The Hunted

An hour later, after listening to the second tape, after repeating it once, as he had with the first tape, he knew more than he had ever cared to about Tatyana Lukin. The sheer stereotypicality of it was hard enough to swallow; he was just one more old, middle-aged, cuckolded fool, stewing with anger, self-pity, and regret. Worse, she had used him from the very start. There she was bragging to her boyfriend, Sasha, about how she was running the entire machinery of the Kremlin while her fat, drunken bore buddied up to his big pal Boris. There simply were too many barbs to remember; but also too many to forget.

"Well, guess what, bitch," he grumbled, lumbering drunkenly up the stairs for bed. "Tomorrow, the fun will begin." The girl was tall and blonde with skinny legs that stretched from the ground to the sky, pretty blue eyes, and she was at least forty years younger than him. She was even younger than his two granddaughters. If it didn't matter to her, sure as hell it made no difference to him. She gripped his arm and squished her ample breasts against its soft plumpness.

"You are so funny, General, I just can't get enough of you."

"I'll bet," Golitsin slurred as they staggered and swayed, holding each other up, in the direction of his shiny little Beemer in the rear parking lot. The Lido was behind them, the newest city hot spot where the big-deal millionaires gathered in their relentless quest for the best orgy in town. Somewhere between his fifth and eighth scotch-such a blur that he lost count-the girl had become attached to his arm. Between his tenth or twelfth scotch, at some now indeterminate point, he decided they were deeply in love.

"What did you say your name was again?" he asked her.

"Nadya. Please remember it, General. I've told you ten times already. I really don't want you to ever forget me."

Golitsin was again admiring the streamlined legs that seemed to stretch up to her armpits, when three men stepped out of a dark alley. Two lunged straight for him. One banged his arms behind his back, the other shoved a filthy rag in his mouth and then, very quickly, a coarse dark hood over his head. The girl started to step back and scream before the third man clamped a hand over her mouth. "Shut your trap, tramp," he growled, and flashed a knife to show her the request was serious.

A black sedan pulled up, seemingly from nowhere, and squealed to a jarring stop three feet away. Golitsin was bundled roughly into the rear seat before two of the men spilled in beside him. The other man released Nadya. She stepped back and winked at him. He winked back, before she disappeared into the night. He climbed into the front passenger seat and they sped away.

Twenty minutes and ten miles later, Golitsin was shoved through a large doorway, dragged about forty steps, then shoved down hard onto a stiff wooden chair. His hands were tied, quickly and roughly, behind his back, and his chubby legs were roped to the legs of the chair.

The hood was removed and tossed onto the floor. With a loud spit, the filthy gag flew out of his lips, though it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Another moment before he realized there were five of them in all. They were gathered in the middle of a large, empty warehouse with a high, corrugated ceiling and an oil-stained concrete floor. They wore dark jeans and black leather jackets. Rough faces all around. There were more tattoos and earrings and facial scars than he cared to count. A few misshapen noses.

Syndicate thugs, that's all, nothing to be overly alarmed about, Golitsin told himself.

And they had made a mistake, a big one. They were nothing more than common, everyday kidnappers who threw out a random net and stupidly dragged in the meanest shark in town. Oh yes, this was a real boner, one they would deeply regret, and he decided to inform them of this right away. He worked up his most scary sneer. "Do you punks know who you're messing with?"

"Punks," one of them answered. Whack!-Golitsin's head bounced to the side. A spray of blood shot out his nose.

"Don't you dare strike me again. You-"

Whack, whack, whack.

"All right, all right. Enough," Golitsin insisted.

Whack, whack.

"Please… I… I said that's enough."

One of them pulled over another wooden chair, reversed it, then eased into it. Their faces were three feet apart. He looked about fifty, older than the others, and carried himself like he was in charge. A hard, weathered face. Dark, piercing eyes. "Listen up, Sergei. This can be hard or it can be easy. Understand?"

The punk had called him Sergei. He knew his name! It wasn't a random kidnapping after all. Golitsin even, very briefly, entertained the notion of reminding this scum of his proper title: General. But maybe flexing his muscles at this instant wasn't such a good idea. Maybe it was a terrible idea, in fact. That last whack had left him with a splitting headache.

"Can we talk?" Golitsin asked, trying his best to sound reasonable and unctuous.