Page 18 of Vicious Doll

Speaking of the mountain, Mikhail emerges from the bedroom looking fresh as a fucking daisy. His shirt stretches across shoulders wide enough to block out the sun, hair still damp from a shower I didn't hear running.

"Transport ready," he announces, helping himself to coffee. "Three hours to Vienna."

I squint at the wall clock—5:47 AM. Perfect. Nothing like planning an international assassination before sunrise.

Volkov tosses me a passport. I catch it one-handed, flipping it open to find my face staring back. Different name, different nationality, same dead eyes.

"Sofia Petrov. Russian citizen. Business consultant." He shrugs at my raised eyebrow. "Best cover. Americans too noticeable."

"And this?" I gesture to my obviously not-Russian face.

"Many ethnicities in Russia. You speak passable Russian. Will not be questioned."

I do speak "passable Russian," thanks to three weeks of Killion's language immersion torture—having vocabulary drilled into me while hanging upside down from ceiling hooks tends to make lessons stick. Still, "passable" is generous.

"Our cover?" I ask, swallowing another mouthful of liquid punishment.

"Business associates meeting potential client." Volkov taps a photograph of an elegant hotel. "Harlow stays here when in Vienna. Meeting contact in restaurant at noon."

His finger traces the building's entrance points, exit routes, security camera blindspots—the blueprint of an ambush in the making. I focus on the mechanics, trying to ignore the persistent thought lodged like a bullet fragment in my brain.

Did I want Killion?

The question Volkov tossed at me last night while buried inside me. The one I answered with a breathless "yes" while balanced on the knife-edge between pleasure and rage. The truth I'd rather carve out of my skull than examine by daylight.

Wanting the man who sculpted me into a weapon? Fucking textbook Stockholm syndrome. Or maybe just proof that I've always been drawn to the ones who'd hurt me worst. Nothing says "daddy issues" like lusting after your handler-turned-potential-executioner.

"Focus," Volkov barks, snapping me back. "You understand plan?"

"Intercept Harlow, play the frightened asset seeking protection, get him somewhere private, stick him with the happy juice, extract intel." I recite it mechanically, like a shopping list for milk, bread, and kidnapping supplies. "What could possibly go wrong?"

Mikhail's laugh is like gravel in a dryer. "Everything. That is why we have backup plans."

"Which are?"

"We kill everyone and burn hotel down," he offers with complete seriousness.

"Subtle." I can't help but smile. God help me, I'm starting to like these merciless fuckers.

An hour later, we're packed into an unmarked sedan, weapons stashed in hidden compartments, headed west towardAustria. The landscape rolls past like someone set the world on grayscale—frozen fields, skeletal trees, abandoned Soviet-bloc architecture crumbling back into the earth. We pass borders with forged papers and practiced stories, Volkov's connections smoothing our path like expensive lubricant.

Vienna rises from the winter mist like a fairy tale somebody fucked up—all Baroque splendor and imperial grandeur frosted with dirty snow and modern commerce. Horse-drawn carriages share streets with BMWs, centuries of history packed into blocks where Mozart and Hitler both once walked. The perfect backdrop for a high-stakes kidnapping.

No time to sight-see when you’re on a mission. More’s the pity.

We check into our staging area—a nondescript apartment in the 4th district rented under yet another false identity. Thirty minutes to prep, then we move to positions. I strip and change into Sofia Petrov's wardrobe—charcoal pencil skirt, silk blouse, heels that make my ass look spectacular but would be a bitch to run in. Good thing the plan doesn't involve running. Much.

Volkov watches me transform with clinical interest, none of last night's hunger visible in his assessment.

"Your walk," he says as I step into the heels. "Too American. Smaller steps. Less"—he waves his hand—"hips."

"I'm not exactly trying to blend in," I remind him. "The whole point is for Harlow to notice me."

"Yes, but not immediately as American agent." He demonstrates, his walk suddenly shifting to something more contained, more precise. The shit they must teach in Russian spy school.

"Fine." I adjust, shortening my stride, pulling my shoulders back in a posture that reeks of old-world discipline.

Volkov nods approval. "Better. Remember, twelve minutes from first contact. After that, even best drug cannot guarantee clean extraction."

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