Hang in there. We will meet our favorite Trenton characters later. Saving Grace is not an AU nor a Cupcake. Maybe a Babe...we'll see.
Characters:
Malika Arkadyevna, daughter
Arkady Babaev, father
Katherine Bianca Babaova, wife
Ivan Rostov, a Russian officer
Turkmen Men:
Ruslan Kasymov, a tribal leader
Sabrina, his wife
Ene Kasymov, Ruslan's nephew and Taliban soldier
Astra, Ene's brother
Billy Montell, FTA
Prologue
Rising from the sea like the ancient Greek Riace statue, the bronze skin man strolled up the beach, stopped and began wiping the water from his muscular body and golden locks, casting the salty water off his fingertips. His aim was not indiscriminate. He directed the water in a perfect trajectory.
"Hey, don't drip all over me, you pinhead," Ram spat as Les' fingers danced. In an instant, Ram, the former Navy SEAL sniper, had Lester, the former Army Ranger, down on the ground shoveling sand into his swim trunks.
So began the epic wrestling match in the sand between two 6'2" blond males with extensive muscle definition. The only way to determine the difference between failing bodies was Les' skin and hair were darker. The two men's knowledge of martial arts, hand to hand combat, and dirty street fighting had them grappling, throwing, hitting, and partially pinning each other.
Other male Adonis', all employees of the security company, Rangeman, gathered to watch and shout encouragement to both combatants. Fists, wayward elbows, and feet eventually caught noses or lips. Blood began to appear. When both men's' chins dripped blood, Tank, and Hal, the two largest Rangemen lifted Lester, took him to the ocean, and threw him back into the water. Lester popped back up minus his swim trunks as he vigorously splashed water on his groin area.
Rangeman's CEO, Ranger Manoso, and his girlfriend, Stephanie Plum, were not far away. Stephanie turned quickly so as not to watch the display. "Santos," Ranger roared, "At least turn away." Ranger noted Ram was heading for a more private cabana and shower area.
By the time both men reappeared on the beach, their split lips and bleeding noses had stopped dripping. Their testosterone overload had quieted as well.
After examining both combatants, Bobby, the company medic, sat down next to Tank, the massive black man, second in charge of Rangeman, "At least they are no longer bleeding. No broken bones, but I suggest to both either remain in the cool water or ice down the bruised areas."
Tank shook his head, "This was supposed to be a cool down trip after Murphy children kidnapping case. Those two yahoos were still tightly wound."
Bobby looked over the other Rangemen who had returned to playing volleyball or relaxing on the beach. Most all were former elite military forces. Those that were not received their training on the streets. The only exception was the woman with the long brown curly hair currently splashing water on Ranger.
Stephanie and Ranger had been dancing around each other for several years. He refused to commit to a permanent relationship for several reasons, which only made sense to him. She, on the other hand, was devastated in early marriage and was now in an on-again-off-again, but increasing off-again, relationship with another man. She, too, had several reasons why she could not commit to either man.
Looking over at Ranger and Stephanie, Bobby wondered aloud, "Do you think those two will ever get their heads out of their asses about each other?"
Tank watched the man and woman frolicking in the water, "A psychologist could make a career out of those two." Tank continued, "Bossman is still under contract and doesn't want to leave a widow. To maintain his edge, he's had to create an iron cocoon around his emotions. Steph wants liberation from her dysfunctional family but can't break her tie to the community."
"Do you think she wants a normal married relationship?" Bobby asked.
Tank looked at him, "Once I would have answered, isn't that what every Burg woman wants? Morelli assumes it is. Poor jackass is caught in the same Burg cesspool of expectations as Bomber. Men get married, raise a good Burg family. Steph is hardly a Burg woman. In her first FTA, she was shot, killed someone, and yet returned to the job without psychological counseling. Quite the contrary, she was scolded by her mother and the community. She repeatedly rushes into situations the rest of us would hesitate. Still, she has gotten herself out of more scrapes than what we have saved her."
"Yeah, and one day she's going to get herself killed," Bobby said. "And what will happen to him?" referring to Ranger.
"If she were to die, especially on his watch, the beast behind the iron wall would emerge and self-destruct," Tank sighed. "But you should also ask what will happen to us? Are we much different than the boss? We are as close as any squad and she is our heart and soul. She is family, whether she knows it or not."
