My head swivels, searching the darkness for the shooters. More than one.
A few seconds pass. I teeter on my feet. I've lost too much blood.
Gripping the railing, I fight to remain conscious.
Behind me, Vivianne wraps her arms around my chest, soft cries shaking her body. The thudding of boots on metal rings into the stillness, and then the world turns dark.
SEVEN
Vivianne: Promise
Those last momentsin the warehouse remain foggy. I struggle to put all the pieces into a cohesive picture. One moment, Paul's brother is standing. Next, he jerks and tumbles over the railing. I have no memory of shots being fired, but I'm told that's what happened.
Then Paul collapses. He’s barely breathing.
Boots.
The stomping of scores of boots rings out of the darkness. Strong hands lift me from behind.
Tears.
Those I remember, and the choked cries that followed. My sobs pull at my chest and clog in my throat.
Light.
A sudden infusion of brilliant light pushes back the darkness. Spots dance in my vision, but Paul's pale complexion and his blood-soaked shirt cut through the haze.
We’re taken to a safe place, and now I sit as the guest of an unexpected ally. Urakov sits across from me in a spacious sitting room within the Russian consulate. There, he pours tea and fixes me a plate of ladyfingers while I stare listlessly out the window.
"Miss Faulks, you must eat." He lifts the plate. His clipped English is buried beneath a heavy Russian accent.
I manage a practiced smile, the product of years of social conditioning. My hand trembles, but I take the plate.
"Thank you."
"One lump or two?" He turns to the pot of tea, pouring two steaming cups.
The civility of tea and ladyfingers is going to drive me crazy. I need a stiff pour of whiskey, brandy, or hell, even vodka.
"One, thank you." I nibble at the finger sandwich and sit back in the overstuffed chair.
A thick cotton throw wraps around me. After our arrival, I was provided a change of clothes. Light cotton pants and a long-sleeved blouse provide warmth and modesty. Urakov even gave me wool-lined slippers.
"How is Paul?"
Paul was taken to the hospital, while I was brought to the Russian consulate.
It's been several hours since our rescue. The late morning sun spills through mullioned windows and casts a triangle of yellowish light onto the dark walnut floor of the sitting room. It advances across a brilliant blue carpet, a relic of unknown significance, cutting a path to the glossy cut stone of the floor lining the hall.
As sunlight creeps into the room, it glides over burnished gold statues, completing the ostentatious display of Russian glory. I blink a few times, adjusting to the encroaching light, trying to forget about that terrible darkness, trying desperately not to scream.
"He is well. Recovering from surgery." Urakov settles deeper into his chair.
"When will I be able to see him?"
Urakov's lips press into a thin line, and he takes a long pull of his tea.
"That might be more problematic."
