“Are you ready, Yulechka?” Staring at me, he reaches for the lock on the cell door.
I fight the urge to shrink back against the wall. Instead, I stand up and throw off my blanket. He’d welcome any excuse to lay hands on me, so I don’t give him one. I just walk over to the metal bars and stand there waiting, my stomach twisting with nausea.
“You’re wanted out there again,” he says, reaching for my arm. I almost puke as he grabs my wrist, his fingers thick and oily on my skin. He snaps a handcuff on that wrist and then grabs my other arm, stepping closer. “They said you won’t be coming back here,” he whispers, and I feel one of his hands squeezing my ass, his fingers digging painfully into the crack. “It’s too bad. I’ll miss you, Yulechka.”#p#分页标题#e#
Vomit rises in my throat as I smell his breath—stale cigarettes mixed with rotting teeth. It takes everything I have not to shove him away. Fighting means he’ll get to touch me even more; I know that from experience. So I just stand there and wait for him to release me. He won’t rape me—that’s one humiliation I’ve been spared, thanks to the cameras—so all I need to do is remain still and not throw up.
Sure enough, after a few seconds, he snaps the second handcuff on my wrist and steps back, disappointment darkening his features.
“Let’s go,” he barks, grabbing my elbow, and I gulp in air untainted by his stench, desperately hoping my stomach will settle down. I’ve thrown up once before, when they fed me greasy meat after starving me for three days, and they made me clean it up with the blanket that’s still on my cot.
To my relief, my nausea recedes as Igor marches me down the hall, and I register what he said.
You won’t be coming back.
What does that mean? Are they moving me to another facility, or did they finally decide it wasn’t worth it, trying to get anything out of me? Am I about to be executed? Is that what Buschekov was hinting at when he said he was about to get some new authorization?
My heartbeat picks up, a fresh wave of nausea moving through me. I’m not ready for this. I thought I was, but now that the moment is here, I want to live.
I want to live to see Misha.
Except if I give the Russians what they want, I won’t see Misha ever again. Obenko’s sister and her family will be forced to go into hiding, and my brother along with them. Misha’s happy life will be over, and it’ll all be my fault.
No. My resolve firms again.
It’s better that I die.
At least then I’ll be out of this hellhole once and for all.
Despite my determination, my legs feel like gelatin as Igor leads me down an unfamiliar hallway. We’re moving away from the interrogation room, which means the guard wasn’t lying.
Something different is happening today.
“This way,” Igor says, tugging me toward a set of double doors. As we approach, they swing open for us, and I blink at the sudden flood of blinding light.
Sunlight.
It’s warm and pure on my skin, so unlike the cold fluorescence of the prison lights. The air wafting in through those doors is different too. It’s fresher, full of scents that speak of city in the spring and have nothing to do with desperation and human suffering.
“Here she is,” Igor says, pushing me through the doors, and to my shock, a woman’s voice repeats his words in Russian-accented English.
Squinting against the overwhelming brightness, I turn my head to see a short middle-aged woman standing next to five men in a narrow courtyard. Beyond them is a thick wall with barbed wire at the top and several armed guards.
“Who are you?” I ask the woman in English, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she turns to look at one of the men—a tall, thin one who seems to be their leader.
“You can go now, thank you,” he says to her, speaking American English without an accent, and I realize she must be an interpreter.
She nods at him and hurries toward the gate on the other side of the courtyard. The man steps toward me, and I see an expression of disgust cross his narrow face. He must’ve smelled my lack of showers.
“Let’s go,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from Igor.
“Where are you taking me?” I’m trying to stay calm. This is not at all what I was expecting. What could Americans want from me? Unless... Could they be with—#p#分页标题#e#
“Colombia,” the man says, confirming my horrified guess. “Julian Esguerra requests the honor of your presence.”
And before I can process this new blow, he drags me toward the gate.
I don’t know at what point I start fighting—whether it’s once we’re beyond the prison gate or when we approach the black van. All I know is that a beast wakes up inside me, and I lash out at the man holding me with all my remaining strength.