Both were quiet, reliving military and mercenary missions that scarred the psyche of all involved. Ranger was still doing the contract missions. Yet in their midst and darkness shone Stephanie, the Babe, Bomber, Beautiful, or Little Girl. She was the light in many of their souls.
"Have you thought about marriage, Tank?" Bobby asked.
Tank chuckled, "I assume you are not talking about Lula. That was a fling, crazy sex with a crazy woman." Tank looked out at the ocean and spoke quietly, "Alex and I had saved enough money to get married. A drunk driver jumped a curb and killed her coming out of the bridal salon, where she went for a dress fitting. After the funeral, I dropped out of college and joined the Army." Looking over at Ranger and Stephanie, he shook his head, "How much time will they waste?" Turning his head slightly towards Bobby, Tank quietly asked, "What about you?"
Bobby was quiet for a while, looking off across the water, searching his mind and heart. "I've heard about love at first sight. Remember Ranger the first time he met Bomber? I suspect he felt the 'thump.' I have had my share of girlfriends, but I never had that shot to the heart. Well, maybe once, but it was too short to know for sure."
-0-
Chapter 1 Paris Many Years ago
The sounds began again as they often did when her father came home late from work. Embassy party, important government meeting, her mother always had an explanation for why her husband failed to be present for dinner. Malika never asked her mother about the sounds she often heard when her father returned home late. Initially, she was too young to understand but grew to know the sounds were wrong.
The thick walls of the Parisian apartment could not muffle her mother's weeping and her father swearing. The young girl put her hands over her ears, but it did not help stop the anger in the air. Burying her head under the pillow, compressed the horror. Tomorrow her mother's face will have extra thick makeup to hide the bruises, and her clothing will completely cover her battered body. Malika would not be able to look at her mother without crying. What was so bad about her mother that her father needed to punish her?
When Malika asked her mother why her father punished her, her mother replied, "I love him but not when he drinks. He turns mean." Malika had seen her father at embassy parties where he was loving and proud of his wife. After all, he was married to the famous pianist Katherine Bianchi better known in the international embassy circles as Katherine Bianchi-Babaova.
The love Arkady Babaev showed for his wife away from home did not extend to his daughter. Malika did not attend embassy events at her father's insistence. When her father was home, Malika had to remain in her room, allowing the adults their privacy. She was courteous towards him, but not loving. Cuddles came from Ivan Rostov, her father's aide. Uncle Ivan, as Malika referred to him, often looked after Katherine and Malika when Arkady was away. Her father had never been to his daughter's dance or piano recitals, but Uncle Ivan never missed them.
Malika lifted her head from under the pillow. Her mother stopped weeping, but something was different. Her father was still moving around the apartment, swearing, and breaking items. Malika prayed he would leave and go to the embassy, hotel, or brothel, anywhere away from home.
The bedroom door opened. Was this her mother or father entering the room? Pretending to be asleep with the pillow over her head brought no protection. Suddenly the pillow disappeared, and her father stood glaring at her. The light from the street shone just enough to highlight the sweat on Arkady's face. His hand clenched and unclenched while he panted as if he had run up the stairs. Suddenly he raised his hand and slapped her, hard. He started hitting her about the face and body. What had she done? Never had Arkady touched her harshly. She tried not to cry, but the pain was real. The more she cried, the more he hit. The hits stopped, but the bed sagged as Ardaky climbed on top of her. Ripping her gown, his hands had access to her neck.
Holding her down, he bent over, trying to kiss her. Alcohol oozed from his breath. Malika tried to deflect her face, earning another sharp slap. Instinctively she knew she had to stop crying and relax. Uncle Ivan taught her self-defense, beginning with relaxing and waiting for an opportunity to escape. When she calmed, her father removed his hands and attempted to unbutton his trousers. Now was her chance to escape. As Ardady fumbled, trying to lower his pants, Malika kicked up, catching her father's scrotum, stunning him. She slipped out from under him and ran from the bedroom to the apartment's front door. Arkady bellowed like a bull and tried to follow her, but his pants had slipped down around his ankles, slowing his actions. By some miracle, she disabled all the door locks before her father could shuffle to the main salon.
