Page 23 of Emerald

If I do manage to escape this room, the tunnel would be my best route out of the compound. If I tell Petrov about it, he’s sure to close it off.

However, I don’t have a good lie prepared. If I tell him I scaled the walls, he’ll check the security tapes and see that’s not true.

“There’s a tunnel into your compound, from a well out in the woods,” I tell him. “I can show it to you, if you like.”

I want him to untie me and take me out of this room.

But Petrov isn’t fooled that easily. He stays sitting exactly where he is.

“Maybe later,” he says.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my syringe. He doesn’t have the cap for it (that’s still in my pocket), so he’s put a piece of cork over the tip. The transparent, amber-colored fluid is pretty enough, but it has a sinister gleam to it. Like snake venom.

“What’s in here?” he says.

“My own little cocktail. Mostly paralytics.”

“Not very sporting of you,” he says.

That edge of fury is back in his voice. I need to choose my words carefully.

“Well,” I say, “as you saw, I’m not much of a brawler.”

“You know how to fight though,” Petrov says, tilting his head to examine me. “Where did you learn that?”

He’s genuinely curious. I can tell he didn’t plan to ask that question, but he wants to know the answer.

I need to walk a fine line here. Giving a captor personal information can be a good way to gain their trust. Still, I don’t want to tell Petrov too much. I’m holding onto a shred of hope of escaping this mess. If I get away, I don’t want him tracking me down afterward.

So I say, “I learned from my father. He was in the military.”

“Here?”

“No. In America.”

“You’re American?” he asks, surprised again.

“Yes,”

“What are you doing in Russia?”

I’m not telling him that. I just shrug.

“I’ve lived a lot of places.”

Petrov folds his arms across his broad chest, the syringe still clutched in one large fist. He’s looking me up and down, trying to figure me out. I can see his thoughts whirring by behind those deep brown eyes. He’s intrigued, and that’s good. Intrigued is better than enraged, or worse of all, bored.

“What’s your name?” he says.

“Sloane.”

“Sloane what?”

“Ketterling,” I reply, giving him my mother’s maiden name.

I see a flicker across his face.

Dammit. He can tell when I’m being evasive.

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