Page 24 of Emerald

“Well, here’s the thing, Sloane,” he says, his voice low and soft. But not gentle—the very opposite of gentle. “I know that you’re aware of the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into. You tried to kill me. I think I’d be justified in returning the favor.”

Can’t argue with that.

“But we’re both professionals,” he says.

That’s an appeal to common ground. Someone trained Petrov in interrogation techniques as well, or he’s just a natural.

“I don’t want to have to resort to threats of violence.”

I think he just did.

“Instead, why don’t you just tell me what I want to know?”

“You want to know who hired me to kill you,” I say.

He nods, his eyes drilling into me. “That’s right, Sloane.”

“I would love to tell you,” I say. “But I don’t know the answer.”

A flush of anger across his face—this is a man who does not like being opposed.

“It’s true,” I insist. “That’s how the contract works. It goes through a broker. I don’t know who hired me—I never do.”

“Who’s the broker?” Petrov demands.

“I don’t know that either.”

That’s only partially true—I know a few things about Zima. I know he lives in the city. I could probably figure out where. But I don’t want Petrov tracking him down either.

Petrov senses the partial deceit. His fist clenches tighter than ever around the syringe.

I’m concerned that he’s going to use that as his instrument of persuasion. If he sticks me with even a tiny fraction of the liquid within, he won’t get a chance to ask me any more questions.

But Petrov tucks the syringe back in his pocket and reaches behind him for something else.

A knife, pulled from the waistband of his dress slacks.

It’s a DV-1, a combat knife from the Far East region of Spetsnaz. I have one very similar, back home at my apartment. It has an absorbent leather handle and a matte black carbon blade. But the distinctive part of this knife is the small, semi-circular indentation on the base of the blade. It allows you to rest your finger there, to get a better grip, as you pull the knife out of the body of your enemy.

Petrov stands up from his chair. He seems to be moving in slow motion as he approaches. He points the tip of the knife at me. He positions the blade at the base of my stomach.

Then he slices upward, in one swift, sure motion, cutting through the material of my shirt.

He slits the fabric from base to neck, and then with two quick slashes he cuts down the sleeves as well, pulling the whole top away.

Though he’s moving deliberately fast, showing me how easily he could cut me to ribbons, the same as he did to my shirt, he hasn’t left a single scratch on my body. I feel the cold metal whisper across my skin, but there’s no pain.

Crouching down, he pulls my shoes off my feet, and my socks. Then he slices away my pants.

Now I’m tied to the chair in only a sports bra and panties. He hesitates a moment, then he cuts the bra away too, the knife flashing upward between my breasts.

He takes a step backward, his eyes roving hungrily over my body. With my arms bound behind my back, my breasts are thrust upward for his perusal. I can feel my nipples stiffening from the chilly air, and from the heat of his gaze.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t meet his eyes now. I’m looking down at the floor, unable to hide the bizarre mix of emotions racing through me.

I’m embarrassed, yes.

Afraid, of course.

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