Chapter 9 Kon
KON
I don’t sleep. I pretend to, closing my eyes and lying on the bed. Taylor is next to me, exhausted.
In the shower, I had her tell me everything she could remember about how the ballet moves from place to place. What modes of transport, when they usually leave. We stayed there, switching positions until the water ran cool.
There was a bit of dramatics as we left the bathroom.
She made to dress and leave, and I said, “You’re not going anywhere. I paid for the whole night, if I want you again, I’ll have you.”
I threw her on the bed and pinned her down.
She glared, and I warned her not to test me, or I’d make her pay.
And now, hours later, her breathing is deep and even.
My life. Taylor makes me feel like I’m alive for the first time in years, as though I’ve been dead inside and she’s my life in truth.
It’s a sappy endearment in Russian, but it feels true with her.
I run through scenarios in my mind. Different ways of rescue, methods of escape. I wish I had strawberries and cream sweets to crunch for a sugar hit as I try to solve this impossible problem. The strawberries the guards provided just aren’t the same thing.
I’ve never needed another person’s opinion before, but this is such high stakes that I wish I could discuss it with my second-in-command, as well as Taylor. I’d get the whole London Mafia Syndicate to help if I could, pride be damned.
Nothing has ever mattered this much.
I mentally comb through all the details Taylor told me. The hotel rooms, the SUVs and the minibus, the trucks of equipment. The private plane. I think that’s the best chance, but it’s bad. Unpredictable.
Twice during the night I wake Taylor to ask more questions, covering her body with mine. We don’t have sex again, and it’s insane, but I feel as close to her in those sleepy, darkness-shrouded moments as I do to my own soul.
She whispers in my ear, and I clutch her hair. We have a give and take, a dance. And although I’m hard, I don’t allow myself to penetrate her. I doubt she’d invite it, but I can’t afford to lose focus. Getting her out safely is the only thing that matters.
A sweet girl half my age can’t be mine either way, not in London or Moscow.
I ask her to repeat it all again. Every name she can remember, all the vehicles they use. The timings and the luggage, and most importantly, the people.
The ballet is only in Moscow for one night, moving on immediately, so that’s in my favour.
What isn’t, is everything else. It’s been years since I was in Russia, I’m surrounded by people who could decide at any moment they want me dead, and I have no time to plan properly.
I can’t return to London without Taylor, having found her, because I can’t leave her here any more than I could drop half my major organs.
If the only way she’ll come with me is with the other dancers, that’s what I’ll do, even if it kills me.
Which is a definite possibility.
I examine every step in the process Taylor described for transporting the ballerinas, and in the end, there’s only one logical place to snatch them away, and there are enough men who I know from years ago, and owe me their lives, or at least a favour. Or who I think I can find.
I hope.
Early in the morning, I wake Taylor again.
I tell her my plan as I pretend to thrust into her, my cock aching from the feel of her beneath me.
This time it really is a pretence. I’m more careful.
And I pray that I’m thinking with the correct head.
The first part of the plan goes well. I send Taylor back to her friends with a playful smack on her arse that gains me an authentically reproachful glare rather than the hope and fear that was obvious on her face as I opened the door. And I forced myself not to give Taylor a second glance.
Bile rises in my throat as I chat to Aleksandr, confirming the terms of our so-called deal. The one I never meant to confirm, since I assumed I’d be halfway back to London with my stolen goods by now.
Then I return to my private jet, and leave Moscow, heading west.
A chaotic mess of phone calls and commands follows. My men are in the wrong place and sleep deprived, having waited all night for me to turn up.
My second-in-command, Vadik, listens to my batshit crazy plan, makes two good suggestions that I accept, and gets to work.
We leave my private jet in a nice spot in Eastern Europe, where we’re met by the rest of my team who have travelled up in the helicopter, which we use to travel back towards Moscow.
I check in with the team who stayed behind in Moscow to find one of Yevgeny’s pilots based on the name Taylor gave me, my memory of the man a decade ago, and a bit of luck. It worked. They have his wife and son, and his promise of compliance.
My man tasked with paying—or bribing, more accurately—to get permits so we aren’t shot out of the sky does a good job, because we land in a random field north of Moscow with no incident.
The armoured SUVs are waiting for us, along with far more weapons than I planned on using for this.
Russia’s black market, combined with the contacts I have from Volk, made it easy.
