Wiser than Serpents Mission: Russia series Wiser than Serpents ISBN 0-373-78620-4 Steeple Hill Thriller get more info | buy the book

Prologue

Out of all of Yanna Andrevka’s bright ideas, masquerading as a mail-order bride ranked among the most stupid.

This thought took root as she blinked against the sudden flood of sunlight and stared at her “groom” to be, Kwan, as he’d so kindly introduced himself -- five foot nine of cut, Asian muscle, a scar running from his chin to his ear, an eyebrow pierced with a curved barbell, and eyes that looked like they could spear through her and take out her heart.

Here comes the bride. Only this bride felt disheveled and grimy, her long hair hanging in strings over her face, her body bruised, and sore after being locked in a pitch-black room alone for what seemed like an eternity. That things were about to get worse seemed apparent as her captors/hosts/groomsmen dragged her blindfolded from the belly of wherever they’d stashed her, led her to Kwan’s office, sat her down in a chair and handcuffed her arms behind her. She’d had the presence of mind to fist her hands as they secured them, allowing for jangle room on her wrists. She twisted her hands, keeping the circulation pumping, fearing it might take her longer than she hoped to get out of them.

Yanna silenced the moans of fear that rose from the depths and searched her brain for the faintest flicker of recognition of Kwan’s name. It didn’t register on her recollection of Interpol’s recent most wanted list and she dearly wished she’d prepped better for this outing. Kwan stood over her, hands loose, her blindfold dangling from one fist, his stance unassuming. The confidence in his body language only turned her blood cold in her veins.

She raised her chin and managed to find her voice. “Wǒ zài něi lǐ shì?” Not that she expected an answer to her question – where am I -- but it bought her time as her brain spun and tried to fix on her surroundings. She smelled the brine of seawater, and small square windows evidenced a ship’s office. Streams of fading sunlight splotched the thinly carpeted floor and turned a smooth black desk to onyx. Her nausea clinched it – last time she’d been at sea, she’d lost half her stomach overboard and gained a new respect for the rebotnik who fished the Amur river near her home in Russia.
When Kwan didn’t respond, Yanna asked again, “Where am I?”

It occurred to her that she might be saying something that would earn her another slap, like, touch me again and die, you pig. She hadn’t used her Mandarin for years, and she might be letting loose any one the threats she conjured up for this man who’d kidnapped, and possibly killed, her sister.    

Kwan stepped back from her and leaned against the desk. He picked up a pero, a ten-inch knife, probably intending to terrify her, and chose a starfruit from the bowl on his desk. She ignored the press of hunger in her stomach. Her last meal had been about three decades ago, courtesy Korean Airlines.

Kwan cut the fruit slowly, his gaze steady. “Qngwn, n sh bu sh Migu rn.”

Was she an American? She hid a flare of indignation, and gave him instead a quivering smile. “Do I look like an American?” she asked softly. She hid the flinch as he gave her a head-to-toe perusal, starting at her calf-high supple leather spiked-heel boots, past the black leather skirt, up to the sheer silk blouse and camisole. American? Hardly. Americans dressed in baggy jeans and sturdy hiking boots. Maybe not all Americans, but the ones she knew prided practicality over form. Missionary Gracie Benson nearly had to be pried into the pretty dress FSB agent friend Vicktor Shubnikov purchased for her trying to save her life. And Sarai Curtiss, Roman Novak’s girlfriend and humanitarian doctor ran around the Khabarovsk University Hospital in a pair of yoga pants and running shoes.

Then again, a sturdy pair of Reeboks just might come in handy in about ten seconds when Yanna kicked that juicy smirk off Lock’s face and demanded Elena’s whereabouts.
After she got out of the handcuffs, of course.

He wore a smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes as he used the knife to bring a piece of star fruit to his mouth. The ring he wore on his middle finger sparkled in the fading sunlight, and she attributed the nasty bruise on her cheek to the snake’s head with the ruby stone.  Finishing his silent assessment, he raised a thin black eyebrow. “You speak English.”

She nodded, purposely keeping her eyes down, catching a view of the two thugs that stood slightly behind her. A Fu and a Wang, they looked like extras from a Jackie Chan movie. Her long hair draped over her face, adding despair to her posture. “I thought I was meeting my future husband. My American future husband,” she mumbled, hiding completely the simmer of terror that lurked just below the skin. Was this how Elena had felt? Had the two goons behind her also drugged the twenty-three year old Russian with some sort of street-roofie, perhaps in her plate of dim-sung while she waited for her flight to America in the Korean airport?  Had they escorted/dragged her through Incheon airport and onto the plane, sat flanking her like Dobermans, and whisked her through customs and passport control in Taiwan like she might be a head of state?

