Page 12 of Volatile Waters

When the rest of us weren’t sleeping during the long flight, we all sat quietly. Kirill and I stared at our passports. He was older than me by at least eight or nine years, but he appeared as lost as I at the news. I asked Kirill, or whoever he was, “What does your mother call you?”

He peered out the jet window. “The only name I’ve ever known.”

“How different are our lives versus other people’s who do not train Elites?” Learning my name was false made every aspect of my life now feel magnified. Each aspect of my childhood, up to this point in my life, became something now studied in detail.

Kirill swallowed, then whispered, “How would I know?”

The private jet went quiet again. In the silence, I observed my ‘cousins’ and thought about how they didn’t live in my home full time, unlike Kirill and myself. Neither of the men sitting across from me would meet my glare. A heavy exhale left my suddenly weary lungs. “Are we even related?”

Adrian answered, still refusing to look me in the eyes. “How does a cousin come to be?”

I could feel my cheeks heat up as adrenaline surged. Feeling like a fool, I spoke numbly. “A daughter or son of an aunt or uncle.”

He inhaled and exhaled. “How many brothers and sisters does your father have?”

I leaned my head back against the seat, stunned by how blind I had been. “I don’t know what I know anymore.” As far back as I could remember, Father had claimed the men in my home were family—my cousins.

“Yury, you have only one true uncle.”

Folding into my own lap, I asked, “Why are we being sent to the U.S. when we are so ignorant of the world?”

Silence…

Rubbing the back of my neck, I answered my own question, “Kirill and I are being tested. That is why you are with us.” I didn’t need to see the head nods to know they were happening. My father wanted to know if his training had stuck. I was going to be put in positions to see how I handled them. Nerves began to shiver up my spine. If I failed? I already knew that answer. Sit in prison, quietly.

It felt like I was walking a tight rope, with no knowledge of how high in the air I was. Up to this point, I was well aware we were committing illegal activities, but I hadn’t been taught the ratio of good people versus bad. I didn’t know I was part of a minority. How could I? We were making money hand over foot, so many villains willing to pay for the services we provided.

There are thousands and thousands of purchasers, but billions of innocents. And I had been waltzing into this world of billions as an ignorant king. Lucky for me, millions of the billions were as ignorant as I, clueless to who stood in the elevator with them or in a harmless grocery store. Busy on their phones, people were very distracted with the danger circling them, eyeing them as a product and judging how much could be profited off their body.

Black sedans and SUVs waited on the runway as we landed. It was the middle of the night when groggy slaves were separated and escorted to the waiting vehicles, calling out to their Master. I explained, “I am not your Master any more.”

It was a cruel time for an Elite. She or he had become so dependent; they had practically forgotten how to feed themselves without permission. I had taught them I was their life source so they would do anything I demanded. Now, that source was being ripped away. Some slaves viewed this as a brutal act and didn’t adjust to their new Masters well.

Risk of the trade.

As doors slammed shut, I knew I would never see those women again. I wish I could say I prayed they would be safe, but that would be a lie. I knew they were headed to years of sexual abuse and, eventually, an untimely death because their bodies would cave. They would either age and be murdered or die during an act of violence.

In a blacked-out SUV, my one cousin, my men, and I were taken to a five-star hotel in Connecticut. Exiting the vehicle, parked in a multi-leveled garage, the driver instructed us to leave the SUV at the private airport when our trip ended. I handed him the cash promised and took the keys.

Working a keycard at my room’s door, I announced, “Everyone, get some rest. We are paying a visit to Harold Thompson first thing in the morning.” Tiredly, they each nodded before entering their own rooms.

Lying in my hotel bed, I found myself processing again—the trip, my new actual name, and where I was, surprised at the notion that a foreign country could smell so different from Russia. I had been under such a veil up to this point that I had yet to experience anywhere other than my home country. Yes, the room was beautiful, but even the sheets felt different against my nude body.

Not able to relax, I got out of the bed and slipped on casual clothes. Once back in bed, I couldn’t help but think of the slaves, stolen from distant places and sometimes forced into sexual circumstances within hours of delivery. They were never given the option of attire for comfort, as I just allowed myself. They were stripped and exposed, ruthlessly at times, then violated by someone who sometimes didn’t even speak their language.

Frustrated with my thoughts, and an unexpected hint of guilt, I turned off the lamp and rolled over, but my mind only found more sensations of what I could only now describe as loneliness. Faintly, I could hear the television in Kirill’s room next door. The voices were speaking English, a language I had learned as a child but had not heard on televisions at home. On my side, I curled into a ball, trying to rid myself of a chill, wondering what the basement sounded like to newcomer slaves. Could they hear the screaming from another room? Did they know they would soon be the one screaming?

I don’t think I got any rest before my cellphone was chiming its alarm to wake me. Sitting up, I rolled my tight neck, trying to shake off the betrayal by my father and uncle clinging to my once cold heart. Even during my hot shower, I wondered why the trickery. Now that I was here, I felt I lacked the needed education before being shoved into another country to do their dirty work. Rinsing my hair, it dawned on me.

Father’s curse.

Did Father believe he was still in danger? He had acted nonchalant in his office, but was he truly fearful? I thought of the night Uncle had tried to hand him the infant, and how father recoiled in fright. Either way, it was time to find out.

At closed iron gates, I smirked at the fool guarding Harold Thompson’s home and explained, “It is unwise not to let me pass.”

“Sorry, dude. Going to need a name,” the security guard barked.

“Dude? What is a dude?” asked Kirill.