I couldn’t respond past the wadded fabric even if I wanted to. So I just close my eyes, right as I see him raise the knife high over his head, butt-first like a battering ram, and then start to bring it in a brutal, swooping arc down towards me.

The pain hits my temple at the same moment my eyes seal shut. I have enough time for one last thought before everything goes black. Not even a thought—just a word.

A name.

A hope.

A prayer.

Kolya.

7

JUNE

It’s the sharp pang of pain that wakes me up.

I’m sitting on an uncomfortable chair. My ankles are bound to the chair’s legs and my wrists are tied behind my back. Another reason my injured arm is crying out for mercy.

I look around, but I have no idea where I am. It’s mostly dark. I catch a whiff of it again—that nauseating smell of cheap aftershave.

Then I catch the man’s silhouette in the corner of my eye.

He’s sitting on what looks like a picnic table, his legs kicked up on the bench. A thick fog of mist engulfs his face, hiding his features. Not mist, actually—smoke. Cigarette smoke.

“I’m pregnant,” I snap fiercely. At least, I try to. But my voice comes out weak and scared.

The man climbs off the table and ambles over to me. He’s fat enough to look comical, like a pear with legs, but his eyes are determined. That scares me.

“I’m supposed to let you go because you’re pregnant?”

“You’re supposed to put out the cigarette, at the very least.”

He raises his eyebrows and looks down at the cig in his hand. “Hm,” he says, as though he’s forgotten it’s there. Then he shrugs, throws the cigarette on the floor, and stamps it out with his foot.

What a gentleman.

“What am I doing here?” I demand, still trying to put up a tough front, though it’s a little harder when the pain in my arm makes my eyes water.

“You’re askin’ the wrong guy, hon. I’m just following the boss’s orders,” he says. “Very specific orders, I gotta say. You must be some kind of special.”

“Boss? What boss?”

“The big man,” he repeats, like that clears things up. “Said you were a problem that needed solving. Told me to bring you down here and ‘take care of things.’” He has a foul habit of licking his lips after every sentence. They’re wet and oily-looking, yet chapped and bleeding at the same time.

I look around as my eyes adjust. It’s dark, but we’re clearly in a barn of some sort. Scattered hay lining the wooden floors like a threadbare carpet, the obvious stench of manure.

“Who’s your boss?” I ask when my eyes finish the circuit and land back on the bearded man. “What’s his name?”

His eyes scale down my body and then up again. It’s not sexual or violent like I might’ve expected. Almost… confused, I guess. Like he knows what roles we’re supposed to be performing in this fucked-up play, but he can’t quite figure out what happens next.