and watched her face as he passed the device off to Simon. Still holding onto the papers with one hand, she reached after the phone with the other, her face beseeching Simon to give it back.
"Please, they are all I have..."
"I'll be very gentle with the contents," Simon assured her, his voice dropping low in an attempt to calm the distraught woman.
Pulling out a box of crayons from the bottom of her bag, Nazarov dumped them on the floor and watched them scatter, then he checked the box for anything taped in side.
Feeling that the purse was empty, he looked inside, saw nothing. Turning it upside down and shaking, he heard a small metallic click as something fell out. Leaning forward, he saw the item. At first glance, it looked like junk. Mangled metal oxidized except for a small inward dipping curve on one side where it must have been rubbed frequently to keep the copper showing through.
He could just make out where the bull's horns had attached to the head. He looked at Alina to find her hugging her papers, her eyes on her lap and her face screwed tight from the tears she was holding in.
She had been crying earlier, begging and sobbing at the camera to spare him. And she still carried the little figure she had shaped for him so many years ago. But she wouldn't leave Dima, even if staying meant she would soon be dead.
Pocketing the figuring, he pulled out a knife and ripped through the fabric of the bag. His fingers manipulated the lining.
"He took all of your money, your identification?"
She said nothing, just continued staring at the top of her knees.
Nazarov passed the bag to Simon, who rolled down his window and tossed it onto the street.
"No point risking it," the Englishman explained as he returned to sifting through Alina's phone.
His fingers slowed as he looked through her photos. He expanded one, Nazarov's viewing angle too narrow to see what the picture contained or why it should hold Simon's interest for so long.
"This boy," he said, pointing the phone's display at Alina. "His name is Bogdan, yes?"
She nodded, her hand reaching for the phone, the fingers engaged in an urgent dance to coax Simon into surrendering the device.
Nazarov snatched it up, expanded the photo and stared at the boy. His head was tilted downward, black hair covering his eyes. The shade was that of all the Rodchenkos he had ever known. Alina, her father, Dima.
White and blue frosting smudged the boy's sharp chin.
"Dmitrey Rodchenko's son," Simon offered, his laptop out and opened once more. "No photos publicly in existence, his location more secret than his father's although presumed to live in the States. Mother unknown, rumored to be from one of the slave houses."
Simon dipped his head so he could look into Alina's flat gaze. "Is Bogdan why you're fighting us?"
Her shoulders scrunched together. Pursed lips trembled and her hands shook as she tried not to crush the drawings in her hand. She looked at Simon, the muscles of her throat visibly tightening.
"Please, it's like the hospital, isn't it? If I don't want help, you cannot force it on me."
Simon retrieved the phone from Nazarov. He swiped through more of the photos. Stopping at the last one, he looked from the photo to Alina before studying Nazarov for a few long seconds. His brow lifted, skeptical, and then he shoved the phone in his jacket pocket.
"What if we kidnap the boy?" Simon asked.
"Hold up," Kane interjected. "We have no reason to believe the boy is in danger. There are scummy parents all over the world. Law doesn't let us kidnap them."
"What fuck should I give over Dima's bastard?" Nazarov grunted, his gaze hard on Alina.
If only she had left with him that day at the library. They'd have children of their own. She wouldn't be risking her life over Dima's brat, a boy that would one day grow up to be as cruel as his father.
"Rodchenko plans on killing a family member to cement his position," Simon argued with his gaze on Kane. "If it isn't his bastard
"Please, they are all I have..."
"I'll be very gentle with the contents," Simon assured her, his voice dropping low in an attempt to calm the distraught woman.
Pulling out a box of crayons from the bottom of her bag, Nazarov dumped them on the floor and watched them scatter, then he checked the box for anything taped in side.
Feeling that the purse was empty, he looked inside, saw nothing. Turning it upside down and shaking, he heard a small metallic click as something fell out. Leaning forward, he saw the item. At first glance, it looked like junk. Mangled metal oxidized except for a small inward dipping curve on one side where it must have been rubbed frequently to keep the copper showing through.
He could just make out where the bull's horns had attached to the head. He looked at Alina to find her hugging her papers, her eyes on her lap and her face screwed tight from the tears she was holding in.
She had been crying earlier, begging and sobbing at the camera to spare him. And she still carried the little figure she had shaped for him so many years ago. But she wouldn't leave Dima, even if staying meant she would soon be dead.
Pocketing the figuring, he pulled out a knife and ripped through the fabric of the bag. His fingers manipulated the lining.
"He took all of your money, your identification?"
She said nothing, just continued staring at the top of her knees.
Nazarov passed the bag to Simon, who rolled down his window and tossed it onto the street.
"No point risking it," the Englishman explained as he returned to sifting through Alina's phone.
His fingers slowed as he looked through her photos. He expanded one, Nazarov's viewing angle too narrow to see what the picture contained or why it should hold Simon's interest for so long.
"This boy," he said, pointing the phone's display at Alina. "His name is Bogdan, yes?"
She nodded, her hand reaching for the phone, the fingers engaged in an urgent dance to coax Simon into surrendering the device.
Nazarov snatched it up, expanded the photo and stared at the boy. His head was tilted downward, black hair covering his eyes. The shade was that of all the Rodchenkos he had ever known. Alina, her father, Dima.
White and blue frosting smudged the boy's sharp chin.
"Dmitrey Rodchenko's son," Simon offered, his laptop out and opened once more. "No photos publicly in existence, his location more secret than his father's although presumed to live in the States. Mother unknown, rumored to be from one of the slave houses."
Simon dipped his head so he could look into Alina's flat gaze. "Is Bogdan why you're fighting us?"
Her shoulders scrunched together. Pursed lips trembled and her hands shook as she tried not to crush the drawings in her hand. She looked at Simon, the muscles of her throat visibly tightening.
"Please, it's like the hospital, isn't it? If I don't want help, you cannot force it on me."
Simon retrieved the phone from Nazarov. He swiped through more of the photos. Stopping at the last one, he looked from the photo to Alina before studying Nazarov for a few long seconds. His brow lifted, skeptical, and then he shoved the phone in his jacket pocket.
"What if we kidnap the boy?" Simon asked.
"Hold up," Kane interjected. "We have no reason to believe the boy is in danger. There are scummy parents all over the world. Law doesn't let us kidnap them."
"What fuck should I give over Dima's bastard?" Nazarov grunted, his gaze hard on Alina.
If only she had left with him that day at the library. They'd have children of their own. She wouldn't be risking her life over Dima's brat, a boy that would one day grow up to be as cruel as his father.
"Rodchenko plans on killing a family member to cement his position," Simon argued with his gaze on Kane. "If it isn't his bastard
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