Free Red Ink by Greg Dinallo Page B

out? Maybe he is dead. My adrenaline surges, forcing painful memories to surface, memories of being hunted. The pit bulls worked for the KGB, not the mafiya, and the threat was a stint in the gulag, not eternity in a shallow grave; but this is no time to quibble over details. The feelings of terror are the same.
    Ray-Ban’s thugs dash past the alley. An instant later, one returns, squinting into the darkness. My heart sinks. I freeze against the gritty bricks, holding my breath. “Katkov?” he calls out. “Katkov, we want to talk.”
    About what? Carrying me out of here feet first? No thanks.
    He takes a few uncertain steps, leaning left and right to get an angle on the shadows; then, to my relief, he backs out of the alley and hurries off.
    I’ve just begun searching for a way out when I hear the thump of air-cushioned running shoes and whisk of denim behind me. He’s back. With his colleague. Two lumbering silhouettes are pushing long shadows in my direction now! I run deeper into the alley. It zigzags wildly, but never branches, never intersects with the streets. Several buildings have steel service doors. I put a shoulder into one, but it won’t budge, nor will the next or the next. I scan the darkness frantically. A pale red glow spills across the pavement just beyond the last building. All of a sudden it changes to green. A neon sign? A traffic light? I take the turn on the run, and there, at the far end of the alley, is what looks like an intersection.
    A car flashes past.
    It is an intersection! If I can make it into the streets, I’ve got a chance of losing them. But then what? They’ll be all over my apartment. Ray-Ban is probably heading there right now. Vera’s place! Her roommates will be pissed off, but I could stay therefor a while. I’m sprinting down the narrow chasm when I sense something in the darkness. A pattern. Vertical lines. Black against blackness. There and gone. And there again. I put on the brakes an instant before running into a wrought-iron fence. Topped with spikes and barbed wire, it keeps me from the street not ten meters beyond.
    The thugs keep coming. Walking rapidly now, not running, they advance confidently, without any sense of urgency as they close in.
    There’s no way I’m going down without a fight. I whirl and lunge between them, throwing a punch at the one nearest me. He blocks it, grasps my wrist, and snaps my arm up behind my back. The other puts a pistol to my head.
    “Easy, Katkov. Take it easy,” he advises. “Didn’t you hear what we said? We want to talk.”
    The glint of the muzzle flickers in the corner of my eye. I’m terrified. Exhausted. I can barely catch my breath, barely get a word out. I nod eagerly. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
    Instead of blowing my brains out or beating me senseless, the thug lowers the pistol, and they march me from the alley in silence. Headlights bend around the opposite corner as we reach the street. The Volvo dives to a stop next to us. The thugs push me into the seat and clamber in on either side. The doors are still open when Ray-Ban floors the accelerator. The Volvo heads west on the Outer Ring, cutting across the outskirts of the city.
    The silence continues.
    They said they wanted to talk, but they’re not talking. I haven’t the slightest idea what’s going on or where we’re headed, but it isn’t long before my imagination cooks up a few scenarios: They lied, so I wouldn’t struggle, wouldn’t scream, so they wouldn’t have to kill me in the alley and carry my body out to dispose of it. Shrewd bastards. Sporting of me to save them the inconvenience, to sign up for a trip from which I’ll never return.
    The Volvo turns off into the Frunze District, where the Moskva loops back on itself, encircling Luzhniki Stadium. Ray-Ban maneuvers through desolate streets awash with litter and stops in front of an abandoned building. Heavy bronze doors, deep-set windows, and a peristyle of bloated columns that support a