March 23. MARCH Boris Aramov had dismissed the armed guard before grabbing a handful of Ryan’s hoodie and frogmarching him towards the Kremlin. ‘Ryan, stay calm,’ Ted urged, through the hidden earpiece. ‘Stick to your story, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ ‘Gonna beat you good,’ Boris said, as he lashed out with the cosh, blasting Ryan in the back of the legs. It was enough to make Ryan stumble, but his thick denim jeans took a lot of the sting out. ‘I can do whatever I like with you,’ Boris teased. ‘Break your face, burn up your nads with a blowlamp.’ Ryan had read briefing documents on all of the Aramovs, but there was still something chilling about Boris’ casual sadism. He’d assumed Boris was taking him all the way to the Kremlin, but Ryan got pushed through a broken wire fence into the exercise yard and nudged towards the weight stack at its centre. It was drizzling and past midnight, but there was a fit blond guy doing bicep curls with 30kg dumbbells.
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