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My hands are bound behind the chair.
Plastic bites my wrists.
My ankles are secured too.
Concrete floor.
Concrete walls.
No windows.
One industrial light overhead.
Fantastic.
I lift my head.
A man sits across from me.
Forties.
Maybe fifty.
Close-cropped gray hair.
Heavy shoulders.
A face that has been broken before and healed badly.
Russian?
Ukrainian?
The accent will tell me very little even if he speaks.
Borders move.
People move more.
A second man leans against the door.
Younger.
Both armed.
My coat is gone.
Shoes too.
My wig sits on a metal table beside every device I carried.
Phone.
Two transmitters.
Emergency drive.
Watch.
