Page 2 of Kristoff

“More light!” he yells over his shoulder and the bulb over me illuminates. I blink several times, it’s too much at first, but slowly I adjust, and I can see him more clearly. A deep scar runs across his chin, down his neck. I’ve heard about that scar. How he got it. I swallow hard. This isn’t a little game for ransom.

Fear floods my stomach, but I manage not to whimper when he increases his hold on me. Showing him my fear, letting him see how scared I really am will only fuel him. Monsters like him feed on it.

“Resemblance is too close.” He sneers at me, and I swallow back a smartass retort. My wit isn’t going to help me now. Not with Andrei Dowidoff. This man has no sense of humor. At least not the usual kind. His idea of a good time is skinning a man alive to see how long he’ll stay conscious.

The stories I’ve heard are enough to keep my mouth shut.

“I’m not Danuta,” I say again.

“I would think a CIA suka like you would have better tricks than lying about your name.” He lets go of my chin only to pat my cheek. “But we’ll see. I can easily give you an injection to make you talk. You’ll tell me everything I need to know, and you’ll be punished for your lies.”

The way he says the wordpunishedmakes my skin crawl. It’s not like when I usually hear the word. There’s no excitement, just raw disgust.

“I’m not Danuta. I swear it.” I jerk against my binds, but all that happens is I make him laugh. “Check my ID. It’s in my pants.” I look around the cell. “Where are my pants?”

“We did. All of your clothing and that little bag you had were inspected. You carried no ID.” He stands over me now, his hands on his hips.

I had my wallet. Didn’t I? I had money to pay for the coffee. Shit. I had grabbed the cash from my pocket. I must have left my wallet in my apartment.

“Even if you had it - IDs can be forged,” he says.

He’s right of course. How many IDs had I seen in my sister’s briefcase over the years? She’s been too many different people for me to remember. I have to convince him I’m not her. That he’s got the wrong girl and somehow let me go.

“I’m a journalist,” I blurt out. “I’m not Danuta. I’m not working with the CIA. I’m writing a story.” On him, but he doesn’t need to know that. I didn’t come to England looking to do an in-person interview.

“You disappoint me,” he says, reaching behind him. Producing a knife, I assume he had strapped to his belt, he holds it up for me to see clearly. The blade is wide and jagged. I have no doubt of the sharpness. Again, I try to jerk free, but nothing happens. The ropes dig into my wrists, but I don’t put any more room between us.

Pressing the cold steel blade against my throat, he brings his face closer to mine. “I should slice you, from one ear to the other.” His breath is heavy with cigar stench, and spittle lands on my chin when he gives his threat. “Maybe I cut you from chin to cunt, instead.” He drags the blade to my chin, nicking me with the tip. I clench my jaw but don’t make a sound. Any movement could make the knife cut deeper - and the asshole doesn’t need my help in hurting me.

“I’m not the woman you’re looking for,” I say again, softer, avoiding his eyes out of fear that I’ll start whimpering like the pussy he probably thinks I am. I’m not trained for this. I can only go on what I remember my sister telling me of her training, little bits and pieces of things I overheard her talking about with her partner when she thought I wasn’t listening.

But she never went over what to do if kidnapped by a high-profile Russian sex trafficker.

He drags the knife over my collarbone to my shoulder. “How is it you look like her then, hmmm?” He doesn’t let me answer, just stabs the knife into the fleshy part of my shoulder.

I can’t keep quiet now, the pain is blinding and quick. I scream out, a ragged sound. Tears form and fall down my cheeks. He pulls the knife out and presses it to my skin, a new spot, a new threat. Blood dribbles down my arm, droplets hit my thigh.

“I’m not Danuta!” I yell in his face.

He captures my chin with his free hand and turns my head until I can see his knife poised at my shoulder again.

“I swear it. I’m not her,” I whisper this time. “Please. I’m not her.” I plead in my mind for him to believe me. Because I’m not her.

“Tell me then. Tell me how you have her eyes, her hair, tell me.” I can’t see his expression. My eyes are focused on the knife, on the wound he’s already created. I can’t answer him.

“What do you think, Kristoff? Hmmm? Should we dose her with truth serum? Give her to the men? Maybe a dozen or so cocks shoved in her cunt and ass will help her speak?”

“It’s worked before,” the man from the doorway speaks. His accent isn’t as thick, his voice not as heavy, but just as full of authority. He has a hint of control in his tone, unlike Andrei.

“Answer me,suka.”

“I’m not her. My name is Magdalena,” I try again, sniffling and holding as still as I can manage.

He shakes his head like I’ve disappointed him again. Slowly, with purpose, he pushes the knife into my shoulder. It’s worse this way than the stab. I scream, cry out as more of the blade disappears into my shoulder. I try to move, try to pull away, but all that happens is a larger gash.

“I need more than that,” he says, starting to drag the knife toward me. He’ll flay my shoulder open if he keeps it up.

“I’m a freelance journalist. I’m writing a story on sex traffickers,” I cry out when he twists the knife. “I swear I’m not with the US government or any government.”

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