CHAPTER XVI

"To the left," Ivan calmly directed his partner, the Cuban trying to regain the television signal by moving around the rabbit ears. "No, no, more to the right."

Ismael sighed, his brow furrowed as he maneuvered the metal rods around. God, ever since the switch to digital television, the signal had been infuriatingly difficult to keep, even with the digital converter box. The man really needed to get new antennas or maybe even a new TV, but that wasn't ever going to happen.

Really, Ivan spent so much to keep the hotel and the basement rooms in tip-top furnished shape, while the rest of his home was practically in shambles. The pipe system throughout the house was such a mess that he was always replacing it, tossing the rusted parts out back.

Finally, the antennas picked up the signal again and the Cuban plopped back down on the ratty sofa, the only source of light in the room coming from the TV. As Ivan flipped through the channels, his partner asked, "So, when are you planning to reprogram Toris?"

"Later," the Russian answered, his eyes focused on the screen. "I am sure he heard Metyu's shrieks, so he must be frightened. I will deal with him later; let him sweat it out, as you say?"

Nodding, Ismael propped his elbow up on the couch's arm, playing with his black dreads. To Ivan, sex was only about power and punishment. That was what he got off on: control. Dominating someone, hearing their protests as they writhed beneath him, it was ecstasy to the man. He used sex for coercion, for cash when he exploited others, but never for love.

Ismael knew well enough what it meant to be one of the Russian's fuck buddies, though he faintly wanted more than that. But the other man would never care, would never feel anything but a friendly partnership with the Cuban. Sometimes, he was convinced that the Russian just didn't feel at all. And yet, Ivan had always been there for him since he walked into his life.

Just a decade ago, the Cuban had been living on the streets, doing all sorts of drugs as he sold his body to pay for them. The Russian took him in and paid for rehab, the medical complications, just everything. So he owed Ivan, even if that meant taking part in the human trafficking ring. Hell, he'd already been a prostitute himself, so it wasn't like the scene was anything new to him. The only difference was that he was working behind the scenes instead of the streets.

The Russian stopped on a local news channel, calmly reclining until the reporter's words caught his attention. "An officer was murdered tonight by a receptionist at the Sunflower Hotel, where a human trafficking ring has just been uncovered."

"…Shit," Ismael muttered, their operation exposed. He glanced over at Ivan, who was attentively watching the news report with unblinking violet eyes.

"The police are looking for two men: Ivan Braginski and Ismael Fernández." Their photos appeared on the television screen. "They are allegedly residing in Braginski's home with the two remaining victims."

"Thank you, Barbara," the newscaster cut in. "Now, you won't believe how the police actually got the tip on this ring-"

When the cable suddenly cut out again and the room went black, the Russian shouted at Ismael to get the signal back. Immediately jumping up from the couch, the dark-skinned man rushed over to the television and swiveled the rabbit ears around. He had never heard Ivan raise his voice before, and that worried him. The circumstances were dire as the set's screen stayed black, refusing to pick up the signal again. It was times like these that Ismael wished television was still analog, blaring static as black and white stripes dancing all over the screen like a vicious blizzard. At least then he could tell whether what he was doing was working.

"Forget it," Ivan demanded, standing up from the sofa as he regained his equanimity. "We do not have much time before they arrive."

"I already put the van out back earlier," Ismael informed him, turning off the faulty television. "We can just gather up Matt and Toris and head on out."

A sudden blaring of sirens pricked their ears, followed by the gritty sound of several cars pulling up to the curb. They did not turn on their sirens until the last moment, the Russian thought, frowning slightly. It was a smart move by the police, and now escaping without getting caught was going to be even more difficult.

Multiple sets of feet hurriedly pounded on the sidewalk until they reached the front door, which many fists brutally pounded. "This is the NYPD! Open up!"

Knowing they would enter whether he answered the door or not, Ivan gave his partner a one-finger beckoning to follow him into the basement. Ismael obeyed, running down the stairs to get a chair to lodge the doorknob in place as the Russian put the key in the lock.

"I will take care of Metyu and you will take care of Toris, da?"

"Affirmative," the Cuban obeyed, turning off the light at the bottom of the stairs so that the cops wouldn't immediately realize their location. They were clothed in darkness, but their eyes would adjust, and they'd be under the light of the moon in just a little bit.

