Chapter Thirty-Seven
In which Scarlett meets old friends and new enemies.
Scarlett…
There’s a ringing in my ears, Gio is shouting something at me frantically but I can’t understand. A red mark blooms on his chest and he falls onto the seat.
It’s not the police or the EMT’s this time when my door’s hauled open.
It’s a big man with a shaved head. He nearly rips me out of my seat as I cry out in pain.
He realizes I’m still in my seatbelt and pulls a knife, slashing through it and yanking me from the car.
My backpack’s still hanging loosely from my shoulder and I stumble, blood trickling down my left cheek like tears.
“Neuklyuzhaya suka, clumsy bitch!” he growls, “Move!”
I do the opposite, digging my heels into the roadway, screaming so loud my lungs vibrate.
Another man rushes over, grabbing my other arm and they drag me.
There’s a sheen of broken glass on the ground.
I can smell gasoline. Dimly, I can see a couple of people on the sidewalk, a mom pushing a baby carriage, a terrified businessman who looks away when my desperate eyes meet his.
They shove me into the back of a car which takes off before the bald man can slam the door shut, and I get a last glimpse of Gio. He falls out of the Range Rover while trying to pull his gun. He slumps to the ground and doesn’t move again.
The security SUV that was following us is on fire, I can hear the piercing siren of a fire engine.
I hope it gets there in time for them.
They shove me down on the seat, I gaze up at the October sky until I pass out.
“You stupid fuckers!” It’s a female voice, and she is pissed. “You can’t handle a simple extraction? Jesus Christ, how hard did you hit her car?”
“It was armored,” the other man snarls. “I had to hit the driver’s side at full speed to stop it.”
He has an accent. After being around Dmitri and Roman for a while, I recognize it.
Russian.
Khokolov. Ah, god.
Bald Guy pulls me out of the car and has to hold me up, I’m reeling like a drunken sailor. Now I can see who’s been screaming at them.
“Russo.” I spat. “Always fucking someone over, huh? I guess it’s my turn again.”
She shrugs. “You know the life you’re in.”
Turning to glare at the men, she snaps, “Now you’re leaving her bleeding out here on the driveway, brilliant plan.”
Bald Guy hates her, I can tell. The big man having to take orders from a woman must be killing him. He hoists me up and the backpack slips off my shoulder.
“No! I need it- Medication- I need the medication.”
Please, my baby, my Murder Mittens, not a single meow, please. Oh, god. What if she’s hurt? Is that why she’s not moving? Where was the backpack, was it behind me? Between me and the seatbelt?
Russo leads the way, bending down and grabbing the strap on the backpack as she goes.
I must have hit my head pretty hard, because the walk up the stairs goes in and out of focus.
It’s a grand, sweeping staircase that goes to the second floor and then soars up to the third.
There are vividly beautiful paintings on the walls, stolen I’m sure from a museum or two.
The enormous crystal chandelier keeps reflecting facets of light right in my eyes, making me blink and squint painfully.
Another set of steps. We’re going up to the third floor. There's a little Juliet balcony there in front of a single door. Bald Guy has to drag me most of the way, and he’s cursing at me, at Russo, at the universe in general by the time she opens a door.
“Put her down on the bed. Gently, you asshole. If she got a concussion from the crash, Kholodov will carve you up.”
I can almost smell the hate radiating off him as he gives her a glare before stepping out into the hallway, his back to us.
Russo pulls a penlight from her pocket, moving it over my face. “Your pupils are the same size, that’s good. You’re bleeding from a cut on your temple but it’s not important. Head wounds always bleed a lot. You’ll get cleaned up in a minute.”
“You cut a deal with Wallace last time.” The words are barely a breath as she leans over me. “You know he’ll double whatever Kholodov is paying you.”
She chuckles. “I was working for the Pakhan last time as well. He sent me along on that pathetic kidnapping attempt because he knew Marlena would fuck it up. Damn, that woman was a piece of work.”
“Don’t do this.” Clumsily, I sit up, head still reeling. My backpack is by the bed, I see the fabric move subtly.
Oh, thank god she’s okay! MM, be still.
“A mercenary who doesn’t keep to their agreement is a dead mercenary,” she says indifferently.
“A mercenary who makes a deal is a rich mercenary who can retire and go buy an island or something,” I whisper.
She steps back from the bed, eyeing my bloody face. “There’s a doctor coming to check on you. There’s a bathroom through that door if you want to clean up.”
“Russo-” She’s gone, shutting the door and I hear the click of the lock.
Wallace…
My mobile buzzes again.
“Are ye going to answer that?” Michael asks.
We’re sitting in a beat-up looking truck in South London.
The Brixton neighborhood is trying to revive itself; there’s some hip shops - though mostly for vapes - and a brave restaurant or two popping up.
This block, though, is making no effort to improve.
