Destination Unknown
Aside from his ears popping a bunch of times, the feeling he got was like he was an inmate deep in the bowels of some archaic Turkish prison or in one of those sensory deprivation tanks he had heard about from the 1970’s. It was easy to see how isolation could mess with a person’s mind. He distracted his own fertile imagination by rehearsing some of his favorite movie scenes, impersonating the actors as he recited dialogue. The ride was not overly bumpy, though it sure seemed long and made even worse by the fact he really had to take a leak.
After what felt like another eternity in the black void, he told himself screw it. Twisting as best he could, he pissed away from where he lay, letting out a satisfied moan of finally being able to let go. How much longer? Rolling onto his side away from the now cooling urine soaked material, he tried to sleep but was unsuccessful turning off his brain. What was Janine doing right now? Did she know he was gone? His mother would be frantic.
The case moved suddenly, jostling him around inside the fabric lined interior. “Are we there yet?” he hollered, pounding his fists against the inside of the top of the case. After a few moments of nothing, he shook his head, muttering, “Figures.”
He could feel the case shift under him, turning, followed by the sound of the lid being opened and the feeling of fresh cool air on his naked skin.
Having endured absolute blackness for a prolonged period of time, he brought his hands up and immediately shielded his eyes to protect them from the intruding light.
Sitting up inside the case, he gradually withdrew his hands, allowing his eyes to adjust.
“Get out here on the desk where I can get a better look at you,” instructed a stern feminine voice not Evie’s, the faintest hint of an accent he couldn’t quite place.
Squinting, he turned his head toward the as of yet undefined shape of the speaker and pushed himself up onto his feet, muscles complaining from hours of inactivity. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, stepping over the lip of the case as the woman’s face and form became more distinct. “Where’s Evie?”
Maybe thirty, she was pretty in an austere or aloof sort of way, attractive face framed by long black hair drawn back. There was a definite hardness about her steely blue eyes, a coldness born of suffering as she unabashedly studied him. Unsmiling, her lips were painted red in stark contrast to the paleness of her unblemished skin.
Beyond her, he could see high-end wood paneled walls covered in framed diplomas, bookshelves, assorted leather furniture and he got the distinct impression he was on an impressive desk in an office type setting. But where? Given the length of time in the case, the ear popping, he figured he had been on a plane, so he could virtually be anywhere in the world.
“Turn,” she directed, lifting her left hand and motioning with her index finger for him to move.
Looking at the finger ending in a manicured blood red colored nail, Tom frowned, trying to decide whether he should or should be defiant.
Leaning forward, she angled her head slightly to the side, “Turn,” she said again, firmer tone suggesting she was not accustomed to having to repeat her commands.
Eyes narrowing, Tom let out a slow breath before reluctantly turning clockwise. Spotting a plastic business card holder replete with cards on the desk, the name on the card reading Anastasia Cherysenko, same as the diplomas on the wall. Cherysenko? Where did he know that name from? Russian. Was he is Russia now?
“Good boy,” she praised, a small smile curling up the corners of her mouth.
Fuck you is what he wanted to say, but in one of those rare instances where reason got the better of him, he kept his mouth shut. In the movies, it is always a very bad thing to learn your abductor’s identity or see their face because it means they don’t care if you know who they are because they have zero intention of releasing you.
Lowering her left hand to the desktop, palm up, she pointed at it with her left hand. “Get in my hand,” she commanded.
Brow furling, Tom took a couple of reluctant footsteps toward her hand before stopping short. “You didn’t answer my question,” he stated, glancing up at her.
Letting out an irritated sigh, she moved her hand quickly, snatching him up off the desktop and curling her fingers tightly around him and making a fist. Turning her hand, she squeezed him painfully, forcing all of the air out of his lungs, “You will do as bid or you will be punished,” she stated dispassionately.
Gritting his teeth, Tom pushed against the brutally strong force she was employing. He was too little and she was too strong, flashes of light exploded in his eyes.
An amused smile played on her lips as she watched the little thing in her hand gasp open mouthed like a fish out water. Opening her hand, she let him fall back to the desktop.
Tom rolled over and up onto his hands and knees, gulping air, chest heaving. “A cunt says what?” he asked through breaths, shooting her a glower.
She chuckled, “Most amusing,” she remarked.
Getting back to his feet, “So what’s the deal here?” he asked.
Fixing her mirthless icy gaze on him, “The deal? There is no deal. You now belong to me,” she answered directly.
A little taken aback, Tom didn’t know quite how to respond. Belong to her? Like in a property sense? This was definitely not good. Frowning, he shook his head, “Anastasia?”
She arched an eyebrow.
Changing tactics, “Why are you doing this?” he asked, making his eyes big as he could.
“Enough of this idle little chit chat,” she said, marshalling him back toward his carrying case.
Rather than fight her, he allowed himself to be placed back into the case. Cherysenko. Tatiana’s name was Terasova, but he was pretty sure the lovely little Russian was connected to the Cherysenko name. Niece? That was it. Sergei Cherysenko was her uncle. Rich, like Lindholm rich with all sorts of rumors linking him to both the Russian mob and expatriated KGB officials. How was Anastasia connected? He couldn’t imagine Tatiana initiating something like this. The girl was sweet. This was something different.