Wonderland
When we landed at a small, charter airport in a rural suburb of Cincinnati, there were only a handful of planes on the runway. No cops, no fanfare, no indication that anything unusual was going down. Everything seemed cool and breezy as if we’d arrived home from an extended vacation. In the distance, I spotted my brother-in-law Pasha standing on the lawn outside the terminal, waiting to greet us. Seeing his kind face eased my tension and made my homecoming seem real. I couldn’t wait to be reunited with my family and friends too, especially my dad.
As the crew pulled down the stairs for our exit, I stood and held on to Dmitri as I got my bearings. After all I’d been through the past four months, I was determined to walk off the plane instead of being carried.
“I got this, Dmitri.” I let go of his arm and grasped the handrail. As I carefully padded down the steps, I felt an overwhelming sense of power.
In the last few months, I had faced fear and adversity on levels I had never comprehended. I had been beaten, knocked down, and mentally and physically tortured. But through all the hell and heartache, I picked myself up, protected my husband and child, and defeated the demons who aimed to destroy us. When my feet touched the tarmac and I was back on American soil, I had officially won.
It was mid-July and the summer heat was a welcome change compared to the dreary weather in London. The airport was located out in the boonies, and the airstrip was surrounded by acres of green space. I inhaled a deep breath and savored the smell of fresh-cut grass. The humid Cincinnati air coated my skin with a sweaty sheen, and I could practically feel the moisture attaching to my hair and twirling it into a wavy mound of frizzy curls.
Now, this feels like home.
As I emerged from the plane, I smiled at Pasha as he rushed to greet me. My gentle and loving teddy bear of a brother-in-law swooped in and embraced me. Mindful of my bruised and battered condition, he held me gently. “You’re safe, Carter. Welcome home.”
“I love you, Pasha.” I was overjoyed to see him after missing him for months. Like Yuri, Pasha favored Boris in appearance. Staggering height, thick body, dark hair, but his aura of kindness and inviting smile were unique traits to him.
He kissed my cheeks then zeroed in on my baby bump. “You are the most courageous mama in the world, my dear sister.” His kind, golden eyes shone bright with admiration, but also held a trace of sadness knowing what I’d gone through to protect the baby.
While I was relieved to have finally planted my feet on American soil, physically I felt terrible. My broken bones would mend and my bruises would fade, but I worried all the trauma and emotional turmoil I’d suffered might have a negative effect on the baby. If anything happened to him—I couldn’t finish the thought in my head.
“Don’t think bad thoughts,” Pasha said, as if reading my mind. “We’re taking you to the hospital now. Your family is here for you, Carter. You and the baby are safe. No one will harm you ever again.”
***
When we arrived at the hospital, everything happened in rapid-fire succession. The lady in admissions strapped a plastic bracelet around my wrist, helped me into a wheelchair, and insisted Boris, Dmitri, and Pasha had to stay in the waiting room instead of accompanying me to the ER. I kept my gaze focused on the guys as a nurse wheeled me away and cut me off from my family. Once I was in a private room, a team of medical professionals lifted me into a bed, poked a needle in the crook of my elbow, and started an IV drip.
One of the nurses examined my busted-up arms and the yellowing bruises and abrasions from the handcuffs circling my wrists, while another took my vitals and questioned me about my injuries. A blur of men and women darted in and out of the room, each performing a different task. One person hooked me up to a machine, while another checked my vitals, and every person who entered the room asked me to verify my name and date of birth one hundred thousand times.
I kept telling them I was fine, that my injuries were superficial, and my concern was for the baby. Finally, a cheerful nurse wearing a stethoscope with a little teddy bear clinging to the side rolled a monitor into my room. She unsnapped my gown to expose my stomach, covered my lower body with a paper blanket, and squirted a cold blast of gel over my baby bump. The doctor arrived, and after a few pleasantries and a list of questions that took an eternity, she glided a flat instrument across my stomach. She adjusted her black-rimmed glasses and focused her attention on the monitor.
