Chapter Thirteen
In which terrible tattoos are not as threatening as a Russian thug might think they are.
Nikandr…
"Start walking, or I shoot your girlfriend and her brains go everywhere."
A small noise escapes Caroline. Not a whimper, exactly, nor a scream, something in between. Like she knows she's about to die, and she's really angry about it.
Her eyes are watching mine and when I say, "She's not my girlfriend," they narrow and her lip curls back slightly, making her look like she's ready to take a chunk out of my throat.
The thug next to her chuckles, shoving the muzzle of his gun against her temple.
She's utterly still. No crying, no wailing, but her eyes are moving around, trying to find something to help us.
Unfortunately, it's a quiet section of the hotel, a side entrance that's usually closed and locked at this time of night.
There's a movement behind me and I spin with my gun in hand to find three pistols pointed in my face.
These motherfuckers.
"Now that we don't have to depend on your chivalrous nature," the first thug says, "get moving or we paint the walls with Morozov blood." One of the men behind me takes my Ruger.
"So dramatic," I observe as they shove me toward the side exit by the guns in my back.
Two. As if these simpletons don't think one gun is plenty.
Caroline's next to me. "Is that something that you practice in front of the mirror?
" One of the assholes behind me growls, and I can feel the air disperse around the arc of his weapon, probably ready to pistol whip me.
That would be helpful. It would give me a better chance to disarm him.
Unfortunately, Thug #1 is having none of it. "Keep your fucking gun trained on him," he orders crisply, "You crack him over the head with it and I'll make you carry him like a fucking newlywed." Less reassuringly, he adds, "There's plenty of time for that later."
Unfortunately, it only takes seconds to get hauled out the side exit.
There's a car waiting for us in the empty alley.
It's not helping us that it's a quiet night in this section of Moscow.
The expensive restaurants and clubs are full, but the streets are relatively deserted.
Instead of a standard panel van, these assholes have gone all out with a heavily shaded Aurus Komendant, the Russian version of a Rolls Royce.
Caroline's lips are pressed so tightly together that they're almost white, her hands tightened into fists. I push between the men and the door, helping her in before they can touch her.
After she reluctantly slides inside, I brace my hand on the door looking at the man behind me. He's been doing all the pistol waving and shoving. "You'll be first," I say pleasantly.
His face scrunches up in confusion as he gets in after me, slamming the door shut. "Huh?"
I lean over just a bit and his gun comes up in a warning. "You'll be first," I say, softly, almost intimately. "To have the skin torn off your fucking face inch by inch." I smile and cock my head thoughtfully. "I think I'm going to make you eat it before I kill you."
The town car takes off with a lurch, snapping our heads back as it merges into Moscow's downtown traffic in seconds. The lights of Hotel Tsaritsa fade behind us, replaced by searing neon and the glaring white lights of the high-rise district, curving along the Presnenskaya Embankment.
Caroline shifts slightly. We're bookended on either side by these assholes, and she's leaning closer to me, her long thigh pressing against mine.
I understand, she doesn't want that rat fuck touching her.
She's tall for a woman. I've always liked that.
I've never been into picking my dates up and carrying them around like dolls.
But Morozov men are usually 6"4, 6"5, so it's often necessary.
Her hands are fisted in her lap and she stares straight ahead. There's a slow warmth curling up my side from her skin against mine, it's bringing her scent with it, something lush, sea salt and berries.
"This sucks," she blurts it out, she's not even looking at me, still staring out the mirrored divider between the driver and us.
"I'm boring as fuck, so I'm assuming this grand abduction has nothing to do with me.
Which means…" Now she looks at me, not angry, exactly, more speculative.
"Which means that it's all your fault. Because you're the fancy special Sovietnik, correct? "
I shrug. "It is likely."
"Zatknis' nakhuy! Shut the fuck up!" Thug #2 shouts in my ear. "You can fight with your girlfriend later."
"He's not my boyfriend!" Caroline leans over me to snap at Thug #2.
Her hand lands on my thigh for balance, I don't know if she notices it.
Her breast is pressed against my bicep and I groan silently.
This would be an inopportune time to get an erection, the feel of her though, is bringing back memories of being inside her in that elevator.
Thug #2 raises his hand to hit her and I bend his thumb back, breaking it and enjoying his scream. Now, every gun in the back seat is pointed at me.
