IT WASN’T WORKING. Whatever the Dragon was trying to do, it wasn’t working.
He’d stopped trying to force the cocaine on her after the phone calls. For a moment, Catalina dared to believe he’d forgotten about her. He’d stared at her with vacant eyes, barely saw her, put down his phone and dug out a bag from his closet. Inside the bag were guns, lots of them. He pulled out a mean-looking machine pistol and showed it to her.
“I hope you’re ready for a party,” he said. “I suspect we might have an uninvited guest tonight.”
Who? Catalina thought. The Dragon’s phone calls had been in English. She hadn’t understood them. Staring at the machine pistol, though, she felt a little stirring of hope. Whoever was coming was an enemy of the Dragon. And that made him a friend of hers.
She’d hoped that this new development would make the Dragon forget about her, about the awful things he was planning to do to her. How could he want to hurt her when someone was coming for him?
But apparently the maniac was unconcerned. He put the machine pistol on a dresser, far away from the bed, a million miles from her reach. Then he crossed the room to her. He moved fast, his jaw set. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Whatever he wanted to do now, he wasn’t happy about it.
She watched as he dove into the cocaine on the nightstand. Watched him come up again, swearing, blinking, his wiry beard coated in the white powder. He looked around the room, licked his lips. Shoved her down onto the bed and was on top of her before she knew what he was doing.
He was heavy above her. He crushed her into the bedsheets, pawed at her body. She could feel the handle of the knife digging into her hip and she squirmed beneath him, wriggled away from his hot breath, his tongue.
“Come on, little one,” he told her, raspy. “We might as well play together while we still have time.”
She reached for the knife as he began to kiss her neck. Closed her fingers over the handle and tugged. The knife didn’t move. It was stuck in its scabbard. The Dragon sat up and slapped her.
“Hands off,” he said. “Don’t get frisky, do you hear me? This is my show.”
The slap hurt. Her face stung. Her ears rang and her thoughts swam. Catalina watched the Dragon remove the knife. He held it up so she could see it, the glint of the light on the blade. It was long and curved and awful, and she struggled and shied away. The Dragon sneered at her.
“Behave yourself,” he said. “Behave yourself and this will all be easy.”
He put the knife on the nightstand, beside the cocaine. Inhaled another mountain of the drug and came back to the bed, fumbling with his belt, the zipper on his pants. He was growing frustrated. He wasn’t looking at her.
“Come on,” he said. “Fucking bitch, come on.”
Catalina eyed the knife on the nightstand. It was close. It wasn’t close enough. She wouldn’t reach the nightstand unless she stretched, and even then, her fingers would barely graze the cocaine. She would have to lunge for the knife, and the man was faster, and stronger. She reached anyway, scrabbled with her fingers, squirmed on the bed.
The Dragon swore again. He slapped her again. Curled his lip as she screamed. He was touching himself now, she saw. It wasn’t working.
“Too much cocaine,” he said. “Fucking bitch. Fucking Volovoi. Fuck.”
Catalina felt her head swimming again. Couldn’t focus. The wine probably, and the man above her. The knife lay inches from her grasp. She shifted on the bed as the man struggled and swore. Strained with her fingers and tried to will the weapon closer.