“Sorry. I think it, I say it. Anyway, judging from the scent of steel-belted radial, I’m guessing we’re either spooning the Michelin Man or we’re locked in the trunk of a car.”
Heat detected neither motion nor an engine idling. Then she tried to envision the space as best she could with no light. “Do you know if these cars have inside trunk releases?”
“I don’t. Not sure whether French safety regulations mandate them or not,” he said.
“Let’s feel around for anything like a lever we can pull. Spare me the jokes, please.” They both tried to move their hands but were snagged. “Rook. Are we handcuffed to each other?”
He didn’t answer but paused. Then he gave her cuffs a jerk. “Awesome.”
She ignored him and ran her fingers over her wrists to assess the situation. “Feels like the chain of my cuffs is looped through the chain of yours. Is that biting into your skin?”
“A little, but not so bad. I had actually fantasized about a furry number with some leopard print, but I’ll take it.”
“Shh, listen.”
From outside came the sound of a car slowly approaching over gravel and squeaking to a halt. They heard footsteps and muffled voices then the chirp of a remote followed by the thunk of the latch popping. The sudden rush of fresh air smelled like grass and woods. Hands reached in to unlock their cuffs, and they got hoisted out by the same men who had captured them.
Standing on unsteady legs, Heat shielded her eyes from the high beams of the Mercedes and tried to build an escape plan. Rook got set down beside her and rubbed his wrists. She could sense him making calculations, too.
It didn’t look promising. Only two of them, unarmed and weakened by their injections, in some unknown woodland at night, versus four brawny thugs who had already demonstrated pro skills and were also probably carrying. Then there were however many more stood by in that idling car. Nikki waited there, inhaling the BO and cheap cologne of her captors, and decided to ride it out, hoping an opportunity would present itself—and that this wasn’t the same crew that handled Tyler Wynn.
She flashed a be-cool palm at Rook, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment. Then both turned their attention as the passenger door of the Mercedes opened and another big fella got out. This one opened the back door for a shorter, thickset man in a snap-brim cap who moved around to stand in silhouette before the headlights while his bodyguard waited a yard to the side. The man removed his cap and said, “You wanted to talk to me, Boy-O?”
“Oh. My. God,” said Rook. “Anatoly!”
The man in the headlights took a step forward with his arms wide, and Rook rushed toward him, which made Heat tense up, but nobody tried to stop him. The two men embraced, unleashing a volley of back-clapping, laughing, and saying, “You dog” and “No, you dog,” repeatedly to each other.
When the effusiveness of their reunion settled down, Rook called out, “Nikki, it’s Anatoly. See? He really does know me.” He put an arm around the other man’s shoulder. “Come on, there’s someone I want to introduce you to. This is—”
“Nikki Heat, yes, I know.”
“Course you do,” said Rook. “Nikki, say hi to my old friend, Anatoly Kije.”
The Russian extended a hand that felt callused to her shake. The Mercedes driver killed the engine and dialed down to parking lights, and as her eyes adjusted, Heat got a better look at Kije. He had the squat, blocky physique and weathered bulldog face that would have fit well on the reviewing stand beside Brezhnev at a May Day Parade in Red Square. His hair, unnaturally black for a man his age, was fronted by a jelly roll lacquered by enough spray that his hat had not made a dent. Under a coarse hedge of artificially black brows his eyes were playful, those of a perennial ladies’ man. Nikki had seen many guys like him in the States, but instead of snatching people off city streets they installed custom pools and stone decks on Long Island and in Jersey. She wondered, did they also clean carpets?