“I’d be happy with finding her alive and well.”
“Alive, I think we can do.” Levin glances pensively out of the window before looking back at me, an expression in his eyes as if he’s remembering something that he tries not to think about too often. “Remember that alive is the goal, Max. Anything else can be helped.”
I want to ask, but I don’t. From the look on his face, it feels obvious that it’s not something he wants to talk about.
The flight is uneventful. When we arrive on a private tarmac and deplane, there’s a black car waiting for us, absent a driver. Levin gets in, and I slide into the passenger seat, glancing out at the darkening evening sky.
“Where are we going?” I ask, and Levin glances at me.
“To the hotel.”
The surprise I felt must have shown, because Levin shakes his head. “Patience, Max,” he says, turning the car onto the road. “These things take time. You know that, from when we helped Liam. I have a contact that we’ll meet in the morning.”
“Sasha might not have time.” The thought of even another moment passing where she’s somewhere hurting, or frightened, makes me feel insane. I have to find her, Ineedto find her, and I understand with a painful clarity what Liam felt when he’d lost Ana.
“We’ll do our best to make certain that she does.” Levin falls silent, and I don’t argue. I know, logically, that there’s nothing that can be done tonight.
I also know I won’t be getting any sleep.
11
SASHA
Staying in the prison cell–because that’s precisely what it is, even if this isn’t a traditional prison–is exactly as horrible as I thought it would be.
It’s not just that it’s cold, or always feels damp, or that the bed is as uncomfortable as lying on the concrete floor itself, or that it reminds me of the most awful days after I first came to the States, in those locked rooms at the warehouse. That alone is enough to send me into a near-constant panic spiral, but worse still is the utter lack of privacy.
What’s harder still is holding in the fear. The last thing I need is to have a meltdown and a panic attack here, with these men guarding me. So far, none of them have tried to touch me, but they make plenty of comments in passing. One of them especially enjoys stopping by my cell when I have to pee, which is so disgusting that I find myself trying to wait until it’s completely dark in the building, so that I have a better chance at the barest shred of privacy.
I can’t even sponge off at the sink without comments being hurled at me, though I can’t imagine I’m anything close to attractive at this point. It’s been two days without a shower, and my hair is a tangled mess. There’s no mirror, but I can imagine what I look like at this point–hollow-eyed, thin and pale.
Despite my situation, I’m ravenous with hunger, but the food is practically inedible. It seems to only consist of thin, flavorless oatmeal, stale bread, or what appears to be bologna and cheese sandwiches–or something like it–that taste as if they’ve sat out for days. I don’t know if the food is purposefully bad to try to make me barter for something better, or if this is just how it is, but I don’t complain. I muscle down what I can, which isn’t much, and try to ignore my rumbling, cramping stomach. I remind myself of what I’d resolved back in the bedroom at Edo’s house–that I knew luxuries like good food and hot showers were numbered, and I’d resigned myself to it.
It’s a little harder at the moment, though.
I made it through this before,I tell myself, remembering timed dormitory-style showers in the orphanage and food that was nearly as bad, foster homes where I’d be made to wait until last to shower when there was hardly any hot water left and fed the smallest portions. The difference, of course, is that back then, I’d had hope. I’d counted down the days until I was eighteen, believing that I’d make my life better somehow, that I’d find a way out.
Now, there’s none of that. There is no chance of getting out of here, no possibility that I’ll save myself. There’s no future where this gets better.
There’s also endless time tothink–about Max, about Caterina, about Anika and Yelena. About all the choices I made that got me right here, and whether or not I could have changed it somehow, and if I would have regardless.
Two days pass like that. Two days of feeling hungry, chilled to the bone, unable to sleep on the hard cot, and I find myself starting to wish that Obelensky would hurry up and come shoot me.
After breakfast on the third day, the guard who brought me in the first day and cut off my cuffs appears at the bars with keys. “Don’t try anything,” he warns me. “You don’t have a chance. Don’t make this worse.”
“How many people listen to you?” I look up at him as he steps inside, leaving the door cracked as if in a subtle taunt. I don’t even bother looking at it; I’m not going to try to run. There are guards all up and down the hall, a gauntlet of futility.
He glances at me sideways as he reaches for my wrists, sliding the plastic cuffs on. “Enough that I don’t have to clean up blood too often.”
A quick tug, and the cuffs tighten around my wrists, but not too tightly.There’s that, at least,I think grimly to myself, continually surprised by how the smallest of things can feel like a gift in a situation like this.
I’m walked down a series of hallways, each as grey and nondescript as the one before it, until we stop in front of a heavy door. The man holding my cuffs gestures for the three other guards flanking us to step back as he knocks.
“Come in,” a gruff voice sounds from the other side, and I recognize it with a cold chill as Obelensky’s from the call.
I realize, with a sudden clarity that leaves me dizzy, that I’m about to meet my father for the first time.
The door swings open, and we step into the office. The man behind the desk stands up, and I feel the world spin to a stop for a moment.