Free Beloved Enemy by Eric Van Lustbader Page B

Karalian—knew precisely how much damage the head wound had caused, but it was an irrefutable fact that he was now given to unexpected bouts of manic anger. He had injured a patient and two orderlies before Dr. Karalian had started him on a new drug regimen. Even so, whenever he was wheeled out of his locked room, he was manacled to his wheelchair.
    When she settled the throw back over him, Rolan said, “Don’t.”
    Annika froze. His voice was thick and rough, as if his vocal cords had been damaged, too, in the assault in Syria that had almost killed him. Rolan had been caught up in a terrorist attack, an innocent bystander who became collateral damage.
    “I’ll fold it away,” Annika said, a bit breathlessly. It wasn’t often that Rolan spoke, even less often that he actually responded to word or action.
    “My grandmother used to cover me when I was ill.”
    As Annika had been raised by her grandfather, Rolan had been raised by his grandmother, after his parents were killed on a flight back to St. Petersburg from Moscow. This similarity was one of the ties that had immediately bound them. Over time, there were others.
    “I’m not ill,” Rolan said.
    “It’s good to hear your voice,” Annika said after a moment’s hesitation.
    “You think I’m ill.” Rolan continued to stare out at the mountain. “You shouldn’t believe everything Karalian tells you.”
    Annika’s brows knitted. “Don’t you like Dr. Karalian?”
    “I don’t like anyone,” Rolan said. “Except you.” When he said this, he turned his head, his sky-blue eyes impaling her.
    “Rolan, I—”
    “Get me out of here.”
    Annika stared at him.
    “You have the power to do it, I know you do.”
    She could see him straining at his manacles.
    “Don’t. Rolan, you’ll hurt yourself.”
    “I’m already hurt.” His body began to shake, his face turning red with a sudden rush of blood. “The only way I’ll get better is to GET. THE. FUCK. OUT. OF. HERE!”
    “I don’t think it’s wise to—”
    She let out a scream as Rolan lunged at her with such force that he overturned the wheelchair. The two orderlies, having been alerted by his shout, were already running toward her. Rolan’s heels were beating a military tattoo against the floor. His yells had become unintelligible. Then one of the orderlies grabbed her, dragging her out of range, while the other produced a syringe, which he plunged into the side of Rolan’s neck.
    “NO NO NO!” Rolan shouted. “MERCY! HAVE MERCY!”
    As his eyes rolled up in his head, Annika was hustled from the solarium. Out in the corridor, Dr. Karalian came at a run.
    “I heard, Annika,” he said, as he neared. “I’m so sorry.”
    Annika scarcely heard him. She was weeping so hard she was forced to gasp for breath.
    “Let her go,” Dr. Karalian said to the orderly, who nodded, turned, and returned to help his partner right the overturned wheelchair. Kicking the door to the solarium closed, Karalian held Annika gently by her shoulders, walking her slowly toward his office.
    Annika’s head was muzzy. That all too familiar feeling of unreality had returned, bringing with it a sticky gush of sorrow, guilt, and rage. Part of her was aware of the doctor talking softly to her, but her mind was resounding with Rolan’s desperate, heartrending cry: “Mercy! Have mercy!”

 
    S EVEN
    T HE I NTER G LOBAL Logistics plane came down through a twilight sky blurred by steel-colored rain, landing in Berlin without incident. But by the time it had taxied to a stop and begun to unload, the rain had turned into sleet.
    The captain, who was known as Tweet, said, “This is the last stop of our current run, Jack, but since you’ve told me you have another destination in mind, we’ll fly you there as soon as we’ve unloaded, fueled up, and run all our checks.”
    “You don’t have to do that.”
    “Hey, I can’t tell you how many favors I owe Ben King.” He swiveled to his navigator, “Right,