I followed her gaze to the screen. After a moment that felt like a lifetime, the baby’s image appeared and the ultrasound picked up his strong heartbeat. After all the stress, I was overwhelmed to see George waving his arms, kicking his legs, and thriving in my womb. Watching him move, seeing him active, and hearing the doctor say his development was normal gave me the relief I desperately needed. Every bruise, every broken bone, and all the torture I’d endured never matched the horrifying thought of losing the baby.
The technician printed out the black and white images from the ultrasound for me to keep. I held the sonogram photos in my hand and pressed them against my heart as if his pictures were priceless works of art. The images of our healthy, perfect baby were now my most prized possessions. I wished there was some way to personally deliver the photos to Vladimir so we could share the moment together, but there was a connection between us, and I believed he could feel my positive energy. I concentrated on the images of our son, closed my eyes, and mentally called out to him to deliver the good news.
Once the doctor completed my exam, she said an orderly was on the way to move me to x-ray. A few moments later, a guy in his early thirties with a thin, straggly ponytail strolled into the room, unlocked the brake on the bed, and peeked at the pictures of George in my hand as he rolled the bed toward the door.
“Congratulations on your baby, mum. Is it a boy or a girl?” The man’s English accent sent a rush of fear through my body and activated my fight or flight instincts.
The war isn’t over. Maksim sent a member of his crew to kidnap me. He’ll never let me go.
This was exactly how Maksim had lured me into his trap in London. He’d sent a regular looking bloke—one devoid of prison tats and Bratva ink—to throw me off track. The man at the airport had lied and said he was taking me to Dmitri, but instead, he tricked me and delivered me straight to Maksim.
No way am I stupid enough to fall for this again.
“Stay the fuck away from me.” I clambered over the side rail to escape and winced in agony when I landed awkwardly on the floor and twisted my ankle. Throbbing pain shot up my spine and branched out to my battered limbs.
The doctor yelled for help and backed into a corner, and the orderly pressed a panic button on the wall. I limped toward the door and was determined to get back to my family before Maksim’s crew could get hold of me.
He probably had men stationed all around the hospital. I was stupid for letting them separate me from my family. Boris shouldn’t have brought me here. I’ll never be safe as long as I live.
There was a ruckus in the hallway, a light was flashing, and people were shouting information about me. Carter Cook. Kidnapped. Abused. Pregnant. PTSD.
The doctor and the orderly fled the room, and a couple of Maksim’s jumbo-sized enforcers—disguised as hospital employees—took their place and blocked the door.
“Calm down, miss. No one is going to hurt you.” An overgrown troll dressed in sky blue scrubs held out his hands and crept toward me, while his long-haired accomplice side-stepped around the bed to box me in.
“Get away from me!” I picked up the closest thing I could find, an empty bedpan, and whizzed it at the troll. He deflected it with his forearm and it bounced on the floor.
The long-haired guy was almost close enough to grab me.
“Back the fuck up and let me out of here.” I held up my busted and bruised arms in ready position and prepared to take down anyone who tried to separate me from my family again. “Dmitri! Help me!” I screamed for my bodyguard, and when he didn’t come, I assumed the worst.
Maksim’s men stormed the hospital and murdered every member of my family. That’s why people are yelling my name in the hallway. They blame me. It’s a bloody massacre out there. His assassins have orders to take down anyone who tries to protect me.
I checked around for anything I could use as a weapon—the IV stand. The needle was imbedded in my arm, so I ripped it out. A warm flow of blood oozed down my arm and dripped on the floor, leaving me feeling lightheaded and nauseated from the sight of all that blood—my blood—but I had to stay strong, protect my baby, and fight my way out of that room. I picked up the stand and aimed it at the brutes to force them to let me pass, but the guy closest to me yanked it out of my hand while the other bear-hugged me from behind.
I screamed for my family and struggled in vain to free myself, but the big guy had arms as thick as tree trunks and he wouldn’t relinquish his grip. My chest heaved and my throat burned from all the yelling. I couldn’t breathe. Then my terror level kicked up a notch when a man in a white lab coat entered the room and towered over me with a syringe in his hand. I begged him not to drug me because of the baby, but despite my pleas, he jabbed the needle in my arm and depressed the plunger.
