Page 10 of The Beast of Moscow

Vaslav wasn’t sure what part of this he disliked the most—that he couldn’t remember where he was or the reason for why he was there. In fact, when he reached into his memories, he found a bank of still images, faces and moments that he understood and recognized without any uncertainty, but he couldn’t remember where he had woken up that morning.

Still stumbling down the unfamiliar corridor, the argument continued to ensue behind them. He wasn’t seriously listening to whatever the men had to say—it wasn’t anything different from what he’d already heard.

People will know.

Something is wrong.

He makes the calls.

Vaslav tried to focus on the short bursts of his breaths as his wild gaze scanned the large portrait paintings of ballerinas. It was getting too bright again.

He didn’t know where that light spilled in from. All the same, he couldn’t bear it. The pain was back.

Vaslav shrunk into the first set of shadows he could find, and squeezed his eyes shut when his back hit a wall.

“Vas!” he heard someone call.

But he couldn’t speak again.

Not when the stabbing bursts from the scattered migraine pain began to flutter, and he could barely hold himself up.

Footsteps raced by mere feet from his presence, beyond the sliver of light offered by a small doorway that he probably could have reached for if only his arms would do what he wanted them to.

“Vas—boss!”

“Where did he go?”

“Vaslav!”

*

Beep.

Beep.

BEEP.

Every one of those strange digital beeps accompanied a rocking motion that made Vaslav acutely aware of the fact his back was flat against something hard.

“Is the blinking a good sign?”

The question didn’t get answered in the way the person likely wanted considering as soon as Vaslav had some sense of consciousness, he was fighting.

Ripping at the mask on his face, gasping in a burning lungful of air, he didn’t recognize the faces of the men dressed in blue and white hovering over him. Roaring his anger and confusion out with flailing arms that sent everyone inching back.

But not for long.

Why was he laying down?

“Sir—”

“Sir, if you don’t stop we’ll have to tranq you!”

He might have laughed at that threat, but he was too busy shouting unintelligible curses. Tranq him? He’d have their hearts cut out and the blood in the chambers boiled for tea. Hadn’t Igor just asked him a question?

Wasn’t he in a dark room?

“Vas, come on.”