31. Dimitri
31
Dimitri
I would never kill someone for so little, either.
James
911 Rossi’s Men @ Rouge Elephant
The text from James has enough information and alarm that I am breaking my rule about driving the speed limit in suburban areas. The police in these places have nothing to do but watch for traffic violations, and it is something too easily avoided to be stupid about. But the situation will occasionally warrant the breaking of a rule.
I park near the entrance, pausing in my car. The exterior is calm, and well-enough lit from the streetlamps on the main road that I can see there are no dangers lurking between buildings. Trees line the back of the lot, shielding it from a neighborhood behind.
I exit my car and look through the large glass windows that serve as exterior walls—so cold, so impractical, but quite helpful in this application—on my way to the entrance. It is late, so many of the tables are empty, but I do spot Eleanor. Her back is to me, but I recognize the color of her hair and the curves of her back.
I do not see James, nor do I see any of Rossi’s men. I must assume James is handling the problem elsewhere. And if that is the case, I know the priority is to remove Eleanor from the situation.
I climb the steps and enter through the glass doors, blowing past the welcome stand—or whatever it is Americans call the dining gatekeepers—and stalk to her table. It is only when I place a hand on her shoulder and her wide, fearful eyes turn to me that I realize something else is going on .
“Eleanor. Come, now,” I say. I see James’s jacket on the chair across from her and lay it over my arm.
“We can’t—the check,” she says, grabbing a long, thin, red booklet sitting in the center of the table.
I heave a sigh. “How much?” I grind out, pulling my wallet from my back pocket.
“Um, $800 I think?”
“You think?” I snap, pulling out bills.
“$800.”
I learned a very long time ago to carry plenty of cash of whatever currency is local. I always have enough in my wallet to bribe an official, buy an old car, or—apparently—pay for my team member and his woman’s ridiculously expensive dinner. I toss down enough to cover the meal and stand over her protectively as she gathers her coat.
“Rossi is here,” she says quietly to me. I can tell she’s trying to be subtle.
Fuck. I should not have come in without doing a full sweep of the building. That is on me. “Where?” I reply, matching her tone.
“Um, directly behind you. He keeps looking over here, but I don’t think he’s seen your face. Maybe if you cheat this way as we walk out, he won’t…”
A strange sensation spreads through my chest at this small woman’s concern for me. I am not certain how much she knows of the situation, but I doubt that James told her of my picture being posted in hitman forums. Which means she does this for me because she is inclined to protect those around her. Which means that she is foolish, that she does not recognize her own weakness, that she will likely make poor decisions that do not prioritize her own safety… and that she must be defended at all costs.
I move as she recommended, keeping my body diagonal to where she said he is sitting—it protects her from his view as much as me. We are nearly at the door, when I glance into the reflection in the window and see him.
These fucking ridiculous windows. Almost as bad as a mirror. Rossi has seen my face.
I grab Eleanor’s upper arm and pick up the pace, pulling her with me. As we step onto the lot, I see a car parking in the very back and curse. Grigori Folson stands from the driver’s side and another man I do not recognize slams the passenger door.
My eyes cut to Eleanor. What do I do with her?
I release her arm and grab the base of James’s coat to find the lump that means he does not have his car keys on him, wherever he is. I paid enough attention driving in to know that Wesley’s rented convertible is not near where Grigori has parked, so I hand the keys to her quickly, before Grigori and his backup see her.
“Go to your car, and leave the keys on top of the back passenger wheel for James. Then go to the silver SUV over there and wait for me. Stay low, out of sight.”
“Why? Where’s Mac?” she asks.
“I do not know, but we have to leave now. Go!”
She rushes off to do as I instructed and her lack of hesitation, at least, shows good sense.
It is ridiculous. James allows Grigori Folson to live, and he creates an enormous pain in my ass. Now I must also try to save the woman. This place is reasonably empty, true, but it is public. That is why I cannot make an attempt on Rossi’s life now—not while he eats with that old, corrupt man they made the mayor. I do not have enough knives on me, and I will not leave witnesses.
Related to that, I need to take care of these two men in a way that the people behind the restaurant in their homes will not hear or see. The only stroke of good fortune is that being in an area this conspicuous means I do not need to concern myself with guns.