Had they shoved her into a waiting sedan, then clamped a cloth over her nose and mouth, laughing while she kicked and fought, having awakened from the drug?

Most importantly, when she’d awoken, had Elena’s stomach turned to knots and threatened to climb up her throat when she realized that no one knew where she was, and that she’d been swallowed whole into a world of human trafficking, bondage and slavery?

Only these thoughts kept Yanna from kicking Kwan in the throat, making a fast break for the door, hurtling herself overboard into the frothy ocean and free-styling it toward shore. These, and the belief that following her hunches might lead her to her little sister. Elena, why didn’t you listen to me?
Kwan laughed at her. He nodded to Fu and Wang to leave as he finished off the star fruit. Then he stood. As he left, Fu handed Kwan her passport, the one listing her as Olga Rustikoff. Through the briefly opened door, Yanna glimpsed bruised skies, blue sea, and heard the sound of a speedboat. How far were they from Mainland China?

Kwan paged through the passport. Yanna heard the ship’s motors fire up, felt the boat list as it moved. For the smallest of seconds, she wished she’d listened to Roman, and Vicktor, trusted their sources, their concern. And, she wished David Curtiss, best friend and American soldier, had answered her emails. Yes, he’d told her he’d be undercover, deep under in fact, but that hadn’t stopped him from writing before. From checking into her life. From caring. The fact he’d been ignoring her for nearly three months hurt more than anyone could ever know. He may think of her as a kid sister, but his friendship filled her world with a light and hope she couldn’t put into words.

She’d never told him that, of course. At this rate, never would. Her body would simply wash ashore on some foreign soil and he’d never know that after fifteen years, she still dreamed he’d fly half-way across the world to take her in his arms and tell her he couldn’t live without her.

It was the drugs in her system talking. Because she – an FSB agent, and David, an American Delta Force major had as much chance of hooking up as she had of escaping this ship and not being devoured by sharks.

Apparently, her backup team, the ones with a supernatural connection -- Roman and Vicktor, Gracie and Sarai -- needed to up their piety because God certainly hadn’t heard their prayers for her safety. Either that, or Yanna was simply correct in her belief that prayers to an unseen – and uncaring – God accomplished nothing. After ten years fighting crime in Russia, she could have told them that.
Kwan picked up his metal garbage can, set it at his feet. Then, taking his lighter, he ignited the passport and dropped it into the can. The acrid smell of plastic filled the room. Yanna stared wide-eyed at the black smoke.

“Why--?”

But she knew why, even as the word left her mouth. Kwan reached behind him and held up a tube of lipstick. Saying nothing, he uncapped it and twisted the base. Yanna held her breath as a three-inch curved blade extended.

Kwan nodded. “Want to explain to me how a school teacher smuggled this onto an airplane? Or better, what is this?” He pulled her cell phone from his pocket, one of her best designs, the one with global GPS active 24/7. When she’d given one to Roman, it helped save his life, and she’d counted on the little transmitter planted inside, to save hers. “This doesn’t look like a Nokia from the central market.”

She kept her expression cool, but inside dread pooled like blood.

Why oh why did she talk herself into believing she could do this alone? Every muscle in her body tightened when Kwan dropped the phone into a drawer and leaned off the desk. He approached her slowly, dug his fingers into her hair, then yanked her head back. Her scalp screamed, but every nerve centered on the sudden cold prick of her not-so-cute-anymore knife scraping the well of her neck.

She swallowed. “I…my…cousin works airport security. He –“

“Agent Andrevka, I’m not that stupid.”

She refused to flinch, to give any indication that his words sliced through her, leaving her cold.
Yes, this was definitely the dimmest of her bright ideas.

“I’m not sure, exactly, what to do with you.” He ran his hand down her hair, smoothing it. “You’re very beautiful––”

A knock came at the door. With a sigh, Kwan let her go and stepped back from her. She felt his gaze on her like daggers, or maybe it was simply her pounding heart, cutting her chest to shreds. Get ahold of yourself, Yanna. She hadn’t worked in the field since her training days, but she’d been taught how to think ahead, look for opportunities.

To have backup. Oy. She hoped her other transmitter was still operating.

“Enter,” Kwan said, hiding the knife behind his back as he crossed his hands.