Trash piles up in little heaps against every building, and the two guys who approached the truck, hoping for some spare change, took one look at us and went the other way.
“Nae, it’s not Scarlett’s ringtone or Gio’s.” I check my watch, “This is the time for the handoff for the cash. The Gadfly’s got to be the last eejit on the planet who demands cash instead of a discreet transfer.”
“Aye, but have ye ever spread a million pounds all over your bed and had at a lass right on top of it?” Michael grins shamelessly at my raised brow. “Dinnae knock it ‘till ye try it, cousin.”
“And you’re supposed to be the responsible one.” I shake my head sadly.
“Why are ye still in a suit, by the way?” Michael gives me a skeptical eye. “Ye look like ye should have ‘Incorporated’ as your last name.”
“I had an appointment with a major client on the real estate side of the business,” I say, scratching my back.
The starched cotton dress shirt is itchy as feck.
“He wanted to be sure that everything is going to proceed as normal, the selfish prick. I had to assure him that our special relationship with his steel company is still very special.”
“Ach, I hate those,” Michael says. “The business world is shite. Ye canna solve a problem by putting a gun in someone’s face. A pity, that. It cuts off a lot of chatter when you’re staring down the barrel of a Heckler & Koch CC9.”
My mobile buzzes yet again as a Mercedes turns the corner. In the movies, it’s always a well-dressed gentleman passing off a Brunello Cucinelli briefcase to a guy in a trench coat.
In the real world, no one wants the responsibility for a feck tonne of cash.
So, whoever got stuck with this detail is trustworthy enough to deliver it, but expendable in case the handoff goes wrong.
Aye, this lad is classic Russian gangster chic.
The tracksuit that likely cost him four hundred pounds, the gold jewelry.
I can smell his fecking cologne clear across the street.
He stinks of bad decisions and a recent hit of weed.
I click on my headset. “Are ye ready? Once we kick the front door down, ye know the bawbag will be heading out the emergency exit and down the alley like a rat on steroids.”
“On it,” Dmitri says, his amusement clear. “We’ve got it covered.”
The Mercedes has a driver, so as soon as the kid goes into the building, I quietly step over and shoot him through the glass with a silencer, so no one hears a gunshot. The sound of breaking glass, though, is nothing new in this neighborhood.
“Ready…” Michael murmurs into his headset. “Three… two…”
I kick the door open with the fury of a man whose father is lying unconscious in a hospital bed and hasn’t slept for 48 fecking hours.
I’m charging up to the second floor, the staircase is rotting wood and my foot nearly punches through a riser.
The kid’s already handing over the duffel bag.
He sees me and yelps, taking off down the hallway.
The Gadfly should know he’s fecked, but his arm comes out, holding a gun, shooting it wildly in every direction. I take a careful shot, and blow a hole through his hand, knocking his Ruger to the floor as he screams.
“Why do ye never let me say ‘one’ on the countdown?” Michael comes in behind me.
The Gadfly looks bad. He’s got a seeping wound in his shoulder and his filthy shirt is half-covering another bloody bandage.
“Ye know, it’s hard to believe you’ve lasted as long as ye have,” I say conversationally, kneeling on his chest until I hear his ribs creak.
“What do you want?” His voice is a death rattle. “Take the money- it’s right there.”
I lean all my weight on my knee, feeling his breastbone snap.
“I- i- information? I can tell you about-”
“Ye canna tell us anything that we dinnae know, ye useless feck. Ye really thought ye could get away with shooting my father?”
“I’m thinking The Gadfly here wanted to end it all,” Michael adds. He’s leaning against the shot-up doorway, checking the hall. “Ye have to be suicidal to go against the Taylor Mafia.”
“I only regret that I dinnae have time to work you over a little.” I pistol whip him once, twice, crushing most of his teeth and his jaw. The vision of my father, pale in his hospital bed, is painfully vivid. I slam my boot into his crushed face one more time.
“Wallace!” Michael’s looking at his mobile, his face is pale. “Finish up. We’ve got a problem.”
A single bullet and The Gadfly is a bloody sack of meat in a rotting flat.
When my mobile buzzes again, I answer.
“Where the fuck have you been!” Morgan screams. “She’s gone! They took Scarlett!”
The text messages begin popping up, one after another.
My hand’s shaking. “She’s not an asset, she’s my fecking wife!”
“We are leaving now. Come on, cousin, pull it together.” Michael grabs my arm and I mindlessly rip it away, my hand raised in a fist. Coming to my senses, I drop my hand, moving past him through the door.
“Everyone’s on alert,” Michael calls as we thunder down the staircase. “We’ll get her back.”
“You better not hang up on me!” I realize Morgan’s still on the phone.
“Do not leave that house. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Bawbag - Scottish slang for a complete asshole, alluding to them being a scrotum.