Jet didn’t fight their grip on her arms, even though she could have easily disabled them both and broken the cop’s jaw before they knew what had happened. She saw no point in doing so, at least not yet – the police station had at least forty officers prowling around, so escape would have been impossible.
But the airport raised interesting possibilities. For all its gentrification, Kosovo was at best second world, and her chances at the airport would be better than reasonable if anyone slipped up. They had obviously not been told anything about her capabilities or they’d have never made the mistake of cuffing her hands in front rather than behind her back – an error that she hoped would translate into freedom within the hour – although the truth was that she could have still easily slipped her hands from behind her when seated in whatever vehicle they put her in, given her flexibility. But they didn’t know that, and the rookie mistake told her much about how little they knew about her.
More ominous was the mention of Russia.
Extradition? She didn’t have to work hard to think of sanctions she’d carried out on Russian soil – the hard part was trying to figure out which one she was being charged with. The oligarch’s son? The attorney? One of her victims from her operational days?
And how had the Russians found her? That was the most troubling – the implication that she’d somehow slipped up, made an error that had resulted in her capture.
Although…
If this was about Russia, why had Matt called to tell her that he’d been compromised? Wouldn’t he have said that she’d been blown, not that he had been?
None of it made any sense to her; too many pieces of the puzzle were missing for her to fit it together.
Her transport was a windowless brown van with a security grid between the cargo area and the cabin. The guards helped her climb into the rear and then passed a braided steel cable through her cuff chain and locked it to the steel bench.
The guard who had cuffed her drove in silence as the second watched the mirrors – for what, she couldn’t imagine. She didn’t try to engage them in conversation, there being no point to the effort she could see.
The van bumped along a frontage road and stopped in the red zone at the smaller of the two terminal buildings. The guards got out, unlocked her, and led her into the terminal. Jet, cuffed and subdued, drew curious stares from the few passengers milling around the entrance. Inside, they moved to the far end of the terminal, past ticket counters and retail shops, to a security area, where an armed police officer stood with a bulletproof vest strapped across his chest, his face red from likely early congestive heart failure or high blood pressure caused by chronic alcoholism.
“Here she is,” the driver said, pushing her toward the officer.
“Doesn’t look like she’s going to be much trouble,” he replied, looking Jet up and down. “Although she doesn’t look very happy.”
“Like a pig headed for slaughter,” the driver agreed, and the men laughed. Jet didn’t react. Better that the fat idiot thought she was harmless. If he was chartered with her security, she was as good as free. But then an idea occurred to her, and she gave them a shy smile.
“Is that the look your mother gives you when you screw her? Or do you save it for little boys?” she asked, in passable Albanian.
The guards couldn’t help but chuckle at the anger that flitted across the cop’s face. His eyes bugged out and his expression twisted into an ugly grimace. “Pretty funny, aren’t you? Let’s see how good your sense of humor is when the Russians get here,” he snarled, leaning into her.
“God, don’t you people ever brush your teeth?” she said. “Smells like a cow’s ass.”
The cop reached out and gripped her arm, squeezing so hard she almost cried out. Good. He was fuming, and she’d learned something important: they were waiting for some Russians who hadn’t arrived. That meant she had time. How much, she didn’t know, but from how dumb the cop looked and how easily she’d gleaned that bit of data, it wouldn’t be hard to provoke him again and find out.
“Let’s go, hot pants,” the cop growled, pulling her toward an unmarked gray metal door.
“Hey. You need to sign for her,” the driver said, waving a document.
The cop exhaled angrily, took the guard’s pen, and scrawled a signature and date across the bottom before handing it back to him. “There. Anything else?” he demanded.
The guard tilted his head and eyed them. “You make a lovely couple,” he said, and the pair sauntered off, ribbing each other like schoolboys, laughing now that their job was done.
The cop unbolted the door and pushed Jet through, and then manhandled her down a short hall to a locked room. He fumbled with a key, still gripping her like he was trying to break her arm, and then unlocked it and swung it open.
“Welcome to hell,” he said with an evil grin.
“Can’t be any worse than your breath.”
She thought for a moment he was going to hit her, but he managed with visible effort to get himself under control. “I hope they skin you alive.”
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“You can crap on the floor for all I care.”