Grigori Folson is not a small man—thugs for crime lords hardly ever are—but still I am larger. His partner is about the same size, so I know I can handle both at once. My gunshot graze is now barely a scratch and I have my full range of motion back.
I grip a knife in each hand and thumb them down my palm until they are in optimal position. Bloodlessly would be the better way to do this, but silently is most important. I trot along the side of the building, keeping my movements big enough and being loud enough to attract their notice. I know they see me when they change course, cutting across the pavement and heading right for me .
I slip around the back of the building—well away from all those fucking windows—and catch the man who is not Grigori Folson off guard. He was closer, or he was the faster runner—whichever the reason, he rounds the corner first and gets a throwing knife to the throat. He chokes on his scream of pain and terror, blood spilling down his neck and through the fingers he automatically tries to use to hold the wound closed.
He stumbles back, falling against Grigori, who shouts, “What the fuck?”
I throw the other knife, but Grigori is quick or lucky, because he moves the other man in front of him at the precisely wrong moment. A second knife joins the first in his friend’s throat. His body falls to the ground and Grigori charges me. I could grab more knives, but my backups are in less accessible areas and he is coming in fast.
His gun is barely up at chest height when I kick it from his grasp. It flies from his hand, landing several feet away. I let my leg’s momentum carry me around and plant that foot on the ground so I can deliver a donkey kick with my other. He staggers backwards, though he keeps his balance and does not fall all the way down. The force of my blow makes his body immediately empty his lungs. His breath is knocked out, and he gasps for air, unable to make his diaphragm work. But he recovers more quickly than I expected.
This man clearly has training, because he comes at me with no fear and plenty of confidence.
Which is a shame for him because I have more training. And I can tell he is left-handed.
Fists drawn, he throws a punch from the left that I duck to the side to avoid. While his fist is still outstretched, I bring my arm up to grip his wrist in the crook of my elbow, and come across my body with my left hand. It is my weaker arm, but the windpipe is surprisingly fragile, for something so important.
My blow does not land because he blocks it, hitting my arm away. He jerks backwards and I release him.
Enough of this.
He punches twice, and I dodge, avoiding the contact as I fall into a kneel to grab another knife from my ankle holster. The next attack is a kick, aiming for my chest and meant to take advantage of my lower position, but I catch his leg with an uppercut, landing the knife in the back of his knee. He cries out, but I jump up and slam into his chest with my shoulder, sending him flying backwards. He collapses onto the ground, and I jerk the knife from his knee, grip one hand around his mouth to keep him quiet and shove the blade into his eye socket for quick brain death.
I waste no more time. I have already lost precious moments and more men could show up at any time. My right hand is slippery with blood, but that is the nice thing about black. I wipe my it as best I can on my dark shirt, then place it in my pocket so no one will see the red staining as I walk back to the car.
Fuck. Two bodies. I cannot leave them; this area is open enough that someone is bound to walk by within the next hour or so. And I have no way to know who will find them first—if I could guarantee it was Rossi, that would be another story. But there is enough blood spilled to make anyone who comes across it call the police, even without bodies.
I need to cover my ass and I do not have time to scrub a crime scene. There is nothing else to do. We have to take the bodies with us.
I force a slow pace as I walk back towards my car. I picked a poorly lit area to park on purpose, but Eleanor’s wide eyes as she takes in the sight of me tell me that I need to stick to the shadows. “Get in,” I say, unlocking and sliding into the driver’s side.
She slams her door and grabs for the belt.
“Wait, I need your help with something.” James may kill me for this if it ends up scarring her, but it will be much faster with her assistance.
I drive at a reasonable speed around to where the bodies are, and pull up next to them. She glances out the window and gasps. “Are they—”
“Dead, yes. They were coming to kill me, and probably you. I need your help to lift them into the trunk. Can you do this?”
Her face screws up like she is going to cry, but she does not. She just swallows and nods.
I hope she does not throw up. All it will do is leave more DNA at the crime scene.
“Grab his feet,” I say, pointing to the closer body with two of my knives in his throat. I open the door of the trunk and lean down to slide my arms under his pits. “Lift with your legs,” I instruct, then am surprised when she manages before I finish the sentence.
Together, we get him into the trunk, rolling him forward to make more room, and move to the other. Her face is red with exertion, and her expression is grave, but she makes no complaints. When the second body is in the car, I close the trunk.
