Page 2 of Hostage of the Russian
“My house.”
“In foreclosure,” Viktor interjected from his position near the door.
“My car.”
“Not worth what you owe on it,” Kostya responded.
Desperation contorted Hartford’s features as he realized the gravity of his situation. His eyes darted around the warehouse as if seeking escape, but finding none, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Please,” he begged. “I need time. I can work it off…”
“Time,” Kostya repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “You’ve had time, Danny. Months of it while you stole from my family.” He withdrew a pistol from his waistband, the metal gleaming under the harsh lights. “Time’s up.”
Hartford’s breathing quickened, panic setting in. His eyes fixed on the weapon, and something broke inside him, the last vestige of dignity crumbling in the face of mortality.
“My daughter,” he blurted out.
Kostya, who was just about to deliver his final judgment, paused. “What?”
“My daughter,” Hartford repeated frantically. “Azriel. She’s in Chicago. Smart girl. College student. Pre-law at Northwestern.” His words tumbled out faster now, desperation evident in every syllable. “Beautiful, too. Young. Just turned twenty-one.”
Kostya’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, disgust flickering across his features before being replaced by cold calculation. “You would offer your own daughter to save your skin?”
“Not offer,” Hartford backpedaled, sensing disapproval. “An arrangement. A marriage. She’d make a good wife for someone like you. Educated. Could help with legitimate businesses. Generate income.”
For a moment, the warehouse fell silent. Then Kostya threw back his head and laughed, the sound carrying no warmth at all.
“You think I need help finding women?” he asked incredulously. “That I would marry some girl I’ve never met because her father can’t pay his debts?”
Hartford’s desperate eyes fixed on Kostya. “She’s all I have left that’s worth anything.”
The amusement drained from Kostya’s face, replaced by something colder. “And that, Danny, is why you deserve what’s coming. A man who would trade his daughter to save himself deserves no mercy.”
He raised the pistol again, aiming between Hartford’s eyes.
“Wait!” Hartford shrieked. “She doesn’t know anything about me! About what I do! I haven’t spoken to her in years; she ran away. Hates me.” His breathing grew erratic, panic setting in. “But she’s still my flesh and blood. Taking her would hurt me more than killing me.”
Kostya paused, head tilting slightly as he considered Hartford’s words. “You haven’t spoken to her in years, yet you know she’s at Northwestern?”
“I keep tabs on her,” Hartford admitted, desperation making him reckless with information. “From a distance. Know where she lives. Got a scholarship. Works part-time at a coffee shop near campus. Has an apartment off-campus with two roommates.”
Slowly, deliberately, Kostya lowered his weapon. His eyes, typically warm when he was among family or charming women at social functions, had taken on the light, mischievous gleam that his inner circle recognized as a sign of danger. The look that emerged when he found something particularly interesting, or when he’d decided on a course of action that would satisfy his more merciless instincts.
“Tell me more about her,” he instructed, holstering his weapon.
Hartford blinked in confusion. “About Azriel?”
“Is that not what I just asked?” Kostya replied, his voice carrying an edge that made Hartford flinch.
“She’s smart. Top of her class. Pre-law. Quiet, keeps to herself mostly. Stubborn. Independent since she was sixteen.” Hartford spoke quickly, seizing what he perceived as a chance at survival. “Works hard. Never asks for help, even when she should.”
Kostya processed this information as a plan began to form in his mind. Hartford had inadvertently provided the perfect punishment for his betrayal—something that would cause far more suffering than a quick death.
“Where exactly does she live?” Kostya asked, his tone casual as though inquiring about a restaurant recommendation.
Hartford’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d done. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said quickly. “Just kill me.”
A slow, predatory smile spread across Kostya’s face. “Oh, Danny,” he said softly. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to change your mind.” He nodded to Viktor. “Find everything about Azriel Hartford. Where she lives, her schedule, her friends. I want to know what she eats for breakfast by tomorrow.”
