Page 19 of My Wild Horse King

“It’s not even about Dad,” she says, clearly lying.

It’s always about Dad. “It doesn’t matter. Listen, I have your number, and I’ll call you when this meeting’s done. Okay?” I don’t wait for her to answer, and I certainly don’t stand around to give her time to sic her whoever-he-is on me again. I pivot on my heel and head for the door.

That’s whensomethingwraps around me, no idea what because I can’t see it, and I’m dragged backward.

My brain tries to make sense of it but can’t. I really have no idea what’s happening. One minute, I’m reaching for the handle of the door, my eyes making contact with Jean’s where she’s holding the uber, and the next, I’m sliding across the floor at a forty-five degree angle, my heels dragging against the marble tile.

“What in the world—” My sputtering’s cut off by, well, itfeelslike a gag, but I can see that there’s nothing there. No one came close enough to even touch me, either.

People all around me are staring, their faces scrunched up, and building security, which had finally drawn close and then backed off when Kris had the guy put me down, is staring at me blankly.

Like me, they have no idea what to do.

One of them picks up a walkie talkie, at least, and he’s muttering something. Another person has their phone out, and they’re recording. Just as quickly as I was whipped back, the phone and walkie talkie fly out of the people’s hands and smash simultaneously into the wall.

“No recordings,” the stocky man near Mirdza says. “This is a private issue.”

Jean has rushed through the front door, and she’s staring at me, wide-eyed.

I lift one hand and wave her off, hoping they’ll muddle through the meeting without me, because it’s looking less and less like I’m going to successfully break away. But I’m much more alarmed than before. I’m really not sure what exactly Kris has gotten herself into, and maybe she’s not wrong. Maybe it reallyislife and death if she’s wrapped up with someone who has the kind of technology that can drag people through lobbies without even touching them.

A moment later, I’m being pulled through the back doors into the stairwell, and after Kris and her posse have followed me, instead of being dragged farther, I’m lifted into the air.

I’m floating.

Mid air.

It’s like I’m in the middle of some kind of strange sci-fi movie.

That’s when I realize the gag’s gone. “What on earth is happening?”

“I’ll explain all of it,” Kris says. “But as you may finally believe, it’s going to be a bit of a fantastic tale, and it would be better if we weren’t explaining it in a public place.”

My mind’s spinning like a pinwheel. The Black Rock meeting is already a disaster. I have to assume they won’t buy any shares at all. And if they don’t purchase any. . . The bigger issue is, who might they tell that we’re unreliable and disorganized? The lead not making it to the very first meeting is bad.

Very bad.

But what on earth is happening with Kristiana? If she really is in physical danger. . .I feel terribly guilty for dodging her calls. If I weren’t such a lousy brother, we might not have wound up here.

“Alright,” I say. “Release me, and I’ll go with you.”

Kris narrows her eyes. “Do you mean it?”

“You’ve made your point,” I say. “Something strange is clearly going on, and if you insist that it can’t wait for my Black Rock meeting to happen first, well. I’ll follow you and hear you out right.” Not that I have much choice, apparently.

In that very moment, the doors to the stairs burst open, and an already overcrowded landing area is crammed tighter when two armed officers shove through, pointing their guns at Kristiana’s tall attack dog and the big, burly one. Those are the two I’d aim at, too, if I had a gun. The pretty boy with Adriana looks. . .non-threatening, like he used to be a Calvin Klein model and hasn’t found his calling in life as an adult yet.

“Identification,” the first officer says. “Now.”

Kristiana’s dark-haired body guard man holds up one hand. “I have to reach into my pocket for it. Unlike you, I’m not armed. So don’t be alarmed.”

I doubt his Russian accent reassures them, but after the two officers exchange a glance, the one with a gun on tall-dark-and-Russian nods.

He fishes out a passport—bright red and gold, clearly Russian—and hands it over. “This woman is my wife, and she is that man’s sister.”

So he is Aleksandr—I think that was his name.

The first officer lowers his gun to take the passport, reads it, or at least tries, and says, “Alessander Volonsy.” I recall from the wedding invitation that it was Aleksandr Volkonsky, but it’s probably close enough for an American.

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