Chapter 12
Yefrem
T he silence that follows the gunshot is oppressive, broken only by the sound of blood dripping steadily onto kitchen tile and Celia’s ragged breathing from somewhere behind me.
I stand over Marcus Lang’s body, the silenced pistol still warm in my hand, and confirm what I already know.
The bullet entered cleanly through his temple, and his pulse is gone.
No movement, no signs of life, and no possibility that he’ll recover consciousness and cause further problems.
Lang’s death should feel like victory and the elimination of a threat that’s been pursuing me for eight months.
Instead, I what I’ve done settles into my bones like poison.
Not regret for killing him—he forfeited any claim to mercy the moment he broke into Celia’s house and threatened her with violence—but guilt for the circumstances that made his death necessary, and for the chain of decisions that brought a federal agent’s corpse into the kitchen of an innocent woman who deserved better than becoming collateral damage in a war between criminals.
I holster the weapon and turn toward Celia, who has collapsed onto the hallway floor with her knees pulled to her chest. The shock in every line of her face makes her look fragile and nothing like the confident woman who hiked mountain trails and shared stories about her father’s death.
She stares at Lang’s body with the kind of wide-eyed horror that comes from witnessing violence for the first time and suddenly understanding the world is far more dangerous than suburban safety had led her to believe.
“Celia?” I keep my voice low and gentle, the tone I might use to calm a wounded animal. “Are you hurt? Did he touch you before I got here?”
She doesn’t respond immediately, her attention still fixed on the spreading pool of blood that’s already reaching the edges of the kitchen tiles. When she finally looks at me, her face carries an expression I can’t interpret that’s something between fear, recognition, and terrible understanding.
I pull out the burner phone I carry for exactly these situations and dial Leonid’s emergency number, knowing he’ll answer regardless of the hour or circumstances.
The call connects after two rings, and I switch to rapid Russian the moment I hear his voice.
“I need a cleanup crew at the Lake Tahoe location immediately. One body, federal agent, significant blood evidence. Scene needs complete sanitization.”
“How significant?” Leonid’s response comes back in the same language, professional concern replacing any personal reaction to what I’ve just told him.
“Kitchen combat. Furniture damage, blood spatter, and forensic evidence throughout the area. Full restoration required.”
“Understood. Team will deploy within the hour, but travel time to your location is minimum two hours. Can you maintain scene security until arrival?”
I look at Lang’s corpse and then at Celia, who’s listening to our conversation without understanding the words but clearly recognizing the urgency in our tones.
Two hours is a long time to keep a federal agent’s body in a civilian’s kitchen, especially when neighbors might notice unusual activity or emergency services could respond to reports of disturbance.
“Affirmative. I’ll handle site preparation.”
“Status of civilian witness?”
The question is loaded with implications I don’t want to consider.
In our business, civilian witnesses to deaths usually don’t remain civilians for long, and they rarely remain witnesses.
The standard protocol would be to eliminate complications before they become problems, to ensure that no one can provide testimony about events that never officially happened.
I look at Celia again, who made me remember what it felt like to be human. The thought of applying standard protocol to her makes something twist in my chest that has nothing to do with tactical considerations. “Witness is secure. Will be managed appropriately.”
“Understood. Maintain communications blackout until scene is cleared.”
The call ends, leaving me alone with Celia and the consequences of decisions that can’t be undone.
The cleanup crew will handle forensic evidence and body disposal with professional efficiency, but they can’t erase the memory of what happened here or restore the innocence that Celia lost when she watched me kill a man in her kitchen.
I walk toward where she sits on the hallway floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. The guilt that’s been building since I left her house two weeks ago now feels crushing, like a physical weight that makes breathing difficult.
She trusted me with her body and her confidences, and I repaid that trust by bringing federal agents and criminal violence into her safe suburban world.
“Celia, I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate, but they’re all I have. “I’m sorry for lying to you about who I am, and I’m sorry for leaving you vulnerable to what just happened. You didn’t deserve any of this.”
She finally looks at me directly, and what I see in her face makes me take an involuntary step backward.
Not fear, though that’s present too, but something sharper and more dangerous.
Recognition. Understanding. The kind of clarity that comes when carefully maintained illusions finally collapse completely.
“I know exactly who you are,” she says, her voice shaking but still carrying the strength that attracted me to her in the first place. “And I know what you are.”
The accusation moves between us like a blade, slicing through any flimsy explanation I might have offered. She’s not asking for clarification or hoping for reassurance that appearances are deceiving. She’s stating facts about my nature that she’s finally accepted as truth. “Criminal.”
The word comes out like a condemnation, sharp and final.
