Page 15

The boy’s gaze drops to my injured hand that clearly shows the outline of human teeth. Without comment, he reaches under the counter and drops a red plastic box with a dusty white cross in front of me.

“Spasibo.” I take it and the key and turn away.

I park my car outside the room, take a duffle bag off the back seat, unlock Viktoriya’s cuff, and compel her inside.

The room is exactly what I paid for. Two beds with quilted covers in a pattern that was probably cheerful in the nineties, a small table bolted to the ground, and a television affixed to the wall. The carpet has a dull, flat appearance, and smells of old cigarettes and dust.

I lock the door behind us, set my bag down on one of the beds, and start my checks. Curtains first. I cross to the window and pull them closed, then twitch the edge aside to check the lot. There are half a dozen cars, the same ones that were there when we arrived. Nobody followed us, and nobody is watching, and for the moment, we are as safe as we’re going to get.

The bathroom is small and functional, and the window above the toilet is approximately the size of a dinner plate. Good, I think with satisfaction. Viktoriya isn’t going to be able to shimmy out of it while I’m not looking.

She hasn’t spoken. She’s standing in the middle of the room, watching me with a distrustful expression. I’ve never babysat an asset who’s this wary of me before. If I’m not careful, she’ll try to escape in the night or get ahold of my gun.

I stare around the room, considering the logistics of keeping her contained, and wonder how I’m going to manage to get any sleep at all. Usually, by the time an extraction gets to this point, I start to breathe a little easier. The assets are fully locked in with the idea of me protecting them and do whatever I say. Viktoriya is making this far more complicated than it needs to be.

She holds up her wrist, the empty cuff dangling from it. “Can you take this off now, please?”

I don’t like her tone. It’s bratty and disrespectful, and it makes dark heat pulse through my chest.

I watch her for a moment, my eyes narrowed and my palm itching.

“No. The bathroom. Use it, then we sleep. There are clean clothes and a toothbrush in my bag. Help yourself.”

She edges past me toward the bathroom like I’m a bomb threatening to go off, keeping as much distance between us as the room allows. The bathroom door closes behind her. She ignored my bag.

Fine. Wear your stinky clothes.

I settle onto one of the beds with my long legs stretched out in front of me and reach for the TV remote. Viktoriya will be a while. They always take forever over the first shower, the hot water washing away the dirt, terror, and humiliation. Or trying to, anyway.

The toilet flushes. The tap runs. There’s a pause, and then the door opens and Viktoriya comes out, sleeve pulled over her left hand, eyes on the floor.

I pause my flicking between channels. “You don’t want a shower?”

She glances at me, and the wariness in her eyes is more pointed.

The implication hits me, and a cold, unpleasant sensation shoots through my chest.

“I see,” I say through clenched teeth, switching off the television.

Me not trusting her is one thing—she fucking bit me—but her not trusting me? That’s downright insulting. I saved her. I’m a professional. I’m the best that money can buy.

I take her wrist and cuff her to the table bolted to the ground. Not roughly, but not gently either. Then I go into the bathroom and slam the door.

The shower is hot, but the pressure is poor and the head is positioned too low for my frame. I stand under the spray as best I can and soap my body angrily.

I suppose she thinks she’s protected from my lecherous advances if she doesn’t wash. I let out a bark of derisive laughter. She’s the one who’s going to have to suffer feeling grimy and uncomfortable for the next twenty or so hours, sitting in her own filth.

I’m rubbing knots out of my shoulders when I realize that I’ve been in the shower too long. The key to her handcuffs is safely in here with me, but this girl is a liability. I need my own eyeballs on her in case she manages to Houdini herself out of here.

I wrap a towel around my hips and yank the door open, emerging from the bathroom on a cloud of steam.

Viktoriya is where I left her, crouched by the table, secured by the handcuffs.

I fix her with a razor-sharp glare, then cross to the curtain, pulling the edge aside to check the lot again. Still empty. Still quiet.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

I’m still in control.