Page 19 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

I can’t fight them here. If I scream, they take me anyway, and Mikhail may see everything. If I run, they check the bedroom. So I make myself the problem, and they keep their focus on me.

I grab my coat from the hook.

“I need shoes.” I lift my chin.

“You’re wearing shoes.”

“Those are house slippers, Ivan.”

“My name isn’t Ivan.”

“I don’t care.” He lets me take my boots from the mat. He doesn't rush. They’re confident. Their plane is probably already waiting.

As I bend, I angle my body toward the bedroom and speak louder than needed. “Mrs. Keane will pick him up after dinner. He doesn’t like strangers.” The soldier hears the message.

So does Mikhail, if he’s listening.

Do not come out.

The lead man gestures to the hall. “Now.”

I walk out under my own power. I refuse to be dragged past my own doormat. The overhead light near the elevator is out. One man waits by the stairwell. Another stands near the elevator with his hand inside his coat. They’ve blocked both exits.

“How many of you does it take to collect one woman?” I ask.

“Depends on the woman,” the leader says.

“Cute. Workshop it.”

He ignores it.

In the car, they don’t blindfold me. They want me to see how little seeing helps.

The black SUV pulls away from my building. The leader sits in front, and two soldiers flank me. I watch my apartment windows shrink behind us and imagine Kathryn racing over, cursing me with love in at least three languages she doesn’t speak fluently. Mikhail will open the door for her when she uses the phrase.

Pancake emergency.

He’ll think it’s funny later, if I survive long enough to make it funny.

“Where are we going?” I ask the soldier beside me. He doesn't answer.

“What did Patrick do?” I ask this time.

The leader says without turning, “Enough.”

We reach a private terminal where everything looks very corporate. Clean logos, assured calm, security men with earpieces. A jet waiting under white lights, registered through a company name so bland, it probably launders its own paperwork. Inside the plane, I get a seat, water, and no choices.

“Where?” I ask again.

The lead soldier buckles himself across from me. “Moscow.”

The word settles in my stomach like a stone. I think of Mikhail’s dinosaur shirt. Kathryn’s keys. Patrick’s flash drive near the sink. Dmitri Antonov’s name walking out of the past with a gun in its hand. Every question I ask from here has one job. To find out whether he knows about my son.

“Does Patrick know you took me?”

No answer.

“Did Dmitri send you?”