"Move quickly," Ivan ordered as the sound of wood cracking reverberated through the walls from the upper floor.

. . .

"Just stop here," Alfred told the cab driver, the taxi suddenly braking at the start of the designated street. Fishing the appropriate amount of cash out of his pocket according to the taximeter, the American paid the fare and stepped out of the cab. "Thank you."

"Whatever," Lovino muttered, driving off as soon as the backseat door had closed. Someday, he would get a normal customer, or at least he hoped so.

Wasting no time watching the taxi take off, Alfred ran down the street, following the faint red and blue lights flashing. Once he reached the house closest to the Braginski residence, he saw the officers break down the front door and rush inside. He wanted to run right in with them, but the cops would probably lock him in one of the police cars to keep him on the sidelines, claiming it was too dangerous or some shit like that.

It was then that Alfred realized all of the policemen had gone inside at the same time. What the hell were they thinking? They needed people to scour outside the house in case the guy had some secret passageway or something!

Cutting through the neighbor's grass to kill any chance of being spotted, the American ran into the sparse area of trees behind the structures. He stayed close enough to see the house, barely shrouded by the trees separating Ivan's property from his neighbors'. In his haste, Alfred tripped over what felt like a root, falling flat on his face.

"Augh," he muttered, rubbing his dirtied cheek before turning his attention to the culprit, a rusted water pipe. Surprised, Al picked up the metal, examining it. As he looked around, he realized there were a lot of pipe parts just lying about.

Alfred glanced back to Ivan's house, reminding himself to stay on task. He couldn't be distracted for even a second as the clock ticked down.

Noticing the white van parked in the back, the American trudged closer, the water pipe still in his hand. This had to be the getaway vehicle…and the car that had taken his Matthew away. The police were still inside, so if the ringleader came out soon with Matt and Toris, no one else would be around to stop him…

He moved to the van, trying to peer through the windows, but they were tinted. Unwilling to admit defeat, Alfred peered through the driver's window, confirming that no one was inside the car.

His breathing hastening, Al leaned against the side of the vehicle facing the trees, the water pipe gripped tightly to his chest. Frightened like never before as his legs trembled, the situation fully hit him.

He could die. Matthew could die. He could die before Matthew was saved, and Matthew could die before he was saved. Matthew could already be dead.

No, he couldn't afford to think like that. He just couldn't.

But it could be true. It could…Matthew could…

Don't think, don't you dare think-

Matthew is dead.

The thought ricocheted throughout his mind, stirring up all of his memories of the past month and a half. The recollection of the Canadian lying miserably on the couch suddenly resurfaced, the boy begging to be used as his feelings of worthlessness only grew. Matthew had claimed Toris was dead, but Alfred had answered

"You don't know that…" Al assured to himself, breaking through his fear and helplessness. "You don't know that. You said you'd start life all over with him, and God damn it, that's what you're going to do."

His determination restored, the American lay in wait behind the van. I won't believe you're dead until I see it myself. I have to cling to this hope that you're still alive. I have to.

. . .

Matthew woke abruptly as the harsh lights in the ceiling flooded the whole room. "Wh-What?" he uttered, gazing with squinted eyes at the Russian standing in the doorway.

"Get dressed," Ivan ordered, pulling a rag and duct tape out of his trench coat. As the cloth was stuffed into his mouth, which was then taped shut, Matthew looked to the man in confusion, still half-awake. "We are leaving now, so get dressed."

Pounding had begun on the basement door, and Ivan refused to wait any longer for the Canadian to fully wake up, pulling the boy's sweatshirt over his head. "Just pick up the rest of your clothes and bring them with you. You can finish in the van. Now get off the bed."

Sensing the Russian's urgency, although not sure what was going on, Matthew quickly stepped off the bed, his face contorting as the movement exacerbated the burning ache in his backside. Tears came to his violet eyes, but he gathered up his clothes as told.

The hammering augmenting, Ivan grabbed his pet's arm, trying to tow him into the hallway. When the boy barely budged, Ivan glanced behind him to find Matthew's other arm wrapped around a bedpost, the clothes strewn again on carpet.

The police must be here, the Canadian thought, his mind fully functioning now. I can't leave with him. I can't!

"Let go, or I will kill you," the Russian threatened, his arctic eyes daring Matthew to disobey him.

