Chapter 12 Konstantin
KONSTANTIN
Ishut the door as I leave Ivy’s bedroom, the soft click of the lock echoing in the hallway.
My hand stays on the latch a second longer than it should.
I hate that about myself—this hesitation.
I never hesitate when I have a job to do.
Until Ivy. But then, she’s not really a job to me anymore.
She’s much more. Shaking my head at such dangerous thoughts, I pull my hand away and nod to the guard as I leave.
I brought Ivy here to save her life and can’t tell her why. I tell her to trust me and give her a guard and bars instead. She looks at me like I’m the enemy because, from where she’s standing, I am. I can live with her hate if it keeps her alive, but it gnaws at me.
My office is the one room where I feel in control. Where no one bothers me unless they have to. Like now. Viktor’s waiting with a folder in his hands, his expression grim. He stands when I come in.
He taps the folder with two fingers. “Three names.”
He’s talking about the hitmen. Apparently, he’s found out who they are.
“Tell me.”
“Stephan Gusev. Motel off the interstate. Drunk enough to miss a moving truck, sober enough to keep his gun where he can reach it. Ukrainian passport, Russian tattoos, Antonov money.” He flips a page.
“Bohdan Cherevko. Rents a garage in the old cannery. Puts on a contractor’s vest and watches the courthouse entrance, thinks a neon vest makes him invisible.
Cheapskate. He’ll die for three grand if you ask him to.
” He flips another page. “Last one—Karpov. First name unknown. Eats breakfast at night. Plays dice in the alley behind the train depot. He’s the kind who survives because he runs before the door opens. Took the hit for the thrill.”
“Stephan first,” I say. “He drinks and then he talks. I don’t want him telling anyone he saw us coming.”
We take the black sedan, just the two of us on the hunt tonight. Snow whispers against the windshield and tires crunch on the mix of old and new snow. We cut across side streets where the plows haven’t reached, then down to the interstate.
The motel where Stephan is staying looks like it’s been losing the same fight for twenty years. The sign buzzes, two letters burned out so it promises “oom” instead of “rooms”. A woman in a parka smokes a cigarette under the awning.
Stephan’s door is the one with a boot print in the middle of it. I knock hard and sharp, just two raps against the thin door. From the other side, I hear a grunt and a curse, then the door opens as far as the security chain allows it.
“Who—” The man doesn’t have time to say anything else.
I ram my shoulder into the door. The chain snaps, and the stale heat of the room rolls out to meet us.
Stale beer, gun oil, and sour body odor fill the dirty room.
Stephan is barefoot, wearing only a pair of worn jeans.
His belly hangs over the waistband, and his hair is matted.
He reaches for the gun under the pillow, but before he can reach it, I kick the bed frame and the gun skids out of his reach, clattering under the nightstand.
“Friends of Antonov?” he tries, trying to smile with the one tooth that’s not brown.
“You took his money,” I say. “That doesn’t make us friends.”
He lunges for the nightstand anyway. I let him get close enough to hope and then put him on the carpet with a fist to the throat. He wheezes, gasping for air. Viktor stands at the door, watching impassively.
Stephan grabs at my ankle, as if that will help him somehow. I step on his wrist and feel the small bones shift. He screams through his teeth.
“You won’t be finishing that job for Antonov,” I say, my voice level and calm, as if I’m discussing what I want for dinner.
He tries to say something about a misunderstanding, but I don’t listen.
In my experience, men like him will do whatever they can to try and save their miserable lives.
They’ll lie, snitch, or make up some story.
I don’t have time to find out which kind of ruse Stephan will try.
Pulling my gun from my waistband, I aim it at his heart and pull the trigger. No hesitation.
Stephan’s eyes go wide. I stand and watch as the life drains from his eyes. His body slumps to the side as blood blooms across his chest.
Viktor’s voice is like smoke, illusive and steady. “One down.”
Back in the car, the heater throws dry heat against our hands. Viktor drives while I stare out the window.
The cannery crouches by the river with just a sliver of moonlight to give it an eerie glow.
Viktor and I get there a good hour before Bohdan pulls into the parking lot and parks his rented van behind a row of busted pallets, kills the engine, and gets out as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
For a man who makes a living killing others, he doesn’t seem to have any self-preservation traits.
I almost wince when he shrugs into that bright orange safety vest.
Once he’s inside, we follow at a distance. It’s dark and smells of iron and river rot. Rats skitter across the floor, but the biggest one, Bohdan, starts whistling as he walks.
Lights hum in the ceiling and leave pockets of shadows on the floor.
I move down the narrow service corridor with Viktor at my side.
A thin strip of light leaks from under the door where Bohdan disappeared behind.
I stop, listen, and hear a space heater tick, then the small click of a bottle cap against wood.
Sounds like the idiot is opening a bottle of beer, or something stronger. Viktor nods once.
I try the handle and it turns easily. We silently step into a square concrete room furnished with a cot, a crate for a table, and a folding chair. Bohdan sits in the chair with his fluorescent vest on. His gun is on the crate beside an open beer.
Something must alert him to our presence because he stiffens, then spins around, his eyes going wide when he sees us. A second later, he reaches for his gun.
