4. Katerina
CHAPTER 4
Katerina
Hour four.
The Russian Bear is still down for the count.
I sigh and pick up my phone to send yet another text to JC.
The ER packed??
No response.
The text goes unanswered like the other three I’ve sent him and Fozzil. I bring my phone up to my ear, ringing Finch instead. Surprisingly, he answers after a few rings, though he sounds distracted.
“Yeah?”
“What do you mean yeah?” I snap. “You’ve heard the news, right?”
“You mean the news that you geniuses botched the job?”
My brows tick up. “Check your tone, Finch. Fozzil might let you speak to him like that, but I am not your twin brother.”
“I don’t have to check shit, Kat. You fucked up. All three of you.”
“That’s easy for you to say when you’re the one who got to work behind the scenes! You weren’t the one being attacked by some… some fucking Russian version of Goliath! JC lost two teeth!”
“I saw the pics.”
“Then you also saw the pics I sent you of the Russian zip-tied and bound on the sofa of the safe house.”
“So what?”
Teeth clenching, what remains of my patience evaporates. “So what’s next?! I’m not about to stick around and babysit him! The guy could bust out of those damn zip ties!”
“We keep a stash of firearms?—”
“Nope!” I cut in, shaking my head. “You know how I feel about violence. Death. I’m not shooting anybody, Finch! Take care of this right now. You said you had the ransom all figured out.”
“The ransom for Roman Volkova. The dude you kidnapped is not the Roman Volkova.”
“He sure as hell introduced himself that way.”
“I’m waiting to hear back from my contact. It’s up in the air if they’ll be willing to pay to get the guy you got back. You’ll just have to wait.”
Click.
The line goes dead on me. I release a frustrated scream that rips straight from my throat, then I almost toss my phone across the room. Instead, I aim my ire at the rickety table and chairs in the kitchen area, stubbing my toe.
But the throbbing pain is worth it if just to expel some anger. Some of the frustration boiling up inside me.
How the hell could they stick me with the guy? What am I supposed to do with him? What if he does really break out of his binds? Then what?
My belly roils at the possibility.
I slide my phone into the back pocket of my pants and then scan the kitchen. Violence might not be my favorite thing in the world—mostly because I grew up experiencing plenty of it as a stray on the streets—but it’s probably smart to at least put up an act of self-defense.
Wrapping my fingers around the handle of a kitchen knife, I pluck it from the wooden block it’s slotted into. I’m turning away from the counter when my eyes lock with the other blinking pair in the room.
The Russian man’s eyes.
Dark and blue. Fuzzy and unfocused.
SHIT!
Shit, shit, shit!
He’s awake!
I spin away all over again, trying to hide my face from his view. But it might already be too late because who knows how long he’s been awake.
I was so preoccupied with my phone conversation with Finch that he could’ve been quietly watching me the entire time. I rush over to the backpack I brought with me for the job and wrap a scarf I’m carrying around the bottom half of my face.
Only my eyes and brow remain in view. With the kitchen knife still in hand, I brave another look at the man.
Sure enough, he’s outright staring from where he lays on the sunken-in sofa. His gaze meets mine to another flip of my belly as I come up short on words and realize I haven’t formed a plan.
Seconds pass where we’re locked into our prolonged stare and neither of us makes a sound.
If he can bust out of his zip ties, he hasn’t tried. He hasn’t moved at all.
“Uh…” I trail off, then I try again. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”
The duct tape has peeled off his mouth and fallen to the sofa cushions. He goes so long without replying, I’m sure he won’t bother… until he does.
“You were after my father, devochka? * ?”
“Sorry? Dev… what?”
“Wrong Volkova,” he says, his dark sapphire eyes lighting up. “That must be very disappointing.”
“No one’s disappointed,” I lie, tightening my grip on the knife. My insides feel shaky, like they might spill onto the outside. The knife I’m holding might slip out of my hand. “It’s just unplanned. But clearly you were listening to my conversation.”
“Who do you work for, devochka? Tell me.”
“I work for nobody. For myself.”
The humor that’s sparked in his gaze spreads to the rest of his rugged face—the hard lines fill out, his lips stretching into a slight grin that feels more ominous and threatening than humorous.
“So you are your own boss,” he says on a note of mocking. His Russian accent grows thicker and more pronounced with each word. “You are a criminal mastermind, kidnapping the sovietnik? * . Is that true?”
Sovietnik? What the hell is that?
I keep my expression neutral, giving little to nothing away. At least I hope that’s the case.
He’s clearly observant; he hasn’t taken his eyes off me from the moment I realized he was awake. Something tells me the brutish violence he’d inflicted on JC earlier isn’t the only kind of unnerving behavior he’s capable of.
There’s something calculating and unsettling about his calm demeanor now. It feels like even more of a threat if possible…
I breathe through my nose and say, “I won’t be answering any questions. I’m not the one up for ransom. You are.”
His grin spreads. “Ransom,” he repeats. “You are selling me, devochka? Is that smart to do?”
Note to self: google devochka…
“I said I won’t be answering any of your questions. Save your breath.”
I use my free hand to fumble my phone out of my pocket and dial Finch again.
He doesn’t answer the second time around. JC and Fozzil haven’t texted back. I’m still left holding the bag in what’s an incredibly frustrating situation gone wrong.
Honestly, I’d be perfectly justified if I wiped my hands clean right now. If I said fuck this and stormed out and never returned.
The only problem is, walking away now would cause more problems than solve. Not only would I likely have a barbaric Russian after me—who has seen my face —I’d have JC and the twins coming for me.
Typically, in our merry little band of criminal misfits, when one person defects, it never ends well for them. Treachery is pretty much grounds for pay back.
Huffing out a sigh, I pocket my phone again.
“What is the matter, devochka? Are you worried? Are you scared?”
“Stop talking.”
“Why have you covered that pretty face, devochka? Don’t be afraid. Let me see.”
“I said stop talking!”
He laughs. It rumbles out of him, a thick and guttural sound. Almost a threat in itself. “You are afraid,” he says. “I promise to play nice. Untie me, devochka. I will show you.”
My insides rattle some more while my grip bears down on the kitchen knife. “If you think for one second you’re intimidating me, you’re wrong.”
“But I am. Look at you. Pretending to be tough. Quaking so beautifully. C’mere, devochka.”
I take a step back. “I’m not going to tell you again. Either stop talking or I’ll shut you up with duct tape.”
“You have made a mistake,” he says, unfazed by the threat. He lifts his bound wrists, held together by the zip ties, as if able to snap them in half all along. Now he’s about to show me. “You have convinced yourself you are in charge. You are wrong. Either c’mere or I will come to you, devochka. Your choice.”
* ? Devochka = Girl
* ? Sovietnik - the advisor to the pakhan in the bratva