Running down the stairs, she silently held her screams until she entered the main lobby. With her torn nightgown blowing open and blood dripping from her nose and mouth, she continued past the main desk, running towards the front door away from the apartment and Arkady. The surprised portier noted her bloody face and torn clothes and quickly followed.
The summer rain choked back the screams. The young girl stood silent, trembling to allow the water to wash the blood from her body. Her near-naked condition forgotten. As the portier opened the door, a lightning bolt struck the tree across the street. The already frightened little girl crouched down and screamed, "Dyadya mne pomogayet." (Uncle, save me.)
Rushing to the small girl, the porter removed his jacket, wrapped it around the shivering child, and carefully carried her back into the lobby. The night clerk rushed with a blanket to cover the child before summoning the police and notifying Russian Embassy.
The police were the first to arrive. Four men uniforms came to the porter, still holding the weeping shivering young child. The older policeman, the one most likely in charge, looked at the desk clerk and the porter and inquired, "What is the situation?" The porter answered briefly.
"Has anyone gone to the apartment?" the older policeman asked.
The porter shook his head no, "We were waiting for you."
The older officer accompanied by two others went upstairs while the fourth remained in the lobby with the porter and child. Malika watched the activity, but said nothing, concentrating on her even breathing as her Uncle Ivan taught her. The tears slowed, and her shivering lessened.
The police officers found the apartment salon in disarray. Lamps lay on the floor, and books strewn about, broken Chinese vase was near a splintered side chair. Face down on the floor, his pants around ankles, was a passed-out Babaev. The police searched the bedrooms were they found the wife bloodied and unconscious.
Moments later, Colonel Ivan Rostov, Babev's aid, marched into the lobby. He was 6'3" Slavic in appearance, light hair cut short, blue eyes. He wore the identification of Army GRU, Spetnaetz, military police.
"Dyadya" (uncle), the young girl wailed. Rostov rushed to her. As she reached out for his embrace, the blanket fell open, revealing the bruising forming on her face, neck, and body under the torn nightclothes.
"Moya rebebok," he cooed into Malika's ear as she began to weep again. (My child).
Malika was petite even for a ten-year-old. She was far from puberty. The tall, muscular Colonel effortlessly took the child from the porter. The policeman stood nearby, debating if he should let the Russian officer take the child. Though the policeman did not speak Russian, he was least a family friend. Rostov turned to the police officer and asked in French, "What can you tell me."
The officer was surprised. Usually, foreigners, especially embassy officials, were more demanding expecting immediate information. This one realized the police might have limitations and asked, "What CAN you tell me." This Russian had manners.
Looking at the girl and back to the Russian, the officer shook his head, "I know nothing. You'll have to talk with my supervisor upstairs."
Looking at the child, the Colonel softly spoke in French so the officer could listen, "My little dove, I must go upstairs to check on your mother. I will return to you as soon as I can. Please remain calm; I will return and protect you."
Malika shuddered, "He was hitting Mere again. He came into my room and began hitting me."
Ivan, a highly trained officer, barely held his rage. He must remain calm for the girl's sake. He also needed more information from her but needed the inspector present.
"Take care of her, please," Rostov said, handing her back to the porter. He avoided the elevator and ran up the same stairs Malika had run down. When he got to the apartment, he found an officer outside the door. "I'm Colonel Ivan Rostov from the Russian Embassy." Rostov should have identified himself as the ambassador's aid but wanted some measure between him and what he feared had happened.
"One moment, sir, the supervisor will be here." Shortly the older officer with tired eyes came and checked the Colonel's papers. He noted the Spetnatz badges and rank. This was a fellow law enforcement officer. The Parisian inspector almost felt embarrassed, saying, "You may come in but touch nothing." He was sure the man knew the protocols.
As he entered, Rostov saw Babev passed out on the floor. His trousers were still around his ankle. Glancing down and then back to the inspector, Rostov asked, "What about Katherine, his wife?"
"She is unconscious. The ambulance will be here shortly. You confirm this is Ambassador Babaev?" Rostov glanced back down again at Babev's bare ass, not usually the part of him most often seen. Rostov simply said, "Oui," then muttered something in Russian. The inspector did not understand but got the gist from the delivery.