I cross the floor in three steps and my hand comes down on the pistol first. I slide it away and put my forearm into his chest to keep him seated. He smells like oil and cheap vodka.
“Bohdan,” I say. “Make this easy on yourself. Just answer yes or no. Did you take a contract from Vadim Antonov to kill a woman?”
He swallows hard, but I can practically see the thoughts racing through his mind. Like the other guy, Bohdan is trying to figure out what to say so that he doesn’t get killed. The thing is, he doesn’t realize the answer won’t save him. His fate is already determined.
He shifts like he’s going to stand. I push him back down and take a half step to the side.
“Yes or no,” I demand again, my voice low and firm.
“It’s just business,” the man finally says.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I draw my gun, press the muzzle low into his sternum, and fire once. The sound is flat against the concrete. He goes slack in the chair and slides to the floor.
Viktor checks the hall, then the corners. “Two down,” he says.
We move back through the service corridor the way we came. The building keeps humming, and the river wind finds the gaps in the windows. We leave the cannery the same way we entered—quiet, quick, and with nothing left behind that matters.
Now to the third and final hitman. The depot sits in the old part of town where most buildings are made of brick.
The rear alley is wide, half-lit, empty except for four men and a milk crate that serves as a table.
Dice bounce in a bowl as the men watch anxiously.
I’m not familiar with this game but it’s obvious the guys have money on the outcome.
Karpov is the one in the cheap leather jacket.
He looks up, sees us, and the dice go still.
“Move along.” He talks around a toothpick hanging out the side of his mouth. “All you’ll get is trouble here.”
Viktor moves his jacket off to the side to show his gun then looks at the other three men and jerks his head. They get the not-so-subtle hint and rush away from the table, leaving Karpov alone.
The toothpick in Karpov’s mouth twitches a bit as he suddenly realizes he’s not the predator he thought he was.
“You took a contract from Antonov to kill a woman,” I say, stepping closer to him. Karpov glances at Viktor, or more precisely, at the gun on his hip. “Big mistake.”
“Why does it matter to you?”
I raise an eyebrow at him and he flinches—slightly, but enough for me to see. “That’s my business. Your business is to understand that should you try to complete this job, you won’t live long enough to take another breath.”
Even in the dark night, I can see his face pale.
“Do you know what Sochelnik is?”
He nods. “Christmas Eve.”
“Good. Tonight is your lucky night. Tonight, I let you live so that you can pass this message on. Are you listening?”
He nods again and removes the toothpick from his mouth.
“Repeat this message—exactly.” I pause to make sure he understands before giving him the message.
It’s an old-world message, one that not only Antonov will understand, but any hitman worth their name will too.
“Under the icon-lamp, on Sochelnik, we fast until the first star. No steel is drawn, and no blood is spilled at a fasting table. The Andreev girl is under my house and my cross. Any person who takes Antonov’s money and comes within sight of my pines will leave with a funeral candle between his teeth.
I am Konstantin Mikhailov, head of the Mikhailov family, and this is my promise. ”
When he just stares at me, I say, “Got it?”
He nods. “I got it.”
“Good. If I see you again, I will be the last thing you see on this Earth.”
We leave the man sitting there, his mouth clenched together in a grim line, and drive back to the estate. Once inside, Viktor heads off to talk to some of the other guys and to give them an update while I go to my office and make a call to my FBI guy.
“I take it the agents stranded out by the river with flat tires is your handiwork?” Kline says by way of greeting. “And you just had to take the witness, right? You didn’t tell me that was your plan.”
“Because I usually tell you my plans?”
“Fair enough.” I can almost hear him shrug through the phone. “But you took our witness!”
“I took her out of a position you failed to secure,” I say.
“You’re forcing my hand.”
“I’m giving you a way to keep it steady,” I say. “You file that the witness declined further protective custody after court. She exercised her right to leave. Shelve the paperwork until January and put marked cars where Antonov will see them and feel watched.”
“That is falsifying—”
“That is you doing what I pay you to do,” I remind him. “Or do you want out of your very profitable arrangement?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.” His answer is fast, almost panicked.
“Then get to work,” I order and disconnect the call.
After taking a quick shower, I make my way to Ivy’s room. The guard nods to let me know there haven’t been any problems. I don’t bother knocking and use my key to let myself in. There was no light shining from under the door or else I would have knocked.
Ivy lies on her side on the bed, the blankets pulled up to her neck so that only her face is visible.
Her breathing is slow and even, and she looks so damn young and vulnerable.
Stepping closer to the bed, I look down at her and my heart clenches.
She is young. Young enough to be my daughter, yet here I am drooling over her, wanting much more than she wants to give.
A soft knock at the door draws me from my thoughts and Viktor walks in.
His gaze goes to the bed, his expression softening when he sees her sleeping form.
He’s watched over her just as long as I have and I know he sees her as more than just a duty, too.
Although, I doubt his thoughts are as lecherous as mine.
He views her as a family member he needs to protect.
I point to the door then follow him out of Ivy’s room. We walk a little way down the hallway for privacy.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Found another contractor.”
Anger has me clenching my jaw. “Who is it?”
“I don’t have a name,” Viktor says, “But whoever it is, he’s FBI.”