Sirens wail behind me. Not police sirens. Internal alarms triggered by my escape, calling every guard in the building to hunt me down.
I shove past a startled man smoking near a doorway, nearly knock over a woman walking her dog. “Sorry, sorry—” The words come out breathless and useless.
The main road is ahead. Twenty meters. Fifteen. I can see pedestrians, late-night foot traffic, a taxi idling at the corner. If I can just reach them, blend in, disappear—
A car pulls up to the curb exactly where I planned to emerge. It’s a black sedan, engine running, passenger door already opening. My escape route. The one I arranged days ago as backup, the driver paid to ask no questions and get me out of Moscow.
I make it to the door. My fingers brush the handle, cold metal against my palm. Hope surges, brief and desperate.
A hand closes around my arm and yanks me back with brutal force.
I stumble, momentum broken, and another hand slams into my ribs. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, pain exploding across my chest. I try to scream but can’t get enough air.
The cloth comes from nowhere, pressed hard over my mouth and nose. Chemical smell, sharp and acrid. I thrash, trying to twist away, but there are multiple hands now—on my arms, my waist, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing.
“No!” The word comes out muffled against the cloth. “No, please—”
My scream cuts off as the world spins violently. I’m being dragged backward, feet scraping uselessly against pavement. My shoe comes off. I try to dig in, try to fight, but they’re too strong and I can’t breathe properly and the chemical smell is making everything fuzzy—
A bag drops over my head, cutting off light completely.
Darkness. Total, disorienting darkness.
Hands grip my shoulders, my arms, forcing me into a vehicle. I’m folded awkwardly into the back seat, body bent at wrong angles. The door slams shut with a sound that feels final.
The engine roars to life immediately.
“Stay still,” a voice says in accented English. Not Aleksandr’s voice. Someone else. “Don’t fight. You’ll only hurt yourself.”
I feel restraints tighten around my wrists—plastic zip ties biting into skin. I try to pull against them, but they don’t give.
The car accelerates, throwing me against the seat. I’m sitting upright now, someone’s hand on my shoulder keeping me in place. The bag over my head smells like canvas and sweat and fear.
“Where—” My voice cracks. “Where are you taking me?”
No one answers.
The drive stretches and fractures, time losing meaning in the darkness. I try to track turns, listen for changes in road texture that might tell me direction. Left turn. Straight for several minutes. Right turn. The sound of tires on smooth pavement gives way to something rougher.
Voices speak around me in Russian. Low, controlled tones. Professional. One man laughs at something, but it doesn’t sound cruel, just casual. Like this is routine. Like kidnapping someone is no different than picking up groceries.
I try to remember breathing techniques, try to calm my racing heart, but panic keeps clawing up my throat. The restraints cut deeper every time I shift. My ribs ache where they hit me. The chemical smell still lingers in my nose, making my head swim.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please, I can pay you. Whatever he’s paying, I can—”
“Quiet.” The hand on my shoulder tightens. Not painful, just firm. A warning.
I fall silent.
The car makes a sharp turn, then slows. I hear a mechanical sound—a gate opening? The vehicle descends, the engine noise changing quality, echoing like we’re entering an enclosed space.
Underground. We’re going underground.
Terror spikes fresh and sharp. Underground means no witnesses. Underground means no one will hear me scream.
The car stops. The engine cuts off. Doors open, letting in cooler air that smells like concrete and oil.
Hands grip my arms, hauling me out. My feet touch ground, legs shaky and uncooperative. Someone steadies me, then pushes me forward.
