Chapter 17 Katya #2
"My name is Katya Volsky. I'm a thief. A con artist. Nothing more. I don’t work for Vetrov anymore."
"You're a Morozova."
He moves closer, his shadow falling over me, and his head shakes as if he doesn't believe a word I'm saying.
"And that makes you valuable. To us. To the Vetrovs. To anyone who wants leverage in this city."
One of the younger men who followed him in strides forward, pulling a rope from his pocket.
He grabs my wrists, wrenching them behind the chair.
I struggle, but he's stronger.
The rope bites into my skin as he ties me tightly.
"Let me go," I demand.
"Not yet."
The older man picks up the flashlight, switching it on.
He shines it directly into my eyes.
I flinch, turning my head, but he grabs my jaw and forces me to face the light.
"Tell us about the Vetrovs," he says.
"What do they know about you?"
"Nothing. They know nothing. What the fuck are you talking about? There's nothing to know…"
"Wrong answer."
He releases my jaw, nodding to one of the younger one, and the blow comes fast.
His palm connects with my jaw, snapping my head to the side.
Pain explodes across my face and I taste blood.
"Try again," the older man says.
"What does Dimitri know?"
"Nothing," I gasp.
"He doesn't know anything. Please."
Another blow, this time to the other side.
My ears ring.
My vision blurs.
"You're lying."
The older man crouches in front of me, his face level with mine.
"He's been using you. We know that. What we don't know is whether he's aware of who you really are."
"I'm Katya," I sob.
My voice is barely a whisper.
"I didn't know. Not until you just told me. Please, I have family in Perm. I just want to go home."
He studies me for a long moment, then stands.
"Maybe you're telling the truth. Maybe not. Either way, we have what we need."
One of the younger men grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back.
I cry out, tears streaming down my face.
"This is what happens when you work for the wrong people," the older man says.
He pulls a knife from his belt, the metal glinting in the flashlight beam.
"Please," I whisper.
He presses the blade to my cheek, just below my eye.
The metal is cold. I hold my breath, every muscle in my body rigid.
I'm ready to piss myself.
All I can think about is how much I don't want to die right now.
How I should've listened to Dimitri and let him send someone with me.
"You're lucky we need you alive," he says. "For now."
He drags the knife downward across my cheek.
The skin splits.
Blood wells up and beads, dripping down my jaw.
I don't scream, but the whimpers won't stop.
He steps back, wiping the blade on his pants.
"Gag her. We'll deal with her later."
One of the men produces a rag, shoving it into my mouth.
I gag, trying to spit it out, but he ties it tight behind my head as more tears stream down my face.
My wrists burn, but there's nothing I can do to free myself.
"Let's go," the older man says.
"We have other business to attend to."
The footsteps fade.
The door slams.
And a lock clicks into place.
I'm alone.
The room is silent except for my ragged breathing.
Blood drips from my cheek onto my shirt.
I can feel it soaking through and the sting where they cut me.
My wrists burn where the rope digs in and my jaw throbs from being struck.
But I'm alive.
I test the rope, pulling at my wrists.
The knots are tight, biting deeper with every movement.
Pain flares up my arms, but I don't stop.
I twist my hands, trying to find slack.
There's a tiny bit of give on the left side so I work at it, against the fear welling up.
Against the thoughts that taunt me, telling me I'm going to die here.
Against the questions that plague me—who is Ekaterina Morozova?
I work at it, ignoring the way the rope saws into my skin.
Blood makes the rope slick.
I pull harder, wrenching my hand at an angle that sends fire shooting up my arm and makes my wrist feel like it's being dislocated.
The rope loosens.
Just a fraction.
So I keep going, my breath coming in short gasps through my nose.
The gag muffles every sound.
Tears stream down my face, mixing with the blood.
My left hand slips.
Not free, but closer, so I twist again, biting down on the gag to keep from crying out.
The skin on my wrist splits.
Fresh blood flows, but the rope gives more.
One more pull.
One more—and my hand comes free.
I slump forward, gasping.
My right hand is still bound, but I can reach it now.
I fumble with the knots, my fingers clumsy and slick with blood.
It takes forever, but finally, the rope falls away.
I pull the gag from my mouth, coughing and spitting.
The taste of blood and grease makes me retch.
My stomach churns and twists, and I vomit all over the concrete under me until there's nothing left in my stomach.
I sit there for a moment, shaking, trying to catch my breath.
My wrists are raw, bleeding.
My face feels swollen, the cut on my cheek still oozing.
But I'm free.
I stand on unsteady legs, gripping the back of the chair for support.
The room spins, so I close my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
When I open them, I focus on the door, only to find it locked.
There has to be another way out.
I scan the room.
The walls are concrete, no windows.
The only furniture is the chair and the table.
I move to the table, searching for anything useful.
A screwdriver.
A paperclip.
Anything.
But I find nothing at all.
I turn to the door, examining the lock.
It's old, rusted.
The kind that might give with enough force.
Or the kind that needs to be picked.
Christ, why couldn't I just listen to him?
My eyes well up again and I press my forehead against the cold metal.
He said he'd follow me and that he'd be within range of me.
And I know he heard what was happening on the wire he had to have.
So the only thing I can do now is wait.
I don't have my lock pick kit.
I don't have any tools to break out.
And I'm not strong enough to overpower them when they come back.
Because something tells me they're coming back, and I won’t like what they do to me when they get here.