I have no inside intel. I’m trusting instinct and Taylor’s guesses here. But the problem with the Volk mafia is that they’re closed, secretive, and loyal. Problem. Strength. Same thing.
All we have is the element of surprise.
For this information, I pay London’s best hacker—in both senses of the word—an outrageous amount of money. Blackfen sends me intelligence straight from the airfield’s coms.
Then we wait.
We’re half an hour away from the airfield Yevgeny uses, but we can’t afford to arrive too soon. Neither can we risk missing them, because we’re too late.
The conflict is a clamp in my chest. In the end, I think they’ll leave just after dark. That’s what I would do. So we endure hours of agony while I listen to the coms non-stop, hoping I was right.
I’ve been less tense when expecting a retaliation from Volk for taking the London territory of Harlesden for myself rather than on their behalf, at the dentist, and when I thought Camden was going to chop my hand off.
My right hand.
I imagine Taylor and her friends travelling through Moscow, and obsess over the ways this could go wrong.
We review all the scenarios as we wait.
Then the call for the plane comes in on the airfield’s coms, and we set the plan into action. There’s no need for discussion on the drive over. There’s just taut silence.
I’m asking a lot of my men. We’re a strong team, but this is different.
Our first SUV crashes through the fence of the airfield and it bounces off the roof of the vehicle I’m in. One more follows.
“That’s the target,” I say as the full airfield cuts into visibility. There’s a private jet on the ground, surrounded by SUVs and guards in black T-shirts and jeans.
The ballerinas are being ushered up the steps onto the plane. My heart is in my throat in a way it has never been before as I see that we’re just in time.
This having-something-to-live-for shit is terrifying.
My men shoot out the drivers first. Five shots from a 9mm submachine gun to the same spot get through the best bulletproof glass, and a dead body behind a steering wheel is a hindrance.
The girls who are yet to board shriek, and there’s the noise of feet on metal as they scramble up the steps onto the plane.
And out of danger. I hope. If Taylor is hurt, I’ll never forgive myself.
If any of the other dancers are injured, I suspect Taylor will never forgive me.
But there’s no time for that. There are shouts from the Volk guards. They’re out-manned and surprised, but not going down without a fight.
A small group of women, and Yevgeny, are closer to the limo than the plane. Yevgeny grabs one by the arm, and there’s a cry of “Madam Polina” from the other. They bolt into his limo, slamming the door.
Fucker. Using human shields, of course.
According to Taylor, Yevgeny’s team is ten. There are seven guards visible, with two vehicles. At the sight of the men, anger overtakes me. I intended to be the cool, calm, mastermind of this situation, but instead I shoot before I think.
Taylor hated these men. They made her so uncomfortable that she can’t be called gorgeous in Russian. The window is down, and bullets spray from my gun. The nearest man takes a shot to the neck and the chest, falling backwards as we screech to a halt.
I’m barking orders and numbers to my team as the windows are peppered with bullets, the glass opaque and shattered for a few critical seconds, allowing us to shelter.
I lead two of my men, ducking out the far side as planned. The driver stays down, reloading weapons to pass to us.
From the SUV to our right, Vadik is providing covering fire.
There’s a scream, and I know someone’s been shot.
I peek over the bonnet and take in the scene in half a second before a hail of bullets hits the car as I fall back. They’re at the tail end of one of their cars, the only place they’re shielded from us.
I fire off a few rounds over the top of the SUV, giving the third part of my team a moment of respite. Then I signal to Vadik, and we creep around in opposite directions. We need to get to them before they can reload and regroup.
Shots are fired on both sides.
Bullets whistle over my head.
“I’m down,” Danill calls out from the other side, remarkably calm despite the fact he’ll be bleeding.
Fuck. We’re outnumbered.
But we’re skilled. It’s instinctive. I rarely do these sorts of fights in London now, but all the muscle memory is here from when I was in Volk.
And it gives me an edge. I was one of their team once.
I led part of Volk. I know how they’ll respond, because I taught most of the techniques to my juniors.
So as I work my way around the vehicle, running low to the ground, knees aching, heart pounding, this should be fine.
It’s not.
I have to get Taylor out.
Finally, this matters. Protecting her is everything.
My shot is fired before I fully see the man. In his forehead—no sloppiness like earlier. He thuds as he falls to the ground. The next I hit first in the chest. He fires back, spluttering with the pain, but the bullet goes wide, and I’ve shot him twice in the face before he can steady his arm.
