The Boy from Reactor 4 - By Orest Stelmach Page 0,74
love for you was real. They were waiting for me at my apartment this afternoon.”
“Really?”
“Really. They gave me two choices. Which is to say, they gave me one choice. I’m sorry, Nadia. Really, I am. This is Ukraine. The politics change all the time. It’s a constant power struggle. The winners know how to go with the flow.”
“Yeah. You’re a real winner, Anton. You’re a walking testament to why Ukraine’s leading export is its women. Do the men in this country realize how pathetic that is?”
He snarled. “Hey. You wanted to get in the Zone. I got you in the Zone. You wanted to get out of the Zone. I got you out of the Zone. At my own risk. I asked for nothing in return. Nothing. And let’s remember how it was two nights ago. You were the one begging for it, from me.”
“You bastard.”
He shrugged. “Hey. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“What?”
“I told you when I drove you from the airport. Ukrainian salary. It really is hell.”
Nadia shifted in her seat and squared her hips toward him. “So is an American woman.”
She pummeled his nose.
Bone crunched. Blood spurted. Anton screamed.
Nadia stepped out of the car.
“We missed you at the Veselka Restaurant,” Victor said. “Your ponytailed lawyer friend didn’t cut quite the same figure across the table from me.”
Nadia didn’t answer him. There was no benefit to saying a word.
“Let me have her, Kirilo,” Misha said.
The distinguished man from Kyiv sliced through the circle of bodyguards. He looked fat yet fit, like a former heavyweight prizefighter who carefully balanced his love of food and fitness. His clothes and carriage spoke of confidence and power. He gave Nadia a quick once-over that ended with a dismissive smirk.
She’d seen that smirk on Wall Street: how could a woman have given him this much trouble?
“You remind me of what my daughter might look like in fifteen years,” Kirilo said. “You have the same coloring. She’s the joy of my life, my daughter.”
Without warning, the back of his hand crushed Nadia’s face. As she toppled to the cement, pain shot through her jaw. Her eyes watered. Her nose stung. A bitter taste flooded her mouth.
“Let me have her,” Misha said. “I can make a woman do anything in fifteen minutes flat.”
Kirilo motioned to a man who looked more like a malnourished librarian than a bodyguard. “Pavel, take her to the office. Search her and make her comfortable.”
Pavel and two burly men grasped Nadia by her elbows and guided her toward an office in the far corner of the warehouse. They passed a harness attached to an elaborate pulley, one that could be used to hoist engines from a truck—or crucify uncooperative American women. A pair of stylish black shoes and slacks appeared beneath the pulley as a man circled around it. Brad Specter cast an indifferent look at her as she walked by. His footsteps stopped short as the bodyguards pushed her into the office.
The office contained portable orange shelving, a bare metal desk, and three chairs. A row of well-worn manuals lined one shelf. Nadia deciphered the Russian words for “truck repair.” The bodyguards tied her feet to the chair and her hands behind her back with duct tape. One of the men tore a final piece of tape with his mouth and sealed her lips.
They searched her body without inhibitions and did the same with her purse.
Kirilo entered the office. He removed his coat. As he placed it on the table, it didn’t bend, as though he were performing a sartorial levitation. He ripped the duct tape off Nadia’s mouth.
Her lips stung, but she didn’t scream.
“I hear you speak the language well for an American,” he said.
“I can get by,” Nadia said.
His eyes widened. “Refined. Like a college professor. You know about Ukrainian Hetman? Military commanders during the Cossack era?”
“I studied history. I know some things about them.”
He sat down on the corner of the desk and tapped his coat with his left hand. It made a solid noise, as though it were reinforced with steel.
“Then you know more than I do,” he said. “I never studied anything. I got my education on the street. I had to fight for everything I have. A smart man on the docks of Podil once told me—before I drowned him for his fishing boat—that the Cossacks believed that when you killed an enemy, the power of that enemy became yours. It literally seeped out of his soul into yours. The stronger the enemy