Chapter 4 Tony
Tony
Adrian calls at six in the morning, which means he’s pissed.
“You idiot,” he snarls before I even say hello. “Why did I just get a phone call from one of my men telling me you interfered?”
I’m barely awake, still in bed at the hotel with yesterday’s clothes in a heap on the floor. My head pounds from the vodka and lack of sleep. I sit up and scrub a hand over my face.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Don’t be cute. The gallery attack. You took down three of my men.”
His men. The confirmation lands like a gut punch, and suddenly, I’m wide awake. “You orchestrated that?”
“Of course, I did. I needed to test their security response and make her feel vulnerable.” The way he says “her” makes my skin crawl. Too much emphasis. Too much ownership. “Instead, you played hero and blew your cover in the process.”
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, needing to move. “My cover is fine.”
“Really? From what I hear, Sasha Kozlov knows you’re not a journalist.”
“She suspects. She doesn’t know.”
“She’s smart enough to figure it out.” He sounds like he’s hyperventilating through the phone. “This is the kind of complication I’m paying you to avoid.”
I walk to the window and look out at Moscow waking up below. Gray sky. Gray buildings. Everything in this city looks cold. “You didn’t tell me you were planning an attack on a location she’d be at.”
“I don’t need to tell you my methods.”
“You do if they involve putting her in danger.”
The words come out harsher than I intend, and Adrian catches it immediately. His laugh is raspy and humorless. “Careful, Tony. You’re starting to sound personally invested.”
“I’m invested in not having my target get killed before I gather the intelligence you’re paying for.”
“She was never in real danger. The men had orders to shoot wide, create chaos, and leave. You’re the one who escalated by engaging them.” A pause, then Adrian adds, “Though I suppose I should have anticipated you’d react that way. You always did have a weakness for playing protector.”
Something about the phrasing bothers me, but I don’t have time to analyze it before he continues.
“It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you use this situation to your advantage. I assume the Kozlovs will reach out soon. They’ll want to know who you are and what you want.”
“Probably.”
“When they do, accept whatever they offer. Get inside their circle. Get close to her.” The possessive edge returns to his voice. “Sasha needs to trust you before we move to the next phase.”
“What’s the next phase?”
“That’s not your concern yet. Just do your job and get me the intelligence I’m paying for.” Adrian’s tone changes quickly. It’s almost conversational as he says, “You know, she was quite different in London. Much sweeter. I preferred her that way.”
My hand tightens on the phone. “You knew her in London?”
“I knew a lot about her in London. But then she had to go and ruin everything by—” He cuts himself off. “Never mind. Ancient history. What matters is the present, and presently, you need to accept whatever offer Dmitri makes and embed yourself deeper.”
“What if he doesn’t make an offer?”
“He will. The man’s not stupid. He’ll want you close where he can control you.
” Adrian’s chair creaks in the background.
“When he does, report everything back to me. Every detail about their operations, security, and relationships. But especially anything involving Sasha. Where she goes, who she sees, what she does. I want to know all of it.”
The obsessive quality in his voice raises every red flag I’ve learned to recognize over the years. This isn’t about business rivalry or criminal investigation. This is personal.
Before I have a chance to dig deeper, the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, trying to piece together what I just learned. Adrian orchestrated the gallery attack. He knew Sasha would be there. He wanted her to be afraid. And he knew her in London, though he won’t say how or why that connection ended badly enough to fuel the vendetta he’s nursing.
My phone goes off with a new message before I can think about it anymore.
An unknown number. Russian country code.
Mr. Haugh, Dmitri Kozlov would like to extend an invitation to meet this afternoon at 2:00 p.m. A car will collect you from your hotel. Please confirm receipt.
Adrian predicted this with disturbing accuracy, which means either he understands how the Kozlovs think, he has a mole in the Kozlov organization, or he’s manipulating events I’m not seeing yet.
Probably all three.
I type back a confirmation and set down the phone. Then, I head for the shower, because I need to wash off the feeling of being a pawn in someone else’s game.
The car that picks me up at two is a black Mercedes with tinted windows and a driver who doesn’t speak.
We drive through Moscow for twenty minutes before pulling up to a building in a commercial district that looks legitimate on the surface.
Import-export, according to the sign, but the security cameras and reinforced doors tell a different story.
The driver escorts me inside and up to the third floor. We pass through two checkpoints where armed men search me thoroughly and confiscate my phone. Standard procedure for meeting with organized crime leadership, but it still makes me feel exposed.
Finally, I follow the man into an office that screams power and money. Leather furniture. Original artwork on the walls. A desk that probably cost more than my car back in the States. Behind that desk sits Dmitri Kozlov, Bratva Pakhan.
He doesn’t stand as he says, “Mr. Haugh. Please, sit.”
I take the chair across from him and wait. Let him control the opening. Let him think he has the advantage.
“You saved my sister’s life last night,” Dmitri comments.
“I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Or the wrong place, depending on perspective. We met briefly at my brother’s wedding. You were asking questions about legitimate business expansion.”
“I remember. Congratulations on your brother’s marriage.”
Dmitri ignores the pleasantry. “You’re former military. Special operations, according to your background.”
Of course, he looked into me. Luckily, I know some people who cleaned that up a little bit.
“Yes,” I confirm with a curt nod.
“And now you work as a journalist and occasional security consultant.”
“That’s right.”
