The two guards hustled Georgia into the farmhouse. They stripped off her coat, her fisherman’s sweater, and her boots. They found her cell phone and her baby Glock right away, as well as the throw-down in her ankle holster. Georgia tried to concentrate on her surroundings, looking for a way to escape, but she was now wearing just a tank top, jeans, and socks, which were soaked through. Although the kitchen was warm, its heat seemed to mock how cold she was, and she couldn’t stop shivering.
The men cuffed her hands behind her back, tied her to a kitchen chair, and stuffed a gag in her mouth. Then they congratulated themselves with shots of vodka. They talked in Russian, but one rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and laughed, all the while throwing lewd grins at Georgia. The other, a dopey smile on his face, thumped his glass on the table whenever he wanted another shot. Georgia didn’t need a translator.
Someone with a heavy tread thumped down the stairs.
“Chto proishodit?” a sandpapery voice called out. Georgia knew that voice. The guards quieted, and a moment later Zoya came into the kitchen. When she spotted Georgia, she halted midstep. At least Georgia had the satisfaction of seeing the woman’s jaw drop.
“You!” Zoya’s eyes narrowed to slits.
Georgia didn’t answer. The guards exchanged worried glances. Evidently they were afraid of the woman.
Zoya folded her arms, and her expression went flat. She stared at Georgia for a long moment. Then she said in clear English, “Put in dead girl’s room.”
Georgia flinched. Had that been Savannah’s room?
* * *
Great PI she was, Georgia thought after they dragged her upstairs, threw her into a bedroom, and locked the door. Unspeakable things were happening in this place, and she was powerless to do anything about them. She hadn’t seen her sister and had no reason to think she was at the farmhouse. Savannah could be anywhere: downtown, uptown, in the suburbs, in a ditch. She had no way of knowing if her call to the Russians went through, either. It was possible the cavalry wouldn’t come. She had screwed up. She wouldn’t make it out alive.
It was late, but a silver moon threw luminous stripes across the room. Bars hugged the windows, and the double lock on the door was out of reach, since her hands were cuffed. The guards had, however, taken the gag out of her mouth, believing, apparently, that she wasn’t the type to scream. They were right. At first she thought she might be able to work the cuffs off, but she couldn’t, and even if she could, she had nothing to help her pick the lock.
She lay on the bed on her side and let out a dejected sigh. She must have dozed off, because the moonlight was weaker and the stripes had disappeared when she opened her eyes. A quiet hiss was coming from across the room. Was it the heat flowing through a vent? She squeezed her eyes shut to focus. The hissing stopped. Then it started again, and she realized that was what woke her. She rolled toward the sound. The bedsprings squeaked.
The hissing stopped abruptly, and a tiny voice whispered. “Hey, is anyone there?”
Instantly alert, Georgia bolted from the bed. The words were coming from the corner, nearly at floor level. She tiptoed over, found a vent, and squatted next to it.
“Who’s there?” she whispered back.
“Who are you?” the voice whispered.
No cat-and-mouse game here. “I’m Georgia Davis.”
“Oh my God. I’m Savannah.”