"You're not going to shoot us," I snap. "Doesn't that negate the whole point of kidnapping us?"
The asshole next to me is still glaring at Caroline. He pushes up his sleeve. "Do you know what this is, suka?"
She squints at his pasty forearm. "A skin rash?"
"What? No- it's Zmey Gorynych, the symbol of-"
"Are you sure?" Caroline leans closer and now her entire breast is laid out against my goddamned arm. "It looks like a salamander. You know what those are, right? They're-"
"It's the legendary fucking dragon, you stupid bitch, and-"
"Well, maybe the tattoo artist was drunk," she says doubtfully. "I mean, you had an image of what you wanted so maybe that's what you see when-"
"No!" Thug #2's face is red, rubbery lips wet. "It's the symbol of your fucking death!"
"The dragon's going to kill me?" Caroline's frowning, "How would-"
A gun fires and in the padded interior of the SUV it's like a fucking cannon going off in the middle of the Yankee Stadium.
The privacy screen is down and Thug #1 is pointing his smoking .
357 at us. "I don't know who I want to kill more, you, or my own men.
" There's a bullet hole in Thug #2's forehead, he has almost a comical look of surprise, like he can't believe his brains are splattered against the back of the leather seat.
My ears are ringing violently, and Caroline's got her hands over her ears. She staring at what's left of Thug #2, his blood is now sprayed over his arms, covering what was certainly not an accurate representation of Zmey Gorynych, the legendary dragon of Russian mythology.
My gaze goes back to Thug #1. He may have the square, grizzled face of a bulldog, but he's the only one of these four with an IQ higher than one.
"Everybody shut. The. Fuck. Up," he says flatly.
Everyone does.
***
"My ears are vibrating like I just came out of a twelve-hour Korn concert," Caroline mumbles as we're taken out of the Komendant, which has just pulled into the parking garage of one of the more flashily-lit high rises.
My gaze goes from one security camera to the next, making sure there's a nice, clear shot of my face.
With any luck, one of the Celsius-guzzling Morozov techs has already located us and hacked the feed.
Whoever locates us first gets a lifetime supply of energy drinks, I promise.
"Yes, that will likely continue for the next week or so," I agree as they push us into the elevator.
"Don't make me fire my gun in this lift," Thug #1 says tiredly. "Please be quiet."
"Well, thank you for that pleasant request," Caroline smiles at him approvingly. It occurs to me that I should have encouraged more of an element of fear in her, since I'm only half certain about who pulled us out of the lobby of the Hotel Tsaritsa.
Watching the numbers climb on the elevator display, I sigh and check my watch. It was a gift handed down from my father.
"It's a Patek Philippe Reference 1518," he had said, smiling at it fondly. "It was produced in 1943 and as far as I know, it's kept perfect time ever since."
"Otets," I'd protested, "this is precious to you, I can't-"
"Of course you will," he said. "There has been one small adjustment…" He flipped the steel watch over, showing the back, with my initials engraved and a slight bump. "A tracker. Since you refuse to get one injected."
I had laughed then, reverently putting his watch on my wrist. And as I check the time now, I press the button on the back.
The doors open to a large entryway, excessive amounts of gold trim and a huge statue of a nymph with a satyr, who looks like he's jerking off on her leg.
Ah, fuck, I think. It's Dariy Agapov.
"Nikandr Morozov!" The man coming at us, arms spread wide, beams at me as if we're the best of friends. He's wearing a cashmere tracksuit and enough gold chains to snap an average man's neck.
"Your welcome is far warmer than your employees' were, Dariy Agapov," I say, eyeing the three men clustered behind us.
His face falls. "They did not treat you with the proper respect? Rustik," he gestures at Thug #1, "shoot one of them."
With zero expression, he pulls his gun and shoots one of the others in the head before the man can open his mouth to protest.
"Oh, that sucks," Caroline mumbles, putting her hand tenderly over her ear. "I'm going to have to learn sign language because I'm not getting out of Moscow with my hearing intact."
"But back to you," Dariy continues without a beat as two servants hasten over to wipe up the blood as the body is dragged off. "Sovietnik Nikandr Morozov and…" His beady eyes, shrewd as a sewer rat's, glance from me to Caroline.
"My wife, Caroline Morozova," I cut in, smiling urbanely at our visibly disappointed captor. Caroline's hand jerks, like she's about to bring it up and slap me and I lace my fingers between hers, squeezing firmly.