When she takes a few steps past the passenger door, I open my mouth to warn her to hold her stomach, but watch her stoop and pick something up off the ground. She turns, holding it up from the barrel.
Son of a goat. I am almost as surprised at myself as I am at her—I forgot the gun.
She does have good sense. I nod to her. “Good, bring it.”
With so much blood pumping and adrenaline from the fight, it is difficult to keep to the speed limit. But with two bodies in the back of the vehicle and blood drying to a burnt red color on my hand, I will not risk anything. I set the cruise control to 42 mph.
When I am satisfied she is not hyperventilating, I pull out my cell and dial Wesley. He answers before the first ring finishes. “What’s going on?”
“I need you to find and wipe all footage at the restaurant and parking lot. James and I were never here.”
“Time frame?” I can already hear typing in the background.
“When did you arrive?” I ask Eleanor. She is staring, unblinking at her legs, and then I notice the smears of red against her pale skin.
“Eleanor,” I say, trying to be gentle.
She looks up, dazed.
“When did you arrive at the restaurant?”
“Um… our reservation was… 9 PM. I think we got here just before that.” She swallows hard, audibly.
I do not need to repeat it back to Wesley—he has excellent hearing. “She’s all right?” he asks.
I glance at her. “Probably. Has James checked in?”
“Not yet. Dimitri… what the bloody hell happened?”
I sigh. “Rossi was there.”
“Fuuuuck.”
“I will be home in 20 minutes.” I end the call.
“Has he heard from Mac?” she asks me, her brows lifting in the middle in distress.
“No, but I am not worrying. James was the one who texted me to come to the restaurant,” I say. I do not explain that he did not mention Rossi, just his men. “Rossi arrived after you had finished?”
Her lips flatten and she nods. Now she stares at the gun she is holding in both hands. I reach over and take the weapon, stashing it in the middle compartment.
“And you knew it was him?” I ask. She nods again, and I have to choke down a growl of frustration. I hate non-verbal answers, especially when I am driving and cannot safely look. “Tell me what happened. Now. Speak.”
She grimaces at my clipped tone, but I cannot take it back. “We finished dinner and Mac went to the bathroom. While he was gone, the chef came to our table. The mayor walked in and saw him there and stopped to say hello and Rossi was with him. He…” her lower lip trembles a bit and she bites down on it. “He knew who I was, I think. Or, he recognized me, maybe.”
I curse him inside—stupid little goat man. I wish I could have killed him tonight. “Why did you stay?”
“What?”
“You understood the danger?” I ask, gratified and confused when she nods stiffly. “Why did you not leave the table?”
She shifts uncomfortably on her seat. “I didn’t know what to do and I had no way to contact any of you guys. I thought Mac was coming back. And I,” she pauses, chewing briefly on her lip, “didn’t have any money. We ordered everything on the menu and a super nice bottle of wine—”
I curse aloud this time. Of all the stupidity in the world… “Do you think being polite is more important than being alive?”
“I know, I know. Now that I say it out loud, it was so dumb.” She grimaces. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not be sorry. Learn.”
“Our waiter would have had to pay our bill,” she says sadly, as if not done proving her point. Which is no point at all, in my opinion .
I scoff. “You think he would kill you for $800?”
“What? No.”
“No,” I agree. “It would have been your life for his $800, so it is basically as I said. I would never kill someone for so little, either. Your death would be worth more than that.”
“That’s the… weirdest nice thing anyone’s ever said to me. At least, I think it was nice.”
I do not completely understand her meaning so I choose to ignore it. “You need a cell phone.”
She blows out a frustrated breath, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yeah. You’re telling me.”
Her anger placates me, proving she will not begin crying quite yet. “Yes, I just did.”
“No, I meant… never mind.” She fists the hem of her dress with both hands and pulls the skirt down over her knees. “Thank you for coming to get me. I hope I didn’t… I hope you can still get him.”
“As do I.” I can see from the edge of my vision that she has started shaking. That will be the shock. I reach forward and blast the heat, though I know it will dry my eyes. “When we get home, have a big glass of water, then take a long, warm shower and put your clothes in the machine that cleans them.”
“The washing machine?”
“That is what I said.”