But whatever. I'm a lawyer, not a poet.
These men, whoever they are and whatever they want, don't have that. Not by a long shot. God gave their share to Afon whenhe was doling out the regal genes. One look at them is all it takes to know that they're cut from a different—and lesser—cloth.
Buzzcut barks orders to feel big. Gold Chain leers because he thinks it makes him dangerous. Beanie just stands there, a human coat rack with a pulse.
Afon never had to do that shit. Which isn't to say he was perfect, but he wascertain.Whether he ended up being right or wrong in the end, he chose what he chose and had his reasons for doing it. As mad as I am at him for everything that has and hasn't happened since I finally found him, there's a kind of frustration that comes with knowing that he did it all for some grand, selfless purpose.
And, fine, yes, he's handsome. That doesn't hurt his cause. Unfairly, inconveniently, distractingly handsome for a forty-year-old hermit with a sour attitude and a persecution complex.
Buzzcut rips the duct tape off my mouth. It takes skin with it. I hiss through my teeth but I don't cry, because I refuse to give him that, even though my eyes are watering so badly that the room goes blurry.
"Time to chat," he says, pulling up a chair across from me and straddling it backward. "Let's start simple. What's your name?"
I scowl at him and say nothing.
"Come on, sweetheart. We're gonna be here a while. Might as well be friendly."
"Caroline," I say, because there's no point in lying about something they could easily verify with one search of my wallet. "Caroline Oglethorpe."
"Oglethorpe." He rolls the name around in his mouth. "Fancy. You his girlfriend?"
"Whose?"
"The Russian's."
The sheer absurdity of the question makes me laugh. "No. Not even a little bit."
"Then what were you doing up there?"
"Hiking."
Buzzcut smiles. I thought the sneer was bad, but now that I've seen him in his full broken-toothed, cigarette-stained glory, I think I'd prefer the frown. "Hiking, eh? Well, you sure ain't good at it, are you? Ain't dressed for the weather, and by the looks of that knot on your head and your gimpy ankle, you and the mountain ain't on such good terms."
All three men guffaw at my expense.
But when they settle down, Gold Chain says, "Hell of a destination to end up at, too, sweetheart. Most people go up for the view of the valley. Not to shack up in a cabin with a man who used to kill people for the Lazarev Bratva."
Technically, that's not news, but my nervous system reacts as if it was. I get a little light-headed and my stomach knots itself up.
I knew what Afon was, what he'd done. The envelopes made that abundantly clear, and the rumors underlined everything else. But hearing it stated so baldly, by a complete and total stranger, is different from reading it in your dead father's careful handwriting.
"I'm a lawyer," I say, which is as true as it is irrelevant. "I'll cooperate fully when your boss arrives. But I need water, and I need the zip tie loosened. My fingers are going numb."
Buzzcut gawks at me for a long moment, then glances at Beanie. A wavelength passes between them—a look, a decision—and Beanie produces a water bottle from somewhere, saunters over, and holds it to my lips. I drink. It tastes metallic and stale, but I guzzle it all down.
No one does anything about the zip tie, so I decide we'll circle back to that particular little thorn in my side. Or in my wrists, or whatever.
"Alright then, sunshine," drawls Buzzcut. "You don't wanna talk, that's fine. We'll leave you to your thoughts."
All three men slink out of the room. The door clangs shut behind them.
The afternoon passes in slow, grinding misery. Other men come in and out, but none of them look at me. Someone brings in a space heater that rattles and clanks and makes the air taste like burning dust. I'm allowed to use a latrine dug out behind the bunkhouse, escorted by Beanie, who at least has the decency to turn around while I do my business. My wrists are re-tied in front of me when I return, which is marginally better than when they were wrenched together at the small of my back.
I try to keep track of time, but there's no clock and my watch is dead and the eerie winter light filtering through those twosmall windows doesn't change much. It feels like I'm stuck in an endless, gray afternoon.
Gold Chain is mostly absent. Buzzcut goes outside, comes back, goes outside again. Beanie stands sentinel by the door, as talkative as ever, which is to say, not at all.
At one point, a fourth man comes in, a heavyset guy with ruddy cheeks, and speaks to Buzzcut in a low murmur. I catch the wordshighwayandcleanandno tail.That's not exactly a hard game of Charades for me to deduce.
