MOSCOW: ELEVEN MONTHS AGO

Ryan watched people walk by. They were free. They had choices. They could go where they wanted, do what they wanted, love who they wanted. He lowered his eyes to his coffee cup. One finger was looped in the handle and the dark liquid was to the top, rippling from the breeze passing through the open café. It had gone cold without him drink a drop. He ordered it so his guards would leave him alone and let him sit. He didn't look up when the waitress approached.

She spoke to him in Russian, not that he understood her. He started to answer but the man behind him answered first. She left, taking with her any hope of Ryan slipping her the note he'd jotted on the napkin. Ryan didn't look back at his guards. He wished they were there to protect him, but they weren't. Chrissie had told them to use whatever force was necessary to prevent him from asking for help or telling the police he had been kidnapped. But, Chrissie always told Ryan with a smile, he was free to go wherever he wanted, so long as he didn't make friends with anyone, talk to anyone, and left when they told him to.

He stood, dropping the napkin with the note on the table and weighing it down with a cup. He dug in his pocket and dropped the change he owed for the coffee. Then he headed toward the limousine parked a block down. He was aware that one of the guards followed. He didn't look back. He was sure the other guard was searching the contents of the table to make sure he hadn't left any notes for help. He'd find the one Ryan had. It was going to be a bad night. Again.

Ryan sat at the window, staring out at the world. He heard footsteps tromping down the hall – she was coming. Ryan drew a breath, bracing for it. Chrissie burst into the room with the guards right behind. She stopped in front of him, thrusting the napkin in his face: PLEASE HELP ME. MY NAME IS RYAN WOLFE. I AM MIAMI POLICEMAN, FROM MIAMI, FLORIDA. PLEASE CONTACT THEM.

"How many times do we have to go over this? It's been a year, Ryan. No one is coming for you. You're my husband and—"

"I am not your husband!" Ryan snarled at her.

She grabbed his chin, looking in his eyes. "You are my husband. I have the papers to prove it."

"I never signed it."

"An X works too."

"I AM NOT YOUR HUSBAND!"

Chrissie let go, flicking her nails against his skin. They had a harder time cutting his face since Ryan had let a beard grow. It hid the bruises and cuts she gave him on a weekly basis.

"What am I going to do to you?"

Ryan looked away. 'To you.' He drew in a breath and—

Her fist slammed his head against the wall and then she was punching and kicking him. He tried to defend himself. The guards charged in and held him down, letting her do damage to the man she claimed to love. Today's beating was short lived – she stopped when his lip started bleeding today.

Now came the worst part…

Chrissie moved close, running her hand down his face.

"My poor baby. You just won't let me teach you how to be a good husband, will you?"

Ryan didn't answer.

"How about a good lover? Have you improved any today?"

Ryan tried to pull back when her hand slid down around his crotch. He felt nauseous.

"Handcuff him," she ordered.

Ryan tried to fight as they drug him to the bed, pushed him down and handcuffed him. The guards left the room. Chrissie climbed onto the bed and began stripping him. He didn't bother begging her to stop – it had never worked. Ryan closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and prepared to be violently raped.

With the bed sheet pulled up to his neck and wrapped tightly around him, Ryan stared out the window at the sky. The door opened – the maid was coming in. He didn't move. She said something in Russian. The guard told her something. She moved around the room, out of his sight.

He hurt too much to even get out of bed. Chrissie had left welts and bleeding cuts all over his body, she had used sadistic sex toys to make him scream, laughing when he did. She had gone again and again, each time pausing to take a hit of coke. She tried to get him to sniff some but when he bit her hand for it, she didn't try again.

The maid came into view. He had never seen her before. She must be the replacement for Alted – she had been caught stealing drugs and when she came to work that morning, during breakfast, Chrissie shot her. And then went on like nothing had happened. Ryan had grown accustomed to seeing that kind of won ton violence from Chrissie so he also acted like nothing had happened. Alted had never done anything for him any way.

This young woman caught him watching her and smiled.

"Hello," she said with a smile.

Ryan looked away.

She came over to the bed to collect the trashcan and knelt down to pick something up. He looked down when she slowly lifted the napkin that had been the switch for Ryan's abuse and torture. She was reading it. Ryan looked away. The help didn't hurt or help him. For the first three months he tried to ask for their help, but they always walked away or gave his notes to Chrissie.

She looked up at him. His eyes met hers briefly. When he looked away she reached out, laying a gentle hand on his arm. He looked back in her eyes and she nodded. Ryan stared at her. Was she saying what he thought she was saying? He knew the answer when she tucked the note into her shirt, under her bra, and went on cleaning the room.

He watched her, but did nothing else. If she was going to help, he didn't want to give her away and get her killed.