Dmitri pulls a folder from his desk and tosses it in my direction.
“I’m prepared to hire you as a security consultant.
You’ll help us identify weak spots in our operations and provide recommendations for improvement.
In exchange, you’ll be paid very well and given access to certain aspects of our business. ”
I open the folder. The proposed fee is suspiciously generous. “Why me?”
“You have skills we can use. Your military background, combined with your credentials as a journalist, means you can move in circles and ask questions that would raise suspicion coming from us. And because my sister seems to think you’re competent, despite her reservations about your honesty.”
“And if I decline?”
“Then you keep doing your journalism in Moscow, and we part as acquaintances.” The tone is pleasant, but there’s steel underneath. “But I suspect you won’t decline. The money is good, and the work is interesting.”
He’s right, though not for the reasons he thinks. I need to be inside to figure out what Adrian is planning. I need to understand why he’s so obsessed with Sasha and what he intends to do with the intelligence I’m supposed to gather.
“I accept,” I say.
“Excellent.” Dmitri presses a button on his desk phone. “Send her in.”
The door opens, and Sasha saunters into the office.
She’s wearing tight black pants that show off every bit of her ass and a cream-colored blouse that somehow makes her look both professional and hot as hell. Her blonde hair is pulled back into her default low ponytail, and her green eyes find mine within seconds. I see the wariness in them.
She doesn’t want to be here.
“Sasha will be your primary contact,” Dmitri explains. “She’ll coordinate your schedule, provide necessary access, and serve as liaison between you and our organization.”
The ploy would be genius if it weren’t so obvious. He’s using his sister as bait to see how I react, testing whether I’m professionally interested in the Kozlovs or personally interested in Sasha.
“When do we start?” I flash Sasha a full smile because, despite the situation, I expect that spending time with her will be the highlight of my time here in Moscow.
“Now.” Dmitri stands, and the meeting is over. “Sasha will show you around. You’ll provide initial observations, and we’ll discuss next steps.”
The muscles in Sasha’s neck flex, but she nods. “Of course.”
We’re escorted back downstairs, where a different car waits. A black SUV this time, with a driver and a security guard in the front seat. Sasha slides into the back, and I follow. The door closes, and suddenly, we’re alone in the confined space.
“So,” I begin after a moment, “this is awkward.”
She doesn’t look at me. “You have no idea.”
“Your brother doesn’t trust me.”
“My brother doesn’t trust anyone. It’s kept him alive this long.” She turns to look at me. “What are you really doing in Moscow, Tony?”
“Right now? Sitting in a car with a beautiful woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
“Wasn’t aware I was.”
She snorts, “You’re always flirting. It’s like breathing for you.”
“I saved your life, Sasha. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“It counts for questions. Like why an American journalist carries a concealed weapon and fights like Spetsnaz. Like what you’re really after and whether my family is your target or your employer.”
She’s too smart for her own good. Or maybe for mine. “If I were targeting your family, I’d be a lot more subtle.”
“Maybe you’re counting on us thinking that.”
The SUV pulls onto a main road, and I notice the driver checking his mirrors more frequently than necessary. Professional paranoia or threat assessment? Hard to tell.
“Look,” I say, “I don’t know what your brother told you about me, but I’m not here to hurt you or your family. I’m here to make money and maybe break a decent story. That’s it.”
“Then why did you come to the gallery last night?”
“Like I said. Following a lead about acquisitions.”
She studies my face like she’s authenticating a forgery. Looking for cracks in the story. Inconsistencies in the details. “You’re lying.”
“Prove it.”
“I don’t have to prove it. I just have to—”
An explosion cuts her off.
The SUV in front of us erupts in a ball of flame. Our driver slams on the brakes, and tires skid across the asphalt as we both pitch forward against our seatbelts. Metal shrieks. Glass shatters. The world tilts sideways as our vehicle swerves to avoid the burning wreckage.
My training kicks in. I grab Sasha, unbuckle her, and pull her down, covering her body with mine as debris rains down on the SUV. Something heavy hits the roof. The driver is shouting in Russian. Security is on his radio, calling for backup.
“Stay down,” I tell Sasha.
“What’s happening?”
“Car bomb,” I say.
Someone tried to kill her. Or scare her. With Adrian pulling strings, I can’t be sure which.
The driver throws our SUV into reverse and backs away from the burning vehicle while I search for secondary threats. Shooters. Anyone moving toward us with bad intentions.
But the street is chaos. Civilians running, cars are stopped, and there’s smoke and fire and confusion.
Our driver turns us around and floors it back the way we came. I keep Sasha down until we’re several blocks away and it’s clear we’re not being pursued.
“You can sit up now,” I tell her.
She pushes herself upright, sucking in air. “Who was in that car?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Someone just tried to kill us.”
“Or warn us. Or send a message.” I look back through the rear window, but we’re too far away to see anything except smoke rising.
Sasha pulls out her phone with shaking hands and dials. “Dmitri? We’re okay, but someone just bombed the lead vehicle. No, we’re heading back now. I don’t know. Tony’s with me. Yes. Understood.”
She ends the call and looks at me with something new in her eyes. Fear, yes. But also suspicion.
“Was that meant for you?” she questions.
I shrug, “Maybe.”
“Or maybe you knew it was coming.”
The accusation lands hard between us. I could deny it and act offended, but I understand where it comes from because if I were in her position, I’d be thinking the same thing.