12. Alexei #4
“My old school reports?” I raise my eyebrows. “Thought you said this was just idle curiosity.”
“Don’t take it personally.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Back when Roman’s daughters were kidnapped, I did a deep dive on you. We weren’t sure whether to treat you as friend or foe.”
I’m suddenly regretting my choice of beer rather than vodka. Not that any drink will ever be strong enough after that particular incident has entered the chat.
“Despite being only a kid when the Orlov coup happened,” Mak is saying, “you found ways through their security. Hacked their systems. Managed to maintain contact with Lars, even during the years you had no access to phones or laptops. Using a gaming console, no less. You taught yourself to code like a pro in complete isolation. Some might say your genius far exceeded Lars’s, given that you were entirely self-taught and under extreme duress the entire time. ”
Extreme duress? I take a long pull on my drink to stifle the choked, harsh laugh that would give me away.
Dima’s knife shaking in his hand. Vilnus Orlov’s voice giving his sick orders.
The visions are my old companions, always lurking just out of sight, behind the nearest shadow.
But the truth is that I learned to live with them a long time ago.
Somewhere around the same time I took my knife to Vilnus Orlov until he screamed for his mama.
It isn’t the memories of Orlov, or even of Dima’s knife in my eye, that wake me in the middle of the night covered in cold sweat.
But the memory of my own knife cutting far more innocent flesh?
Yeah. That’s a different fucking thing.
“What’s your fucking question, Mak?” I don’t attempt to soften my words.
He eyes me with far more perception than I’d like.
“I’ve been wondering why it is that you’re content to let Lars Andersson take the credit for your ideas, while you feed the gators in the Everglades.
In fact, I’ve been wondering why you concern yourself with the swamp at all, when you could be living so far above it you can’t even smell the mud. ”
Grateful for the sunglasses hiding my eye, I sip my drink. “Lars’s ideas are his own. Or his and Mickey’s these days. I just fund the occasional start-up on their advice.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Alexei,” Mak says calmly.
“In the past five years alone, you’ve registered two dozen tech patents, all of which have subsequently been developed by Lars’s company.
You, Lex. Not Lars. Not Mickey. Your ideas have revolutionized everything from geo-mapping to 3D printing.
That last one has been a winner for contract killers, by the way.
” He grins. “Knocking people off is a whole lot easier when assassins can print their own weapons in a foreign country, instead of buying them through a third party.”
When I don’t speak, he stares at me, frowning.
“I get that you wanted revenge on the Orlovs, Lex. I do understand that. But that’s well and truly done now.
There’s a far bigger world out there than Miami.
Much more dangerous games to play, against far more worthy competitors than some grubby congressman.
If it’s adrenaline you crave, believe me when I say that the thrills only increase the further up the food chain you go. ”
“Respectfully,” I say, “why the fuck do you care what I do, Mak?”
Entirely unconcerned by my hostility, he gives me that annoying smile again. “Let me get to the final reason for my visit by asking you a question in return: after I leave this yacht, what course do you intend to set?”
When I don’t immediately answer, he gives a small nod.
“Let me guess. You’ll set a course south-southwest, hugging the Spanish coast all the way.
The marinas in Andalucia have some of the cheapest berths in the Med.
Quiet. Unobtrusive.” His smile fades as he leans a little closer.
“And less than two hours of good road to Granada.”
I stay silent.
“Your business is none of mine, especially given that I am currently in your debt.” Mak turns his drink slowly in his hand.
“And your private life is even less so. But for what it’s worth, when Roman asked what I’d learned in my investigation into the Paris incident, I left out several key points—and withheld the very clear footage of you carrying Ofelia from the limo into the hotel.
Because if Roman had seen the way his daughter clung to you, or the expression on your face when you looked at her, there’d have been no fucking need for a kill team outside your hotel—you’d be dead already.
“If you are serious about having any kind of future with Ofelia Borovsky,” he says quietly, “I suggest you rethink your career choices, not to mention your commitment to the swamp. And then, my friend”—he swallows the rest of his Negroni—“I suggest you learn how to code yourself into invisibility. Because no matter what career choices you make, if Roman finds out there’s anything more than cordial distance between you and his eldest daughter, there’ll be no yacht fast enough to outrun the bullets headed your way. ”