The Hunted

Eugene gave him his number and the line went dead. They let him rest for an hour after the branding was finished. A large industrial fan had been brought in and locked into high gear to push out the stench of roasted flesh. The iron had been pressed down hard enough that the best plastic surgeon in the world could not totally eliminate or disguise Vladimir's handiwork. Alex would spend the rest of his life tattooed with the symbol he had done so much to destroy.

At exactly 4:05, Vladimir and Katya reentered the room, herding a harried-looking doctor and a plump, greasy-haired lawyer who reputedly specialized in the rapidly changing Russian business legal codes. Vladimir and Katya stood and waited with indifferent expressions at the end of the gurney. The doctor checked Alex's pulse and monitored his breathing, then spent a while poking and prodding various body parts.

Eventually the doctor looked up and in high native Russian informed Vladimir, "Pulse count's a little high, no doubt the result of the trauma and fear. At least two ribs are broken and there's a terrible contusion on his leg. Without an X-ray I can't determine if it's broken."

The room was unheated and cold, and as nightfall moved in was becoming colder by the minute. Naked but for his underpants, Alex's teeth were chattering. His arms and legs would've been shivering except for the tight restraints. The doctor glanced again at the broken, bleeding body on the gurney, then, after wasting a horrified grimace at Vladimir, scuttled swiftly from the room.

Vladimir and Katya pulled over a long wooden bench and sat beside Alex. They had agreed beforehand they would play out their best imitation of the old good-cop/bad-cop routine.

Vladimir had already done a thoroughly credible job of establishing his credentials as the bad cop. Acting good wasn't exactly Katya's strong suit, either; as long as she sat beside Vladimir, though, she'd look like an angel. Vladimir slowly lit a foul-smelling French cigarette, exhaled loudly, and in his most blase tone said to Alex, "You're probably wondering what this is about."

After toying with the idea of answering him, Alex decided against it. Finally they were getting down to business. They had beaten him to a pulp, branded him, had nearly killed him-at last they were going to tell him how much it would cost not to finish the job.

No use beating around the bush, and Vladimir in a commanding voice came right out with it. "You're going to sign over your money and businesses to us."

"What?" Alex was sure he hadn't heard right. A demand for money had been expected. In fact, given the scale of this operation and the brutal professionalism of his kidnappers, Alex had fully anticipated the initial demand to be huge: in all likelihood preposterous. They would threaten and insist, he would tell them whom to talk with, then the negotiations would begin in earnest. Eventually, the ransom experts at Alex's expensive English security firm would be brought into the game, there would be some haggling, a little give, a little take, threats and counterthreats, but sooner or later a reasonable price would be agreed upon and promptly paid. But sign over his businesses? Ludicrous.

These people were either stupid or crazy. Or both.

"You heard right," Vladimir insisted, very calmly, very seriously. He stood, bent over, and lowered his face within twelve inches of Alex's eyes. "It's simple. You sign a letter we've already prepared. Nothing fancy-you're tired, worn out, and frustrated from the crushing work and responsibilities. Then you sign a simple contract with a blank space for the name of the person we will designate as your successor. You don't touch that-we will later. All you do is sign the bottom of the page."

"That simple?"

"Yes, that's it. My lawyer friend here will notarize it, and you and your wife are free to go." The shyster stood quietly in the corner, and he nodded and smiled energetically, so damned pleased to be of service to both parties.

"And if I say no?" Alex asked.

"Then you and your wife are dead. Think about it. You lose your businesses either way."

Katya butted in and, taking her best stab at playing the good cop, informed him, "Vladimir will happily kill you and your wife. Believe me, he'll enjoy it. Don't be stupid, don't give him the excuse."

Alex took a long look at the dark ceiling. So this was what it was all about. His money and his businesses and his properties, the works-the greedy bastards were demanding everything he'd spent six years creating and building. He drew a heavy breath and, as firmly as he could, insisted, "Money you can have. Plenty of it, enough to live happily ever after. But no, you can't have my businesses."

Vladimir had expected this, in fact was fully prepared for it. He smiled and then turned around and looked at Katya. "Get the wife," he told her.