Angel and the Assassin: Be Brave

streets away and walked up to the house. It was
    very similar to the last: a tall, narrow brick house attached on both sides with three
    stories and a cellar. On the step, he adopted the attitude again, a combination of
    nervousness and shame. When the door opened, he stepped immediately inside. “I
    want the kid,” he said.
    The man looked him up and down. “Who told you there was a kid here?”
    “The fat man from the house on rue Marceau.” Kael gave him the money and
    was not surprised when he asked for one hundred euros more.
    Having anticipated a high price for the commodity of a very young child, Kael
    had brought plenty of money. He began to grumble under his breath as he handed
    over the cash, looking resentful yet excited. To cap it off, he licked his lips as if
    unconsciously enjoying his prize already. It worked, because the man laughed. “The
    attic.”
    Without looking back, he began to take the stairs two at a time. He never once
    looked over his shoulder, but he knew the man had walked back into the front room
    again.
    Sitting on the bed, still wearing the blue party dress from the mansion,
    Ekaterina did not look up when the door opened. She had a book in her hands, and
    she continued reading, softly sounding out the French words with obvious difficulty,
    as if she hoped the customer might go away if she appeared to be busy. Kael closed
    the door softly and approached the bed. He knelt in front of her and waited until she
    looked up from the page.

“Dyadya!”
    He pressed his forefinger to his lips. “I told you I‟d come back for you,” he said
    in Russian. “Here‟s what we‟re going to do. I‟m going to disable the alarm on the
    window, and we‟re going down the fire escape. I‟ll carry you.”
    “My doll! I left it in the cellar. That‟s where we sleep.” She jumped up and ran
    for the door, but Kael grabbed her around the waist and pulled her away. “I‟ll buy
    you another doll. We must leave now,” he whispered.

    126
    Fyn Alexander

    The child shook her head, her blonde hair bouncing. “Mama gave it to me
    when I was little. It‟s the only thing I have from her. I can‟t leave my doll.” The
    image of Angel with his blankie and how much it meant to him rushed back.
    Cursing himself for a fool, Kael released her. “Can you get it in one minute? That
    fast?”
    The smile that broke out on her face was like sunshine on a gray day. This
    little girl who had been through so much could still smile. “Yes, Dyadya. I‟ll be
    quick.”
    Kael opened the door. “Go.” He closed the door behind her, praying she‟d
    hurry.
    “Where are you going, you little bitch? Get back up the stairs.” The man‟s voice
    speaking in bad French was very familiar. It took Kael only a split second to
    recognize it. “Back upstairs and get to work. Don‟t leave your customers,” he said.
    There was a loud clap, and Ekaterina screamed. The man had hit her. The door was
    shoved open, and Harry Denbigh walked in holding the little girl in his arms.
    Kael leveled his GLOCK, but there was no way in hell he could take a shot
    without risking the child‟s life. Denbigh began shouting in his rough French. The
    sound of heavy footsteps on the bare wooden stairs was loud enough to frighten
    Ekaterina. She started screaming in Russian, “Dyadya, help me. The men are
    coming.”
    Kael backed up to the window and raised his arm to smash it. Denbigh
    appeared not to be armed, and Kael might be able to grab the child and run. But in
    the split second that he formulated the plan, three men entered the room, shoving
    Denbigh and the child aside. All three were armed.
    “Put down the gun!”
    When Kael didn‟t move, one of them pointed his weapon at the screaming little
    girl‟s temple. “Put down the gun.” Kael dropped his gun at once.
    “On the floor.” He dropped to his knees.
    “Flat. Lie down.” He lay down on his belly and looked up. The last thing he
    saw before he passed out with the butt of a gun against his skull was the crumpled,
    crying face of the little girl he had come to rescue.

    * * *
    The pain in Kael‟s head screamed. Dried blood that had run from the wound

    was caked on his neck. He was cold and very stiff. From the feel of the rough-
    textured ground against his skin and the musty smell of damp, he began to realize
    he had been taken to the cellar. He tried to move his hands, but they were fastened
    behind his back and he couldn‟t figure out what with. After several