Being dragged along the cool, damp grass was almost pleasant at first. My body was being elongated by the tension between its own weight and being pulled along by the forearms, and for a moment or two it felt like a good idea just to be there. Then I heard the foreign words that sounded like Russian but probably weren’t and the growing noise of the surf. Without meaning to, I drifted back down into a darkness deeper than the night. When I came back up again, the surf was definitely louder. Closer.
Opening my eyes, it took me a few seconds to focus. The grass lurched underneath me in spurts, causing my stomach to roil. I managed to lift my head enough to see there was a man on either side of me, each dragging me by my wrists. Their sparse conversation was in a language I didn’t understand but it mostly sounded like complaining. Probably about the bulk of this stupid American they were getting rid of.
The flat, manicured lawn between Mitnick’s house and the sea didn’t have any thing to hook my ankles onto, and trying to pull on my arms would only alert them to my consciousness. I tried to pierce through the dark matter in my head to figure out how I could get the leverage to work free. I tried to determine if the Bruiser was still around, but I couldn’t see anything but the feet of the two dragging me.
Somewhere far away I could feel the wind pick up, coming in stronger off the ocean, as if just lifting right off the cliff face to splash everything in a fine spray. Someone spoke in English, “Say hello to Sergei for us.” It may have been meant for me, but someone else laughed.
I was staring at one of pair of shoes, my consciousness telling my body to move with a growing urgency that was still very distant, when a new noise barely rose over the surf. There were two or three quick swishing sounds, feet against the wet grass, and then a hard crack, and something landed in front of me not far from where the shoes had been. It took me a moment to recognize the white blob as one the Russians. Ukrainian? Belarusian? Definitely one of the younger men from the billiard room. He didn’t look upset or irritated now, he was just laying out across the grass, having released my arm, his mouth slightly open and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
A glimpse of bare, smooth legs, darting fast out of my field of vision. Somewhere off behind me there was a surprised, guttural grunt over more of the quick sibilant noise, and another hard smack. The air pressure changed around me as something else hit the ground. Then there was nothing again but the quiet and the surf against the cliff.
A hand on my shoulder rolled me so I was facing the sky. Cool hands on hot cheeks, I heard muttered Italian, Sophie crouched over me, the cream dress she was wearing light against the stars. Relief crawled into whatever evocations she was muttering as my eyes began to flutter. I focused on her, her concern blending into a relieved slight smile, the combination of which produced an, “Idiota.”
She pulled me into a sitting position, quickly enough that it generated an involuntary grown from the both of us. Ignoring that she said, “You must get up.” To either side of me were the two thugs, twitching in unconsciousness, and I thought it could be a mighty fine idea to join them for a nap. Instead, I looked over my shoulder to see that I was within meters of the cliffside. I couldn’t help but think that if Sophie had been a few minutes later the problem would have solved itself.
Instead I tried to clear my head and when I had gotten some of the fog out of that I moved to stand. Sophie put my arm over her shoulder and walked me a few meters, far enough to determine I could move on my own. With that, she gently untangled from me and said, “You need to go.” She handed me something, pushing it into my hand. Looking down I saw the short, hard cylinder of the steel-cored umbrella. Despite the dry night she had brought it with her anyway.
Good call, I thought blearily, the quickness with which she had used it to dispatch the two men an impressionistic blur in my memory, framed by the borders of my injuries. Partially to be careful and partially to make sure I could, I bent down to wipe it on the grass. I didn’t see any blood come off it, but it was dark and the umbrella black.
Almost as an after-thought I asked, “What about you?”
Sophie undid a knot she had made of her skirt to hold it up, causing it to fall to its full-length. She fluttered it out, then tilted her head back to run both her hands through her hair, straightening the dishevelment out of it with an ease that only made her more beautiful. She came back smiling, a new creature emerging from her adjustments, ready to go back inside as another guest, perhaps having too good a time. “I will find a way home,” she said, and I believed her.
To read the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
See the author’s published work here.
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Expose Wagner and other paramilitary groups. The deployment of private Russian mercenary groups in Africa is troubling, but the United States has limited influence in most of the countries where they are active. The United States should expand public diplomacy outreach and advocacy efforts with African publics, African politicians, and the world at large to highlight how these organizations fuel corruption, have ties to organized crime, and operate beyond the reach of local and even Russian law, as well as international standards for private military contractors. Empowering African and Russian journalists to examine and publicize Wagner s and other Russian private military groups activities will reduce Russia s ability to deny their presence, while raising awareness across the continent of how they operate. Targeted sanctions on Wagner and other Russian paramilitary groups operating illicitly in Africa are important in highlighting this threat; the United States should work with interested allies and partners to follow suit.