Knowing how fast the man could pull out a gun and send a bullet into someone's head, Matt reluctantly loosened his hold in his fear. Ivan swept the boy into his arms, rushing out of the room right after his partner as a deafening crash sounded. The heavy footfalls of law enforcement reverberated in the relit hallway, along with their heated shouts as they ran after the Russian.

Ivan grimaced, sprinting down the corridor at top speed. As the walls narrowed, the man bent his arms so that Matthew could fit. The Canadian began to cry as the curved position put more strain on his sore anus, swearing the tears were reopening.

"If you keep crying, you could choke on the rag," Ivan warned him, too focused on escape to savor the boy's muffled sobs.

He finally reached the foot of the cellar steps on the opposite side of the basement, Ismael and Toris having arrived just seconds before. Fumbling with the key for a second, the Cuban quickly undid the lock on the metal hatch and forced the doors open into the night. Ivan ran out with Matthew still in his arms, gently placing the boy onto the gravel.

Just as Ismael tried to push Toris out after them, his foot slipped and the key flew out of his hands. The Russian caught it in midair as his partner fell to the bottom of the stairs, the sound of pounding feet coming closer.

It was too late to retrieve Ismael, but his other pet was within reach. In an attempt to salvage what little he could from the situation, Ivan tried to grab Toris's arm and drag him out of the hatch. But when the first few pairs of police shoes appeared below in the limited moonlight, he realized it would be futile. Scowling, the Russian slapped the metal doors down, locking them in place.

Fists beat upon the hatch, but Ivan knew the police would soon give up and come around from the front, so he had to move fast. He looked to Matthew beside him, clad only in his red sweatshirt as he wept from the pain in his backside, almost numb to the gravel cutting into his knees. Too much of his business had been lost tonight, and he wasn't about to lose his last remaining whore.

"Move," he demanded, yanking the Canadian up from the ground by his tousled locks. Matt's protests were muted by the gag as Ivan dragged him along, each step intensifying the ache in his tender muscle.

No, Matthew thought, the tears flowing freely. Just let me go! Let go!

The Russian pulled the car keys out of his pocket, cursing to himself in his native language as he pressed the "unlock" button and nothing happened. Figuring the battery must have died, he walked around the other side of the van to manually unlock the doors.

"ARGHHH!" Alfred screamed as the ringleader rounded the corner of the vehicle, swinging the water pipe like a bat to smack the bastard's face. Having less than a second to react, Ivan let go of Matthew and grabbed the pipe inches before his nose, his wintry eyes wide with surprise.

Shit! Al thought, his calves quaking slightly as the man stared at him with murderous intensity. Shit, shit, shit!

"…You must be Metyu's little boyfriend," the Russian stated, faintly recognizing him from his pet's key ring. Wrenching the water pipe out and to the ground, Ivan ruthlessly clasped his hands around the boy's neck and tackled him to the gravel. "You are the filthy American that sullied my pet."

Alfred choked and gasped, cold fingernails digging into his neck. Oh, how much he wanted to shout the same thing as the bastard strangling him, that he was the one who sullied Matt, but his airway was too tight. Trying to force the fingers away, he soon gave up on that and threw punches, barely brushing the man's face.

Refusing to just sit back and watch, Matthew scrambled toward the water pipe, ignoring the shooting twinge running up his spine.

"How dare you. How dare you corrupt my pet, you filthy-"

Ivan's words cut off as the Canadian struck the back of his head with the water pipe, loosening his grip on Al's neck as he fell unconscious. Gasping for air, Alfred coughed and hacked as he shimmied out from under the man, his lips reverting to their flesh tone.

Unable to fathom what just happened, Matthew let the pipe fall from his hand in shock. He instinctively tore off the duct tape and spit out the cloth to improve his breathing, just staring at the fallen Russian in disbelief.

"M-Matt," Alfred choked out, catching the boy's attention. Tears pooling in his violet eyes, Matthew winced as he staggered over to his lover, collapsing onto his lap. The Canadian sobbed into that comforting chest, relieved and hurting all at the same time.

Stroking his lover's locks, Al soothed, "Matt, it- it's okay now. It's okay."

Thank God, the American thought, thank God he's alive.

(A/N: I'm planning for about two more chapters after this one, but I tend to write chapters longer than I imagined them in my head. All I can say for sure is that the story is not over yet, but it is close to its end. See you next week!)