The Master Of Rain

“Yes.”

Lu’s car pulled up and the bodyguards jumped off the running board. Before Field could move, Lu got out and went inside, his men following him. Field began to push open his car door, then checked himself.

His every nerve end screamed at him to do something.

He forced himself to wait. The door opened.

Grigoriev led Natasha down the steps, a hand gripping her arm. She did not look up before she was shoved into the back of the car.

They drove off.

Field registered that there were two bodyguards left behind as he put his foot on the low speed pedal and pulled away from the curb. As he reached the turn, one of the men stepped out into his path, his machine gun leveled at the windshield.

Field stopped and the man came around and tapped his gun against the window. Field wound it down and tried to smile. The sweat was stinging his eyes. “Taking my boy to school. Mon fils a l’ecole.”

The man glowered, his machine gun inches from Field’s face. The second bodyguard had moved to the front of the car, his Thompson aimed through the windshield directly at Alexei.

“I must—”

“Attends, attends,” the Russian said sharply.

Field could see Lu’s car disappearing, and his brain was screaming at him to do something. “My boy. L’ecole est ici, la-bas.”

“Attends!” the Russian barked.

“Mon fils, la-bas.”

“Attends!”

Field took a deep breath. “May I go up and turn?” He forced his revolver between his knees and pointed to a side street.

The man shook his head. “Wait.”

“I must—”

“Nyet!” The man hit Field in the face with his fist, then stepped back, his gun raised. Without lowering the barrel, he turned toward his colleague. They began speaking in Russian.

“What are they saying?” Field whispered.

Alexei was white with shock.

“What are they saying?”

The boy did not answer. Field gripped the handle of his revolver.

The Russians laughed, but the one standing in front of the car was alert, the barrel of his machine gun still pointing at Alexei’s head.

“ ‘Another one for the Happy Times block,’ they said,” Alexei whispered.

“What do they mean?”

“The man has been waiting for his appointment. I do not understand.”

“They have taken her to the Happy Times block?”

“Silence.” The man closest to the window stepped forward. He pointed the muzzle of his gun at Field’s head. “Tais toi.”

They continued speaking to each other in Russian. Field understood the word “Grigoriev,” but nothing else.

“They are talking about when Grigoriev will be back,” Alexei whispered, his head down.

Field’s throat was dry. Bright pinpricks of light swam before his eyes. A kaleidoscope of images: white sheets, red blood, the glint of light on handcuffs, the downward arc of a knife’s blade. He tried to sweep them from his mind. Natalya. Irina. Lena. Natasha.

Natasha. He would force her to dress in the underwear he liked. He would clamp her ankles and wrists to the brass bed. He would look at her. He would take his time. He would hurt her. She would be frightened. She would be wondering where Field was and would not know that he was unable to help her.

He thought of the deep gashes in Lena’s stomach.

He thought of Natalya’s body, twisted in a last, futile attempt to protect herself.

Natasha would be able to do nothing.

She had been a victim ever since leaving Kazan and would die like the others, abandoned and alone.

Geoffrey. How blind Field had been. Truly a fool, imagining as his investigation progressed that he was achieving some mastery of a city where each truth only hid a deeper deceit.