Under Covers

three | minsk

three | minsk

forests and wetlands blanket over forty percent of Belarus; the country is sometimes known as the 'lungs of Europe'

RAYNA

May 5th, 10:39 (GMT +3)
10 days until it happens

ADRENALINE SKITTERS THROUGH me as I knock on the steel-plated door. In the past five minutes since I arrived on Vladimir's tail, I've already done a quick recon of the place. Three stories above ground, an indeterminate number of lower floors. Poorly-maintained light fixtures; bullet-proof windows; keypad-barred entrances, one at the rear and one at the side; cameras posted around the perimeter.

A harsh voice crackles through the security-set beside the door. What business do you have here? a man barks in Russian.

Timid, batting my eyelashes, I reply, my Russian flawless, "I'm one of Vlad's girls. He sent for me."

Two seconds later, the lock grinds open.

Men. Easy.

The guard at the door looks barely a day over fifteen. Awkward, lanky limbs stuffed into oversized black combat gear, greasy hair, acneic and freckled. A Lebedev PL-15 is holstered at his hip – pistol, standard 9mm, Russian-made – but I cannot for the life of me imagine this kid knowing how to use it.

"Vlad is in the basement," he tells me, nodding his chin towards a steep flight of concrete stairs.

"Spasibo." I toss the boy a gentle smile and he blinks at me.

My heels echo as I descend into the building's dark belly.

Make this quick, Shahid. In and out. Just like my first boyfriend.

I enter a dim room, playing the part of a calm-but-nervous call-girl. Casually, I scan my surroundings. Windowless, dilapidated, bleak. There's a lounge area with three men crowded around a table, playing cards and gnawing on sunflower seeds. Computers are crammed into the back corner, CCTV footage of the building flitting across one of the screens. Vlad is at the desk, clicking through emails. A guy sits beside him, watching some lesbian contortionist gangbang on full blast. There are two doors leading out of the room, one shut, one ajar revealing a squalid washroom. All five men look up at me as I step in.

My skin crawls, the fine hairs on the back of my neck rising. I plaster a seductive smile onto my face.

With a sashay of my hips, I slink towards Vlad and the computers, formulating several escape options in my head. "Hey, sweetie," I chirp. "The boss sent me to keep you company."

He doesn't recognize me from the street, not at all. I mean, how could he, after I changed disguises so dramatically? He grunts, sleazy eyes lingering on my boobs before focusing back on the computer. I slide onto his lap, his denim jeans still damp from the rain. I'm careful with how I arrange my legs. I have a teeny, 4.25mm Liliput strapped to my thigh and a knife sheathed in my garter, both hidden expertly out of sight and mind.

For a few minutes, I just sit there and listen, swallowing back my disgust as Vlad circles a nicotine-stained nail over my bare knee. In between cursing copiously at each other and making vulgar comments about their wives and girlfriends, the men playing cards are discussing something they call the package. I hone into their words. They must be talking about Cassidy.

I collect the scattered crumbs and scraps of intel into a jar in my brain. Ten days, I gather. Ten days before 'the big event' happens. The big event... the big event... Killing Cassidy, right? Ten days before they execute her? That might make sense – that's two weeks after the kidnapping. I mean, a bit drawn out, but then again that's consistent with how much media attention these assholes are getting, right? They want to stay in the spotlight, milk their revenge, make her parents grow desperate?