"Colonel Rostov, I have a problem. I need to do an investigation and write a report, but you know I cannot arrest him with his diplomatic immunity."
Before the inspector could continue, the ambulance attendants arrived with their gurney. They had to step over Babev to get to their patient in the bedroom.
Rostov looked down, "He is in your way. The embassy police are on their way now. They will move him."
"Thank you, Colonel." Inspector Jules Rousseau wanted the bastard on the floor in his in Paris jail but knew diplomacy would prevent it. He would have to be satisfied filing a report and hopeful the Russian government would remove this filth from his country.
Inspector Rousseau expected to hear the Russian embassy police arrive. Instead, overly large and muscled men appeared nearly unheard. These were not heavy booted men, but rather especially well trained Spetnaetz men and military Special Forces.
Rostov issued orders in Russian, and immediately the four men picked up Babaev, adjusted his pants, and got him out of the apartment quickly.
Rostov watched his men drag Babaev away before turning to the police officer. "Captain Rousseau, I apologize this occurred, but rest assured this will be the last time you see Assistant Ambassador Arkady Babaev." Rostov eyes spoke what his voice could not, "I would have preferred to eliminate him myself."
Nodding in acknowledge and relief, Rousseau was confident Babaev would not wash up along the river, at least not the Seine but maybe the Moskva.
Rostov desperately wanted to see Katherine but knew he would only be in the ambulance attendants' way. "I will return to Malika, the child, and wait for you."
"Let me talk to my men first, and I will go with you." The captain gave the two remaining police specific orders then joined Rostov returning to the lobby.
Ivan entered the lobby and went to Malika, who was now sitting on the lobby canapé. Lifting her from the round sofa into his arms, he cooed in French, "Malika, my love, this is Captain Rousseau. He wants to know what happened. Before you begin, breathe, sweetheart, breathe like the big clock in the hall."
Malika responded. She knew the proper breathing method critical in Russian martial arts. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. She did not over-inflate her lungs, thus tensing her shoulder muscles. Her body's need was dictating the air coming in.
"Now, starting from the top of your head, relax," Ivan coached. "Let your neck relax, your shoulders, arms down to your fingertips..."
After several minutes, Malika began whispering, "I was already in bed asleep, but the sounds woke me up. He was yelling at Mere again. I put the pillow over my head, but it did not help. Mere stopped crying, but Pere was breaking items in the salon. Then my bedroom door opened. I did not know who it was. Suddenly the pillow disappeared from my head, and Pere hit me and kept hitting me. He tore my clothes and put his hands around my neck. I tried to remember what you taught me Oncle, stay calm so the body can adjust to the hits. It was hard. I waited and stayed still until he released my neck and began unbuttoning his trousers. Then I…" Malika stopped and started tensing up again.
"Breathe, my little dove," Ivan cooed.
After a few breaths, the little girl continued, "I kicked up and then rolled out from underneath him. He screamed he was going to..." Again she tensed, but Ivan brushed away a single tear falling down her cheek.
"And then…" he coached.
Malika shut her eyes for a moment concentrating on taking air in through her nose and out through her mouth, smoothly like the great clock ticking in the hotel lobby. She opened her eyes and continued, "I ran down the stairs away from him. The rain was cold. Suddenly there was a loud explosion." As she finished, she buried her head in the Russian officer's neck. Rostov gently urged, "My dear, relax again before continuing." Her breaths were more even, and she slowly lifted her head to look at Rostov. Tears began again.
"My little dove, this is a hard question. Did your father touch you any other place than your face and neck?"
As if in a trance, she replied in a monotone, "He hit my body several times and grabbed my legs."
"Did he do anything more, my dove?" Rostov was fighting his fear.
Malika lowered her head but did not answer.
Rostov turned to the captain. "Do you need to ask her questions?" The inspector shook his head no. "The child may need a hospital," the police officer whispered.
Malika heard the hospital and grabbed Ivan tighter burying her head into his neck.
"Will someone drive us? I'd rather not let someone else carry her."
Across the lobby's expanse, the elevator doors opened to the gurney carrying Katherine Babaova to the waiting ambulance. Malika screamed, "Mere, Mere." The lady on the stretcher did not respond.