Putting on a show was one thing, but she was not about to put up with bullshit like this. She shifted her hips, moving from his touch. He grabbed her and dug his fingers into her thigh.
That did it.
In a sudden twist, she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him to the ground, rolling him onto his back. With an oomph he collapsed, and she dug a knee into one of his kidneys. “Don’t you ever do that again. To anyone!”
“Step away!” one of the other cops yelled at her in English.
She gave a parting shove of her knee to the downed cop and stood up, arms still cuffed behind her back.
“I’m cooperating,” she said. “That son of a bitch just wanted a little more than I’m willing to give.”
“You funny woman, huh?” the English speaker said as he stepped closer to her.
By now quite a crowd had gathered, and what was supposed to have been a simple — and subtle — arrest was turning into a scene.
“Do you see me laughing?” she asked.
The cop said something to the guy on the ground, who grunted a response, and slowly rose to his feet. Alex eyed him warily as he gave her a once-over before leaning down and picking up her pack.
“You come no problem?” the English speaker asked her.
“Just tell me where to go.”
“Car waiting.”
They formed a rough circle around her, and pushed their way through the crowd to the road that ran in front of the terminals. There, three police cars were parked bumper to bumper. Alex was led to the one in the middle. The cop in front of her opened the backdoor, while the one behind grabbed the top of her head. He pushed her down and through the opening, but not before making sure the top of her head smacked against the doorframe.
She winced as she fell into the seat, and felt blood start to trickle down her scalp. The pain of the blow grew like a wave. She gritted her teeth and shut her eyes to ride it out. Once she opened them again, the car was already pulling away from the airport.
There were two cops in the car with her. The one who’d opened the door was sitting behind the wheel, and the English speaker was looking back at her from the passenger seat.
“Apologies,” he said. “But appearances must be kept up.”
So this was her contact. She glanced at the driver then back to the other man.
He shook his head. “Only me. He not understand English.”
Tempering her response so the driver wouldn’t wonder what was going on, she said, “And your friend back there. The one with the wandering hands. Was that for appearances, too?”
There was a flash in the man’s eyes. Anger? Annoyance? It was hard to tell. “You should be very careful how you speak to me. You are in Crimean system now. I can be friend, or I can make problem.”
Apparently he was a touchy bastard. And an arrogant one as well. But as much as she might’ve liked to slap the attitude right out of him, she knew he was right. She was at his mercy. He could easily forget he’d been paid to make all this happen.
That was the kind of trouble that could lead to her being “lost” in his beloved Crimean system.
Never to be found again.
They arrived at a big block of a building that screamed municipality. Columns and gray stone and wide stairs leading inside, it could have been picked up and plopped down in almost any country and looked at home.
They parked behind the building and took her in through a basement door. The English speaker said something to his friends, then headed down an intersecting hallway on his own.
The four who were left escorted Alex to an empty, windowless room that was clearly a holding cell. There she was left, her wrists still cuffed.
Minutes passed. Five. Ten.
When the door opened again, a single cop entered, only it wasn’t the English speaker. It was the son of a bitch with the wandering hands.
Oh, joy.
He was carrying a knotted sock full of coins or rocks or something equally hard and heavy. A sap, or this guy’s version of one, anyway. By the look in his eyes, he was anxious to test it out on her skull.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “Did you learn nothing?”
He was only a year or two younger than Alex, and had that look of indignant self-importance that was so common among people her age who hadn’t yet tasted real life.
Alex had never been cursed with that disease. Her real life began when her mother died, and continued on through Iraq and the occasional Maryland mean street. She was sure this idiot was used to getting his way, and after failing to feel her up, he now wanted to reestablish his perceived dominance to save face with his buddies.
He took two steps forward, testing her, but she didn’t back off. He slapped the sock against the palm of his free hand, trying to intimidate her.
Without warning, she dropped her head and rushed him, targeting his nose. He turned just enough that she ended up slamming into his cheek instead. She could feel the cut on her head open up again, but gave it no further thought.
The jerk staggered to the side, the side of his face red from the impact. Before he could do anything else, she kicked sideways and caught him in the abdomen right below his sternum.
He doubled over, coughing, and dropped the makeshift sap to the ground. She hooked it with her foot and hurled it across the room, out of reach.
She took a couple steps back, keeping her eye on the cop the whole time. He coughed once more, then began panting as he caught his breath. As soon as he was more in control, he tilted his head up and looked at her. There was fire in his eyes, an anger several times stronger than it had been when he’d entered the room.
The roar began, barely noticeable, at the back of his throat, then flew out of his mouth as he launched himself at her.
Alex had the fleeting thought that she needed to be careful not to hurt him too much, as it might negate whatever deal Stonewell had worked out to get her into Slavne Prison. Cops worldwide were rabid when it came to protecting their own, even when one of their own was a complete shit.
She dodged to the side, trying to get out of his way, but his shoulder still glanced against her rib. In a way, it was a good thing. The blow spun him sideways, and kept him from smashing headfirst into the wall and breaking his neck. It did not, however, keep his other shoulder from crashing into the cement and dislocating.
The cop crumpled to the floor in a howl of pain.
Alex rushed to the door, and started kicking it. “We need help in here! Hey! Anyone there? Help!”
When she heard several pairs of feet running toward the holding cell, she backed away and moved up against the wall to look as harmless as possible.
The door flew open and three cops rushed in. After a quick look at her, they noticed their colleague lying against the far wall. Two of them went to him, while the other approached Alex.
He said something to her in Ukrainian, his tone harsh.
“Don’t look at me,” she said calmly. “He did that himself.”
The guy rattled off at her again.
This time she just shrugged and looked past him at the others. They had helped their friend back to his feet, and were trying to find a way to get him out of the room without disturbing his damaged shoulder.
The cop standing in front of Alex said something to the others, and ran out of the room. He returned with his English-speaking colleague right after the injured man was led outside.
“What happened?” the cop asked, not looking happy.
“Your friend decided he wanted a little revenge.”
“But he was on the ground.”
“Again,” she added for him.
“Yes, again.”
“What can I say? He’s an idiot. Look, my hands are cuffed behind my back. He comes at me with a weapon and all I can do is—”