He shook it. Inside, six or seven thumb drives rattled. “Pick one.”
These are the recordings?
“Da.”
The drives were all black but for one red. She wasn’t sure if it mattered which she picked. She wanted to watch the one that exposed the most about his fighting style and tricks, if there were any.
Chances were good the better he thought he fought, the more he’d favor that movie.
“Do you have a favorite?” she asked.
He shrugged.
She hoped his apathy meant all the clips were similar. If his beatings were ritualistic, maybe she could find a pattern. Anticipating his moves could be the difference between escaping, or dying at the hands of a sick freak in an underground cave.
She looked out into the fighting chamber.
No one will ever find me.
She suspected each drive held the final moments of a young woman’s life. It was possible Volkov’s victims were all out there somewhere, alive, too traumatized or frightened to go to the police. But probably not. Volkov had to know his odds of remaining free sank each time he sent a girl home.
Catriona forced another playful smile and reached in to grab one of the black thumb drives, reasoning if the red was an anomaly, it would be less useful to her research. She handed the drive to him and he smiled, rolling it through his fingers before plugging it into the back of the television.
She watched him. He appeared pleased with himself. Relaxed. On a small table next to her chair sat a remote control. Volkov snatched it and hit play.
Catriona pulled her eyes from him and pointed her attention at the screen.
She recognized the room when it appeared. The clip had been edited to include angles from each of the four cameras she’d seen mounted in the corners.
The next shot focused on an Asian woman. Catriona guessed her to be in her early twenties. Her tight-fitting, braless spandex top and leopard tube skirt said hooker. Maybe just stripper. Maybe just a girl on her way to the club. It was hard to tell these days.
Eyes red and swollen from crying, she sobbed, staring at the boxing gloves on her hands. The next shot showed Volkov looking very much like he did now, wearing only wrestling shorts. His body appeared oiled, his skin glistening beneath the lights.
He’ll be hard to grapple if he’s covered in baby oil.
She noticed he wore no gloves.
“Aren’t you going to put gloves on?” asked the girl, as if reading Catriona’s mind.
“I choose not to.”
The angle switched to a camera pointed at Volkov’s face, though there was no cameraman to zoom in on him.
He knows right where to stand for his close up.
On the screen, the corners of Volkov’s mouth pointed down. The playful attitude he’d copped while interacting with Catriona was nowhere to be seen. This Volkov meant business.
Great. My power to encourage the people around me only inspires him to whistle while he kills me.
The girl’s eyebrows raised. “Is that right? I mean I thought whatever I chose you had to—”
“I never said that,” said Volkov off-camera.
Volkov glanced at Catriona and she did her best not to react.
There it was, hint number one.
Don’t choose the gloves.
Most people, when handed gloves and told they were about to fight, would put on the gloves. There was no way for them to know Volkov had no intention of padding his blows.
Volkov’s attention returned to the screen. He must have watched the movie a thousand times, but his expression was as eager as that of a child about to experience his first summer blockbuster.
On the screen, Volkov walked to the bell on the wall and, following a dramatic pause, rang it.
The girl melted to her knees. “I don’t understand. I don’t want to do this.”
Catriona could barely make out the words through her sobs.
Volkov approached her.
“Please. Fight,” he coaxed her.
“I, I don’t—”
He slapped the girl so suddenly and with such force, Catriona sucked in a breath. Volkov looked at her, eager to see her horror. She dropped the hand she’d raised to cover her mouth, angry at herself for giving him what he so clearly wanted.
He paused the movie. “You don’t approve?”
She shrugged and motioned to the screen as if she were dismissing an unproductive employee. “I’m disgusted she didn’t fight back.”
He smiled. “Da. You understand. I knew you would.”
Volkov moved to Catriona and put his hand on her head, stroking her hair once before hitting play again. Catriona’s mouth went dry.
The movie continued that way; the girl crying, Volkov slapping her to the ground and demanding she get back up. At one point she weakly pounded her fists on his chest, which he allowed her to do, his head back as if he were basking in the sun. When her arms grew tired and she stopped, he punched her in the face. She spun like a top and fell to her knees, ending on her back. She didn’t move.
On the screen, Volkov straightened her legs and laid her arms to her side, posing her on the ground. He stood over her, hands in the air, nodding to an audience not there. He made a muscle with his right arm, his fist hovering near his temple. He lined himself up with the girl on the ground and fell on her, leading with his elbow, smashing into her mouth.
The girl awoke with a start, screaming, flipping to her side. Catriona saw her spit teeth to the mat.
It took every ounce of strength to keep herself from covering her own mouth in horror.
The interaction between the two people on the screen grew darker. Volkov tore away the young woman’s clothes. After that,