Instantly, my muscles weakened. When I stopped struggling, the guy loosened his stronghold and laid me back down on the bed. I fought to stay awake, but I was losing consciousness. “Find Dmitri. Don’t let Maksim…”
***
I woke up in a dizzying wonderland populated by fresh floral arrangements, stuffed animals holding satin hearts, and clusters of shiny balloons. I had on a paper-thin gown and a fresh IV stuck in my arm, which lead me to believe I was still in the hospital. My arm was encased in a hot pink cast, and I had an orthopedic boot on my jacked-up ankle.
I felt George fluttering inside me and placed my hand on my stomach to soothe him with the warmth of my hand. I lifted my head to see if anyone else was in the room and found my dad slouched uncomfortably in a stiff chair, using a fluffy brown teddy bear as a neck pillow.
“Hi, sweetie.” Dad got up from his chair and stood at my bedside. His face was thinner than the last time I’d seen him, and he lacked the jovial expression that once was omnipresent. He appeared to have aged ten years since I’d been gone, and his hair turned salt and pepper gray.
I was relieved to see Dad for the first time in four months, but as I regained my focus, flashbacks of my meltdown in the ER raced through my mind. “Where’s Boris? Are the guys okay? Did anyone get hurt?”
“Everyone is fine. You have nothing to worry about, Carter. You’re safe.” He laid his hand on my shoulder and his bloodshot eyes welled with tears. “How are you feeling?” As relieved as he was to have me home, he probably thought my traumatic experience had broken me and left a fresh round of emotional scar tissue on top of all the other self-destructive issues I had before my abduction.
“I’m not crazy. That orderly freaked me out.”
“No one thinks you’re crazy. The doctor said you have PTSD. I’m here for you, Carter. Whatever you need to help you recover and feel safe, tell me.”
I felt groggy and hungry, and I had no idea if I’d been out for a couple hours or a few days. “Is Vladimir here?”
“No. Boris said he’s still out of town on urgent business.” Dad poured a drink of water from a plastic pitcher and brought it to my lips. As I gulped it down, he eyed George’s baby pictures that were placed on the rolling table next to my bed. Dad obviously knew bad things had happened to me while I was gone, but I needed to update him on all the positive things too—like my relationship with Vladimir, our romantic wedding in Ekaterinburg, and that our baby was conceived out of love.
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” I motioned to George’s sonogram pictures.
Dad laid his hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to explain. I’ve already spoken to Boris. He told me everything.”
By everything, Dad was referring to the revised version of my abduction. While we were on the plane, Boris gave me the details of our official story. As a close family friend, Vladimir had launched his own global investigation into my disappearance. He hired a team of ex-KGB officers to hunt me down and publicly offered a substantial sum of money for my safe return. An anonymous man found out about the reward, recognized me at an undisclosed location, and rescued me from my captors. He contacted the private investigators to collect the money, and delivered me to Vladimir’s KGB team under the condition of no questions asked.
As for me, I had no memory of my ordeal. I was blindfolded the entire time, had no clue where I was being held captive, and didn’t know who was responsible for my abduction. When the police and feds inevitably questioned me, Boris told me to simply say, “I don’t know.” Even if the authorities pressed or accused me of lying, I was not to deviate from my rehearsed response. He assured me our plan was airtight, and as long as I didn’t talk, no one would find out the truth.
I lifted my bruised hand and pointed to my wedding ring. “Do you know who gave me this?”
Dad gave me a reassuring smile. “Boris said that after you were rescued, it was too dangerous to bring you home right away because your abductors were looking for you. He said you stayed in a secure location with Vladimir and his family, and that’s when the two of you fell in love. I’m grateful to Vladimir for rescuing you, and I’m proud he’s my son-in-law.”
Instead of Vladimir being implicated for abducting me, he came out of this ordeal a hero—along with the rest of my Russian family. A lump formed in my throat and I felt guilty for lying to Dad, but the truth about our ordeal was a family secret we had to bury. He was better off not knowing the truth about the origins of my tumultuous relationship with Vladimir, and there was no way he could learn about the secret life we lived in the inner circle of the Bratva. Our cover was set, our tracks covered, and Dad hailed my relationship with Vladimir a blessing.