The door opened, and Yanna heard footfalls even as she kept her eyes ahead of her. Fu spoke quickly, softly. “He’s here.”

Kwan’s breathing, and the silence that followed felt like a noose, choking off her air. Think, Yanna! Now might be her one and only chance for escape…but what about Elena?

“Escort him in—

“But the wom––”

Kwan raised a hand, cutting Fu off. Every muscle in Yanna’s body tensed as she watched Kwan sit down at his desk. He closed the lipstick case, capped it. Folded his hands. His silver eyebrow spike gleamed against the sunlight.

Yanna twisted her hands in her cuffs, and for a moment, considered a prayer.

She heard voices at the door, and Fu entered the room followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man. She scrutinized him through the curtain of her long hair, wondering how many steps it might take to break free and launch herself out the door. The visitor didn’t even look her way as he entered but she glimpsed pony-tail-long dark hair, a close, trimmed beard and an arrogance in his step. She looked away before she met his eyes.  Dressed in a pair of designer jeans, a leather jacket turned up at the collar, and a pair of black hiking boots, he looked American. Of course. The center of the human trafficking trade. Yanna worked her handcuffs as she listened to their conversation with her rusty Mandarin.

According to her translation, Mr. American slave trader wasn’t exactly fluent, either. But he made his point. His shipment waited in Taiwan and he wanted to set up an exchange.

She wondered if she…or Elena, might be among the cargo.

Yanna studied him, saw his wide shoulders, the way he held himself and a memory nudged inside of her. Fu saw her perusal and slapped her.

Pain exploded in her face and tears rushed to her eyes. As she cried out, the visitor turned. She saw his body jerk, and she looked away, hating the foolish bravado that lied to her and told her she could do this. Too much time spent with her hero pals Vicktor and Roman.

She was a computer tech, with a knack for gadgets. What made her think she wouldn’t face the same fate as Elena? Or worse, the same fate as Katya?

Nothing but desperation.

“What is she doing here?” the voice said, and Yanna looked up. Blue eyes, familiar blue eyes looked down at her, and for the briefest of seconds, they filled with horror.

She’d seen that horror before. Just outside Red Square in Moscow fifteen years back, right after a man had grabbed her and wrestled her into the shadows.

Right after David Curtiss had jumped him, and pulled him off her.

And two seconds before she’d lost her heart forever, to a six foot two, blonde hair, blue-eyed American boy with a soft spot for the oppressed.

No, it couldn’t be. But under all that dark hair, the flashy California attire and the painful Mandarin she plainly recognized Preach, the guy on the other end of her email dreams, aka David Curtiss. She stared up at him, and shock turned her pale. This was his big undercover assignment? The truth flashed across his face.

He recognized her, too.

“You like her?” Kwan asked, finding his feet.

Yanna looked away, not wanting to see David’s expression when he answered.

“I do,” he said, and something inside her turned warm at his words. Even though she knew it was an act, tears of relief filled her eyes. Yes, let Kwan give her to David. Together they’d find Elena and—

“She’s not for sale.”

Yanna closed her eyes.

Kwan came around the desk, leaned against it.

“Why not?” David said, his voice low. “I want her.”

And then, Yanna realized exactly how Elena might have felt. Cheap. A commodity. A sickness welled inside that had nothing to do with the sea.

“She’s not who you think. She’s a Russian agent.” Kwan nodded to Fu, who clamped her around the back of the neck and forced her gaze up. She kept it averted from David’s, fearing the look of derision in his eyes. Whatever undercover plot he had cooking, her appearance might just be unraveling it, and fast.

“An agent?” David repeated. “Then why do you want her?”

Kwan was silent. He drummed his fingers on his arms, staring at her. She winced as Fu’s grip dug into her neck.

“I don’t,” Kwan finally said. “We’re done with her.” He reached across his desk, behind him.

“Then let me––”

“No.”

Yanna recognized the lipstick tube and her blood drained from her body as Kwan opened it and twisted out the blade. He glanced at Fu, who let her go and it was all she could do not to collapse. But she wouldn’t do that. Not in front of David.

Never in front of David.

Out of her peripheral, she saw Fu pull out a small silver makarov pistol that looked painfully like the one she had back home. He leveled it at David.

Yanna’s eyes widened as Kwan stepped up to her and smiled at David, aka mafia arms dealer, drug runner, human slaver. The man she loved.

“I’m going to her,” Kwan said softly. “And then maybe we’ll do business.”