Tate stretched his backpack and took off at a run, sprinting for the far end of the alley. He disappeared out of sight as Anton struggled to his hands and knees.
Fuck. This was worse than getting sacked by a three-hundred pound linebacker. At least in football, he had a helmet. Had Tate been trying to give him a concussion?
Anton stifled a groan, pressing a hand to his forehead. He had to find Tate and make him see reason. They had to get the fuck out of Rossi before they got themselves killed.
A soft sound caught his attention—the sound of a shoe crunching against the pavement.
Tate. Thank God, he’d come to his senses and come back.
Still on all fours, Anton lifted his head—and came face to face with two Soviet patrollers.
They called out a question, scanning the alley as though looking for a threat. They thought Anton was one of them, and that someone had attacked him.
He stared up at them, knowing he was about to be made. The first word he uttered would condemn him. If he fired, he’d bring the whole goddamn Russian compound down on his head. The result was the same no matter what he did.
Fuck it. If he had to go down, the least he could do was try and warn Tate.
“Tate, if you can hear me, run,” Anton screamed.
The eyes of the Soviets widened in realization. They charged, shouting in alarm.
Anton fumbled for his gun, but his head was still woozy.
The butt of a rifle smashed into the side of his face.
6
Bars
Anton woke to a throbbing head and a queasy stomach. Disorientated, he raised his chin and looked around. Where was he? Where was Tate?
The world slid in and out of focus. He squinted and blinked, waiting for his vision to solidify.
The first thing that leapt into view was a beige cinderblock wall. He continued to blink, trying to make sense of it. He couldn’t move. Something confined his wrists and ankles.
He was tied to a chair, he realized. He’d been stripped to the waist. Cold fluorescent light flickered intermittently above him.
Memory crashed back in.
Downtown Rossi. The Craigs.
Tate.
Someone groaned. Anton turned toward the sound. Tied to a chair beside him was Tate, also stripped to the waist. Dried blood stuck to the side of friend’s face.
The beige cinderblock wall before him took on new meaning. His head swiveled as he took in their surroundings. They were in a prison cell. The only way in or out was through a steel door with bars set into the upper half.
The cell had a single cot and a stainless steel toilet. The room smelled like piss and fear. There was dried blood on one wall. More dried blood was on the floor.
“Anton?” Tate’s voice came out raspy. He gagged, his stomach heaving from the blow he’d taken to the head. “Where are we?”
“Jail cell.” Anton gave his bonds an experimental yank. They didn’t budge. The ropes were so tight his right arm tingled with numbness. The ropes on his ankles were just as tight.
That’s when Anton realized his boots were gone. His feet were cold against the cement floor.
“I fucked up.” Tate gave him an anguished look. “You were right. It was a trap. I thought I could set a fire and create a distraction, but they were waiting. As soon as I lit the fuses on the first bottle of bourbon, they were on me.” His voice dripped with shame. “How—how did they find you?”
They’d found him down in the alley like a kicked dog. There was no way to sugarcoat it. “I was still on the ground in the alleyway when they found me.”
“I’m sorry, man. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Anton didn’t know what to say. He didn’t blame Tate. It had been his decision to come to Rossi. They’d both been idiots.
“You okay, man?” The question seemed asinine in light of their situation, but Anton asked it anyway.
“I’m okay. Do you hate me?”
“Nah, man. I don’t hate you.”
Tate dry heaved one last time before at last raising his head.
Anton exchanged a long look with his old friend. Unspoken words hung between them: they were well and truly fucked.
They were prisoners of the KGB. No one was coming for them. No one even knew where they were.
Don’t think like that, Anton admonished himself. They just had to wait for their opening. It had to come. Right?
“Do you know how long we’ve been here?” Tate asked.
“Don’t know.” With no windows into the cell, it was impossible to know if it was day or night.
“We have to get out of here and rescue Mom and Dad.” Tate’s words were hollow. He sounded as scared as Anton felt.
Scanning the room, Anton looked for anything that might be useable as a weapon. He then realized how stupid that was. Even if there was a pile of grenades in front of them, what the hell could they do tied to chairs?
“Tate, man, we gotta get out of these chairs.” Anton pressed his feet to the floor. The legs of his chairs grated loudly against the cement as he attempted to move it. “Can you untie me?” He angled his chair, trying to back it up against Tate’s.
A scream filled the air. It came from nearby—maybe in the cell next to theirs. It went on, and on, and on.
Anton’s mouth went dry. The scream pierced him all the way to the marrow. He wished he’d been able to rush the Russians and die on the barrel of their machine guns.
The scream broke off. The person was babbling now, begging for mercy.
A door slammed. Boots rang sharply on the cement outside their cell. A second later, Anton saw three men march by.
His breath froze in his throat as one of the men paused to look through the bars into their cell. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair. On the breast of his uniform was the KGB patch.
The man locked eyes with Anton. The
