I slip into a restricted hallway, the noise of the grand hall fading behind me. The air here is cooler, and it's much quieter. My hand instinctively moves to my gun, fingers brushing the grip beneath my jacket.
The hallway is lined with dark wood paneling and old oil paintings of men who probably committed worse crimes than I ever will. Chandeliers hang overhead, leading the way forward.
I move quickly, trying to keep my footsteps silent.
At the end of the hallway, a staircase leads up. I take the stairs two at a time, my pulse quickening with every step.
When I get to the top, I realize this is just the residential wing. These stairs must be the ones the servants and staff take.
A long corridor stretches in both directions, lined with heavy oak doors. Besides our room down the way, each one could be hiding something or someone.
So, I start trying them.
The first door is unlocked. I push it open and find an empty suite. It doesn't look like it's being used.
I shut the door and move to the next door. Locked.
The third door, another empty room. Suitcases are resting in the corner.
The fourth. Locked.
I keep moving, my frustration building with every failed attempt that leads to nothing.
I stop at another heavy oak door with a bright brass handle. I jiggle it.
Locked as well.
I press my ear to the wood and listen. It's silent at first, but then.
A faint thud.
Someone is in there.
I want to know who. I'm ready to kick the door in and find out, but I stop myself.
Victor's voice echoes in my head, what he told me this morning. We can't blow our cover. Not until we have what we need.
I force myself to step back and keep moving down the hall. I try another door, and then another. I'm getting nowhere.
Just as I'm about to get to the end and run out of doors, I turn the handle and it opens.
But this one doesn't reveal a room.
It opens to a narrow hallway lined with red velvet walls. The fabric is old looking and faded, but after staring at it, you can tell it was made to look that way.
I pull my gun out and hold it low at my side.
The hallway stretches ahead, dimly lit by fancy wall sconces that cast long shadows across the floor. I follow it, my breathing steady, my senses sharp.
Along the wall are old boudoir photos of naked women smiling.
I get to the end of the hall and see stairs leading down.
I glance behind me, making sure no one followed, then descend the stairs.
It feels cooler the further down I go, and when I get to the bottom, automatic lights flicker on, and the surprise makes me grip my gun tighter.
Looking around, I find a set of double doors. I push the door open slightly with the barrel of my gun and peek in. It's dark and I can't see much. I pause and look over my shoulder and then push the door open and step inside.
More automatic lights come on, these ones brighter, the artificial daylight kind, and the room comes into perfect view.
I look around and stop.
A raised platform sits at the front of the room, flanked by heavy curtains. Rows of empty booths stretch out in front of it, like a theater designed for the world's worst kind of performance.
This is where they do it, isn't it? Where they sell them.
Shit, it has to be.
My stomach churns at the thought of it.
I take another step forward and see behind the stage is another door.
I move toward it, my gun raised, every muscle in my body coiled and ready.
When I get close, I stop. I hear noises coming from the other side. Some mumbling and banging of some kind.
I open the door with my left hand just slightly so it pops open and then grip my gun with both hands and kick the door open.
I see movement and rush in ready to fire, and I stop dead in my tracks.
There's holding cells. Dozens of them lining the walls.
"What the fuck," I say under my breath.
A woman in one of them sees me and starts banging on the glass. Others join in and start screaming. Their eyes are glazed over and unfocused.
I look around and see more women. Some are cowering in the corner, trembling, and others stare blankly at the walls, as if they've already given up.
The ones that are talking are speaking in foreign languages I don't understand. Russian. Chinese. Arabic. Spanish.
I can tell they are scared and probably begging me for something. I walk up to the closest woman speaking and hold up my hand.
"English. English."
She just keeps speaking, tears running down her face.
"Help us!" another woman yells, and I turn to her.
"You speak English?" I ask.
"Yes. Little. Please help us. They took us. Please."
I holster my gun and look around for something to smash the locks. There's nothing.
I run back out into the main area, and there, on the wall, I see a fire axe. I run over to it and grab it and run back into the room.
"Step back," I say, motioning with my hands.
I raise the axe and bring it down on the lock.
It breaks, and the woman inside stumbles out, her legs weak, her eyes wide with confusion.
I move to the next cell and bring the axe down again and another padlock falls. I keep moving, and as I do, my vision goes red.
This is where she was.
Elena was here. In one of these cells, terrified and alone like these women.
More women stumble out, and I can tell they're drugged or something. Once I finish the last cage, I turn to them.
"Run," I say in English. "Get out. Up the stairs. Run."
Some of them understand, and the ones that don't get the message, and they all start moving, stumbling toward the door, clinging to each other for support.
The rage burns through me like gasoline on fire now, as this was probably what Elena hoped for when she was locked down here.
I throw the axe to the ground, and the women are fleeing up the stairs now, a chaotic stream of broken, drugged bodies desperate for freedom.
I follow them, breathing hard, my hands shaking with adrenaline and fury.
I should burn this place to the fucking ground.
I take the stairs back up as the girls start spilling out into the hallway up ahead, running in every direction, my focus narrowing to a single point.
I race down the red velvet hallway, my pulse pounding in my ears. I don't care about cover anymore. I don't care about Victor's go slow plan. I don't care about anything except finding Maxim Volkov and killing him.
I'm done playing games. I'm doing this my way. I am going to tear this place apart room by room if I have to and find that son of a bitch.
As I march back down the main hallway, passing the same oak doors I tried earlier, I hear a man's voice from behind one of the doors. He's yelling in an angry tone. Maybe one of the freed girls ran into his room. Serves him right.
I stop and listen for a moment and then, a woman's voice answers.
It's soft and lined with fear. "I will be good. I promise. I'm sorry. I'll get dressed right now. Please. I'm sorry."
My body jolts in a way I've never felt before. It feels instantly weak and tingles all over, and I feel as if time has stopped.
"I'll get dressed right now," the woman continues, "please. I'm sorry."
I know that voice like I know my own heartbeat.
It's the voice from my Bra?ov courtyard. From running through the streets of Bucharest. From late night conversations and stolen kisses and promises we made when we were too young to understand how fucked the world could be. It's my light and my life.
Elena.
I walk up to the heavy oak door and slam my fist against it. Once, twice, three times.
"Go away!" a man yells from inside.
Not a fucking chance.
I hit the door again, harder.
"I said go the fuck away!"
He's yelling in another language now, but I don't care what he's saying.
I back up and kick the door right near the locking mechanism.
Once.
The wood splinters.
Twice.
The frame cracks.
The door bursts wide open and I barrel into the room like a train and slam into a man, knocking him to the ground.
He hits the floor hard and I look down at him and immediately recognize him from the photos Victor gave me.
It's Maxim Volkov.
I run at him, but then I stop as a figure catches my eye.
In the corner, tucked down on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, shaking, is...
Oh my god.
It's her. It's really her.
Leni.
Her dark hair is tangled and longer than I remember. Her face is pale and hollowed out by whatever she's been through.
She looks different, but it's her.
Her eyes give it away. Those same eyes I've seen in every dream, every nightmare, every waking moment for eighteen months.
She's staring at me, wide eyed, and terrified.
I can't move. I can't breathe. I can't think.
It's exactly what happened the day the police told me she was dead.
Time fractures and I'm frozen in place, staring at her, unable to process that she's real, that she's here, that she's actually alive.
And then my legs move.
I run to her.
"Leni."
She flinches away from me. Why does she flinch?
"It's me," I say. "Elena. It's me."
Her eyes are wide, unfocused, like she doesn't recognize me. It's as if she's looking at a stranger.
“My angel,” I say, softer this time. "It's Adi."