15. Kazimir
KAZIMIR
Ipull up my phone and check Roman's message one more time while I walk through the arrivals terminal. I couldn’t believe it when he sent it, but delayed flights happen all the time.
He said be here at nine to pick up our American friend, and I sent a reply three hours ago.
I got nothing back, but Roman said he wouldn't be reachable, so I didn't think much of it.
It infuriates me that this mess up happened, but Roman would've had a really strong reason for sending that. I stalk through the airport looking for the guy whose face I memorized, but I don’t find him right away.
Maybe it's because I'm so angry again for another screw up, or maybe he ditched the airport to find his way to a hotel.
After thirty more minutes of searching, I finally find them in the lounge near baggage claim.
The American's sitting in a plastic chair with his legs stretched out and his arms folded across his chest with his head back.
His eyes are closed like he's sleeping, though he's much larger in person than I imagined.
His two handlers are on either side of him, one of them scrolling through a phone and the other pacing near the window.
Both of them look as irritated as I feel.
The American sees me coming before I'm within twenty feet and he scowls, narrowing his eyes.
"You Kazimir?" he asks, leaning forward. A man this size could snap me in half with his bare hands if he wanted to. Lucky for me, I'm carrying and he most likely is not, given the fact that he had to fly here and walk through security.
"I am." I extend my hand. "I apologize for the wait. I was given a later arrival time and I came as soon as I could."
He glowers at my hand but doesn't take it. "We've been here since one o'clock this afternoon. My guy called your number four times and nobody picked up."
I pull my phone out and check but I have no missed calls. Either he has the wrong number or he's lying. I hold the screen toward him so he can see it.
"I don't have any missed calls," I tell him.
He finally unfolds himself from the chair to stand and the full height of him puts him at least six inches above me, which doesn't happen often.
"We flew twelve hours to get here and we're exhausted.
" Now his buddies are staring at me too, angry glares that make my skin crawl.
"I'm starving and I'm jet lagged and I want the hell out of this airport. "
"I understand your frustration and I take full responsibility for the miscommunication.
" Placating an angry fighter was the last thing I wanted to do today, but here I am.
"The facility's just a short drive and I have all of your rooms ready.
If you'll come with me, I can have you settled in within the hour. "
The handlers exchange glances and say something in English I can't make out—never studied foreign language—then one of them grunts and scowls at me.
"I'd better have food in less than one hour," the American says, grabbing his bag off the floor. "And then we're talking about whether this deal even makes sense anymore."
"Yes, sir," I say, feeling the added pressure growing.
Something tells me Roman would never have let this happen.
If he knew the plane was on time, why would he send that message?
Besides, he said he'd be unreachable, so how would he get through to me?
None of this makes sense. I'm gonna have to make Timur check out my phone again, because something isn't adding up.
I lead them through the terminal toward the parking garage. The American walks beside me and his handlers fall in behind us in silence. The terminal is quiet this time of night, just a few stragglers pulling luggage, a cleaning crew pushing a cart between gates.
My car is on the second level, but we have to take the stairs because the elevator's out of service.
And when we come out onto the second level, I hear footsteps behind us that don't belong to our group.
At first I think it's more stragglers making their way home after a long day, but my gut tells me something's off.
I turn to see six men in dark clothing, all with ski masks on, fanning out from the stairwell we just exited. A few of them look to be carrying weapons of some sort, and it instantly makes my pulse spike.
"Get behind me," I tell the American.
"What the fuck is this?" the handler with the bag says, backing up.
"Get behind me now."
The six of them close the distance fast. The first one swings a bat at my head, and I duck under it and drive my fist into his stomach.
He folds and I grab the bat on the way down and rip it out of his hands.
The second one comes from my left with a knife, and I swing the bat into his forearm, hearing the bone crack.
The knife clatters to the concrete and he drops to one knee screaming.
The handlers are hiding, but the American doesn't run.
He steps forward and catches the third attacker with a right cross that sends the man spinning into the side of a parked car.
The impact dents the door panel and the man slides down it and doesn't get up.
The American shakes his hand out and squares up, bouncing on his toes, and for a second I see exactly why Roman wanted this man on our roster.
He moves with a speed that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, and the power in that single punch would've ended most professional fights.
"Behind you!" I shout.
He turns but the fourth attacker isn't coming for him.
The handler with the bag is the target of this guy's pipe wrench that smacks him across the skull.
It sends him spinning until he slams into the concrete hard.
Blood pools under his head and spreads across the pavement in a dark, expanding circle.
"No!" the second handler shouts, lunging toward his partner.
"Stay back!" I swing the bat at the wrench carrier and catch him across the ribs, but the bat flies from my hand, and one of his buddies picks it up.
He staggers sideways, and I follow with a roundhouse kick that connects with his shoulder and sends the wrench flying out of his grip.
It bounces across the concrete and rolls under a car.
Then it's chaos, the three of us against three of them left on their feet.
All I can do is fight off the man in front of me and try to keep an eye on what's happening.
One of them has the American pinned up against a concrete barrier with no way out.
He comes in low with a bat aimed at the legs and the American tries to sidestep, but the barrier doesn't give him enough room.
The bat catches him across the left knee and the crack is so loud, I can hear it over the scuffling. The American goes down with a deafening roar, grabbing his knee with both hands, his face twisted in agony. And I've had enough.
I didn't pull my weapon because I can't afford to draw attention, but enough is enough.
I tug the gun out of my boot and fire two shots into the air, making the attackers stop in their tracks.
It takes a few seconds but they grab their buddies and start running, and I don't have energy to chase them down.
Besides, after that, I can't let the American sit here to be arrested if cops show up.
He's on the ground clutching his knee with his handler kneeling beside him trying to help him up, but the American can't put any weight on the leg. His face is white and he's grinding his teeth, groaning.
"We need to move," I tell them. "Right now. There could be more coming." His buddy is dead, no two ways about it. That much blood with eyes wide open staring off is never a good sign. We don't even have time to scoop him up.
"He can't walk," the handler says.
"Then help me carry him. We gotta get out of here. Gunshots draw attention."
I get under the American's left arm and the handler gets under his right and we lift him between us.
He's two hundred and forty pounds at least and his injured leg hangs useless.
We half-carry, half-drag him across the parking lot to my car.
I get the back door open and he slumps inside, looking back over my shoulder at his friend on the ground bleeding out.
I'll have to send a team to clean this, but right now, getting away is more important.
Nothing about this night has gone right. If Roman sent me that message, this is his mess. If he didn't, then we have a bigger problem than we know. I race around the car, slamming doors, and get in the driver's seat to take off.
Whoever that was knew exactly where I would be and when I'd be there, even with the delay. It was a setup from the start, which tells me whatever’s going on with my phone is having real-life consequences I'm not liking very much.
Timur and I have to get to the bottom of this because it's really starting to cost me. And if the boss finds out I fucked this up while he's on his honeymoon, I might just be out of a job.