I step around his dead body. The other of Yevgeny’s men has fled, and shots out of sync with the others tells me Vadik has got his target.
“Clear on this side,” Vadik calls.
I shift, and see that the runner is heading for the gap we made in the fence, rather than the death trap towards the plane or the main entrance.
Steadying my arms, I take aim.
He falls on my first shot.
“Cease!” I yell, and my men stop with the rain of bullets.
Then there’s quiet. I count up the bodies, the acrid tang of gunpowder stinging my throat. A savage thrill goes through me. We got them.
Except that fucker, Yevgeny.
I indicate to Vadik to go around the back, and for the others to be ready to cover me. The limo is a bit offset from the other cars, and I take the distance in firm steps, weapon drawn.
There’s a female sob that punctures the air.
My heart stops as I see who is in there.
Yevgeny has Taylor, and holds a gun held to her temple.
“Give me the plane, and the rest of them, and I’ll give you this little dancer,” Yevgeny says. “I know that’s what you want.”
Taylor’s eyes are wide and shiny with terror.
“Get out of the car, and we can talk,” I reply, my gun pointed at him, though I won’t shoot. I’m not risking Taylor. “I have enough jobs available. Does Aleksandr really look after you so well? I’m sure you have other aspirations. More money, perhaps?” I sound calm, but I’m anything but.
I can’t lose Taylor now. Not after everything. Even if I’ll never see her once we’re in London, I can’t live without her in the world. She’s half of my soul.
The better, kinder, prettier half.
“Yevgeny,” says an older woman. Madam Polina, I realise. The ballet mistress. “You must yield. There’s no way out.”
“I’m not some traitor,” Yevgeny spits. “And neither should you be.”
There’s another girl with them in the back of the limo, and as Madam Polina dives for the limo door, the blonde dancer makes a run for it, sprinting for the relative safety of the plane.
Madam Polina moves to do the same, but shrieks as I pull her to me, acting on pure instinct, and push my gun barrel to her forehead. “She’s a larger shield than you have, Yevgeny. Get out.”
Yevgeny howls with fury, but obeys, holding a trembling Taylor as he half walks, half crawls out of the limo, and drags Taylor to her feet in front of him once he’s in the open. He glances from side to side, looking for an escape.
There’s none. My men have him surrounded.
“Without this woman, you don’t have a ballet troupe,” I point out. “You have a bunch of unhappy girls in tutus.”
Taylor’s eyes are wide and pleading with me not to hurt her mentor.
“You wouldn’t dare,” sneers Yevgeny. “Your little dancer would cry.”
“Try me.” I click the safety on my gun, and though it’s not audible over the sound of the plane engines, I see him register the movement.
Taylor presses her lips together, and I attempt to communicate with a silent look that I don’t care about her friend. I only care about her. If Madam Polina is collateral? Not an issue.
“You’re on your own, Yevgeny. There’s no one coming. The owners of this airfield turn a blind eye, you know that. Just give in, and I’ll let you go.”
Briefly, I think he’ll release Taylor. Then Taylor’s gaze meets mine, and she blinks, and looks down. My brain has barely processed that when she collapses, crumpling onto the ground and leaving Yevgeny exposed for a split second.
That’s all I need.
I’ve straightened my arm and fired right at his head without thinking. He’s blown backwards by the impact, and I release Madam Polina to run forwards. Another bullet in Yevgeny’s skull, and I reach down to Taylor.
My heart thumps in a way I don’t think it ever has before as she takes my hand. She’s cold from the frigid night air, and I pull her to her feet. Then we’re running. I don’t have to tell her.
We sprint up the steps, catching up with a panting Madam Polina, and we practically drag her onto the plane with us. My men have already sprung into action, taking up positions and replacing the aircraft crew.
I bang on the closed door to the cockpit, and yell, “Time to go!”
“Yes, Pakhan!” comes the muffled response. Good man knows he’ll get his family back. They’re waiting for him, and he played his part, keeping the plane grounded until we were done. There’ll be the money I promised as well as a cute reunion.
My team does something clever to push the steps away, then the door slams shut, and Taylor’s caught off-guard as the plane lurches forwards.
I catch her in my arms, and it’s all I can do not to kiss her with premature relief. Because we’re not safe yet.