AN: boyar = Russian for "noble" (count, duke, etc.)
************************************************************************
Two Days Later (December 18)
Outside Saratov, Russia
1920 local
Volkonov pulled his battered sedan to a stop next to the gold sportscar. Harm and CD were already waiting, leaning against the side of the car as Alex approached them.
"This is all I could get without raising suspicion," the Russian officer told them, holding out a manila file folder. The cousins looked at each other. Mercedes nodded, and Harm reached out and took the folder, immediately opening it to read the contents.
Volkonov and CD watched him scan through the papers. While Alex watched his friend with ill-concealed nervousness, Mercedes's gaze was shrewd and assessing. "Well?" she finally asked, several moments later.
Harm looked up at her, tightly controlled anger and buried pain in his eyes. "He was there, in charge of a small patrol squad."
Her voice was sharp, businesslike, but with minimal emotion. "So. What's our next move?"
Instead of answering her, he turned to Alex. "Do you know anything about Tikhomirov's current whereabouts?"
"He has an estate outside Volgograd-- an old *boyars* estate, near one of the river's tributaries. Rumor has it he is there."
Harm nodded, then paused. "Alex... we can't thank you enough for all your help."
"Good luck, my friend," Alex replied, taking Harm's hand in a gesture of farewell, before turning to Mercedes. "It has been interesting, Miss Rabb."
A hint of a wry grin crept across CD's face. "Awww... you're just saying that," she joked, before turning serious. "May fate be kind and luck always be your friend, Alexsandr Constantinovich," she said in Russian, before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
Taking a step back, she turned to Harm and nodded. "Let's go."
Volkonov watched as the cousins climbed into the exotic car, Harm taking the passenger seat and Mercedes sliding into the driver's seat with an instinctive ease. The big engine roared to life as the car took off with incredible speed and a throaty growl. Moments later, they were gone from sight.
***************************************************************
Outside Volgograd
What she'd feared had happened: the meager trays of food had dwindled, then stopped altogether the day before yesterday. It had now been 52 hours and 37 minutes since she had eaten. For once, she wished dearly that her sense of time wasn't quite so exact.
The hunger was a living thing, eating away at her mentally and physically from the inside, as was the chill of her surroundings, which was doing much the same from the outside.
Mac forced herself to struggle to her feet, determined to keep up the regimen she set herself in order to stave off boredom and the cold. One, two, three, four. Turn. One, two, three, four, five, six. Her cell was exactly four paces wide and six paces long. Every hour, unless sleeping, she made herself walk 25 "laps" of her cell. Meager though it was, the exercise was enough to get her muscles stretched, her blood flowing and generate some internal heat. It also helped her keep her wits about her. Each circuit she made, she studied every inch of the cell closely, looking for any weakness.
But the lack of food made her weary, making it more and more difficult to marshal her strength. The lack of nutrition dulled her senses, making her search for a way out increasingly futile.
Her drill done, she dropped to the floor, trying to ignore the slight dizziness in her head. Dammit, she was a Marine and a lawyer. Suck it up and think like one.
But even as she began mentally reviewing what she knew of her cell, a small part of her mind wandered back to the questions that had plagued her from the start: What had happened to Harm and Mercedes? And where on earth was Clayton Webb?
******
Nearby
Same time
Had he been able to talk, Webb could have easily answered Mac's question. He was in a cell himself, icy water dripping slowly on to his battered body. Though his eyes had swollen shut, he knew it was the same chamber of horrors he'd been in from the beginning. He knew it had been some time since his tormentors had left him shackled to the wall, his face pressed into the cold, filthy stone wall, the trickle of water slowly stealing what little warmth remained in his body.
Yes, Clayton Webb, had he known the question, would easily have been able to tell Mac where he was.
He was in Hell.
TBC....
************************************************************************
Two Days Later (December 18)
Outside Saratov, Russia
1920 local
Volkonov pulled his battered sedan to a stop next to the gold sportscar. Harm and CD were already waiting, leaning against the side of the car as Alex approached them.
"This is all I could get without raising suspicion," the Russian officer told them, holding out a manila file folder. The cousins looked at each other. Mercedes nodded, and Harm reached out and took the folder, immediately opening it to read the contents.
Volkonov and CD watched him scan through the papers. While Alex watched his friend with ill-concealed nervousness, Mercedes's gaze was shrewd and assessing. "Well?" she finally asked, several moments later.
Harm looked up at her, tightly controlled anger and buried pain in his eyes. "He was there, in charge of a small patrol squad."
Her voice was sharp, businesslike, but with minimal emotion. "So. What's our next move?"
Instead of answering her, he turned to Alex. "Do you know anything about Tikhomirov's current whereabouts?"
"He has an estate outside Volgograd-- an old *boyars* estate, near one of the river's tributaries. Rumor has it he is there."
Harm nodded, then paused. "Alex... we can't thank you enough for all your help."
"Good luck, my friend," Alex replied, taking Harm's hand in a gesture of farewell, before turning to Mercedes. "It has been interesting, Miss Rabb."
A hint of a wry grin crept across CD's face. "Awww... you're just saying that," she joked, before turning serious. "May fate be kind and luck always be your friend, Alexsandr Constantinovich," she said in Russian, before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
Taking a step back, she turned to Harm and nodded. "Let's go."
Volkonov watched as the cousins climbed into the exotic car, Harm taking the passenger seat and Mercedes sliding into the driver's seat with an instinctive ease. The big engine roared to life as the car took off with incredible speed and a throaty growl. Moments later, they were gone from sight.
***************************************************************
Outside Volgograd
What she'd feared had happened: the meager trays of food had dwindled, then stopped altogether the day before yesterday. It had now been 52 hours and 37 minutes since she had eaten. For once, she wished dearly that her sense of time wasn't quite so exact.
The hunger was a living thing, eating away at her mentally and physically from the inside, as was the chill of her surroundings, which was doing much the same from the outside.
Mac forced herself to struggle to her feet, determined to keep up the regimen she set herself in order to stave off boredom and the cold. One, two, three, four. Turn. One, two, three, four, five, six. Her cell was exactly four paces wide and six paces long. Every hour, unless sleeping, she made herself walk 25 "laps" of her cell. Meager though it was, the exercise was enough to get her muscles stretched, her blood flowing and generate some internal heat. It also helped her keep her wits about her. Each circuit she made, she studied every inch of the cell closely, looking for any weakness.
But the lack of food made her weary, making it more and more difficult to marshal her strength. The lack of nutrition dulled her senses, making her search for a way out increasingly futile.
Her drill done, she dropped to the floor, trying to ignore the slight dizziness in her head. Dammit, she was a Marine and a lawyer. Suck it up and think like one.
But even as she began mentally reviewing what she knew of her cell, a small part of her mind wandered back to the questions that had plagued her from the start: What had happened to Harm and Mercedes? And where on earth was Clayton Webb?
******
Nearby
Same time
Had he been able to talk, Webb could have easily answered Mac's question. He was in a cell himself, icy water dripping slowly on to his battered body. Though his eyes had swollen shut, he knew it was the same chamber of horrors he'd been in from the beginning. He knew it had been some time since his tormentors had left him shackled to the wall, his face pressed into the cold, filthy stone wall, the trickle of water slowly stealing what little warmth remained in his body.
Yes, Clayton Webb, had he known the question, would easily have been able to tell Mac where he was.
He was in Hell.
TBC....