She edged to a nearby doorway and twisted the knob. Inside was a Spartan bedroom with lace curtains over the window. Jet moved to the edge and peered at the intersection, which thankfully was empty; the commotion further up the block had remained there, at least for now. With a final look to confirm that nobody was on the sidewalk, she returned to the hall and made her way down the stairs to the ground floor. After a momentary debate over which door to exit through, she went for the rear of the house, figuring that she’d have more options than if she stepped out onto the front porch.
The door opened with a clatter and she cringed – she’d banged a ceramic bowl half-filled with milk, set out for a cat. She ignored the noise and moved down the steps, and was rounding the corner of the building when a male voice spoke from behind her.
“I figured you’d choose the back. Put your hands in the air. You’re under arrest.”
She slowly raised her hands and turned to face the speaker, a middle-aged man with a light sheen of moisture on his forehead. But for his discomfiture, she noted that the pistol in his hand was rock steady.
“I’m unarmed,” she said. “Why are you arresting me? I’ve done nothing wrong. What’s the charge?”
The man’s lips pulled into a twisted smile. “Do you always try to escape across your neighbor’s rooftops? We’ll start with trespassing. As to the rest, you’ll find out soon enough.”
“I–”
“Shut up and do as you’re told. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Don’t piss me off.”
Another figure appeared in the side walkway, also holding a revolver, and lowered it when he saw Jet with her hands above her shoulders.
“Cuff her,” the man behind her growled, and the newcomer nodded and approached, reaching into his pocket for his handcuffs as he replaced his weapon in his shoulder holster. Jet eyed him neutrally as she assessed whether she could disable him and get his gun before the other cop could shoot, but decided it was too risky. Instead she slowly lowered her arms, palms up, so he could take her into custody.
Chapter 11
Rumyantsevo, Russia
Streaks of moisture ran like sweat down the bare concrete walls of the cell in Rumyantsevo prison, where one of Yulia and Taras’s accomplices sat on the cold floor, awaiting his turn with the facility’s infamous interrogation group. Following their arrest, they’d been separated, and he expected that the Russians were working on each of them, trying to glean information.
He knew they couldn’t expect any leniency. Attempting to buy missiles on the black market for whatever purpose would be dealt with swiftly and harshly. If he’d any doubt that their situation was dire, that had been dispelled when they’d been incarcerated at one of the most notoriously brutal prisons in Russia, pending a trial that would be little more than show.
A guard opened the door, and a short man in an ill-fitting black suit peered over a pair of steel-rimmed square spectacles at him before entering. He carried a folding chair in one hand and a small voice recorder in the other. The guard closed the door, remaining inside the cell, and the man walked over to where the prisoner was struggling to his feet.
“Evgeny Petrov, you know why you are here: high crimes against the Russian people,” the little man declared in a surprisingly deep voice. “I am Inspector Savenkov. I will be handling your interrogation, which will either be a simple, straightforward affair, or a nightmare straight out of hell, depending on how you respond – or don’t.”
“I don’t…”
“Silence!” Savenkov spat, and then unfolded the chair and lowered himself heavily into it. “You will speak only when I allow it. You will answer direct questions when I give you permission. Your role in this misadventure is already well established. Your colleagues have been more than forthcoming, so this is nothing more than a formality, to give you the opportunity to cooperate. If you don’t, I don’t personally care, because you will be sentenced to a life in prison – a short life, I might add.”
Evgeny waited, his legs weak from hunger and fear, barely managing to stand without collapsing. Savenkov removed his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth handkerchief before perching them back on his nose and scrutinizing the prisoner. Seconds ticked by, and when he finally spoke, his voice was soft.
“You were attempting to purchase missiles. We know that you represent a faction that is working on behalf of the pro-Ukrainian administration. We know everything. There is no reason to hold anything back. The others have already confessed.”
Evgeny tried to simulate confusion. He’d thought through his story, and there was no way to prove that he wasn’t working with the pro-Russian separatists. “No. We aren’t pro-government at all! We’re part of the insurgent group working against the illegitimate Ukrainian administration. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“That’s not what they admitted to. Your lies will do you no good.”