There’s no qualification or room for explanation about circumstances or necessity or the gray areas that exist between legal and illegal in the world I inhabit.
Just a simple, accurate assessment of what I am, and what I’ve brought into her life.
I don’t try to deny it or soften the reality with euphemisms about businesses or legitimate commercial activities.
She deserves honesty, even if that honesty destroys whatever positive memories she might have retained about our time together.
“Yes.” I keep my voice steady despite the way her judgment cuts deeper than I expected. “But after tonight, you are too.”
Her face goes pale at the insinuation, but I continue before she can protest or deny what we both know is true.
“You were present when I killed a federal agent, and you didn’t try to stop me or call for help.
In the eyes of the law, that makes you an accessory to murder and conspiracy to obstruct justice.
You’ve crossed a line with me, Celia, whether you intended to or not, which means you need to cross another line and help me dispose of his body. ”
The words are harsh but necessary, reality delivered without softening or false comfort.
She needs to understand that her previous life of middle-class morality ended the moment Lang’s blood started pooling on her kitchen floor.
Whatever choices she makes from this point forward, they’ll be made as someone who’s already complicit in activities that could destroy her freedom and her future.
“I didn’t choose this,” she whispers, but the protest lacks conviction. We both know choice became irrelevant the moment she decided to trust a stranger who told her carefully constructed lies about his identity and his business.
“Neither did I, in the beginning, but we make the choices we can live with, and we accept the consequences of the choices we can’t avoid.
” I gesture toward Lang’s body and the blood- spattered kitchen that will need complete forensic sanitization before dawn.
“Right now, we need to focus on surviving the next few hours.”
The cleanup team is still nearly two hours away, and Lang’s body can’t remain in her kitchen until they arrive.
There are too many variables and too many opportunities for neighbors to notice unusual activity or emergency services to respond to reports of disturbance.
We need to move him somewhere less visible that won’t compromise the scene before professional cleaners can eliminate all traces of what happened here.
I walk to the living room and examine the large area rug that covers most of the floor. It’s thick enough to contain blood and wide enough to wrap a body completely. The pattern will help camouflage stains, and the material can be disposed of along with its contents when the cleanup crew arrives.
“What are you doing?” Celia’s voice carries a note of hysteria that suggests she’s beginning to understand what I’m asking of her.
“We need to wrap him and get him out of the kitchen. The cleanup crew won’t arrive for at least two hours, and we can’t leave a federal agent’s body where anyone might see it.
” I start rolling back the edges of the rug, treating this like any other operational challenge that requires practical solutions.
“We use this to contain the blood and move him somewhere less visible.”
“You want me to help you hide a dead body.” She sounds almost numb.
“I want us to survive this without spending the rest of our lives in federal prison.” I turn to face her directly, letting her see the seriousness in my expression.
“Lang came here on his own, without backup or official authorization. He broke into your house and threatened you with violence. What happened next was self-defense, but no one will believe that if they find his corpse in your kitchen.”
“Because you’re a criminal and I’m?—”
“Because he’s a federal agent and we’re civilians who killed him during what will be characterized as a drug-related home invasion. The official story will be that I used you to hide evidence from a federal investigation, then eliminated the agent when he investigated.”
The explanation makes her flinch. She needs to understand her cooperation isn’t optional, that the line between victim and criminal has already been crossed, and that survival depends on accepting new rules for a world she never wanted to enter.
I drag the rug into the kitchen, spreading it beside Lang’s body. The work ahead of us is unpleasant but necessary, another bridge burned in the process of protecting ourselves from consequences we can’t escape.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she says in a whisper.
“Neither did I, the first time, but you learn quickly when the alternative is prison or death.” I kneel beside Lang’s body and check his pockets for identification and personal effects that might complicate disposal. “Help me roll him onto the rug, then we’ll wrap him completely.”
“I can’t. I can’t touch him.”
“You can, and you will, because the alternative is explaining to federal investigators why a rogue agent’s body was found in your kitchen.
” I look at her directly, letting her see the certainty in my face.
“This isn’t about what you’re comfortable with anymore but about what you need to do to survive. ”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I watch her internal struggle play out across her features.
The woman who trusted a charming businessman battles with the reality of what that trust has cost her, while the survivor she’ll need to become measures the price of cooperation against the consequences of refusal.
Finally, she pushes herself up from the hallway floor and walks toward Lang’s body with the mechanical movement of someone operating beyond their emotional capacity.
She doesn’t look at his face or acknowledge the growing pool of blood, focusing instead on the practical challenge of what we need to accomplish.
“What do you need me to do?”
The words are a surrender of sorts. I hate seeing how it diminishes her, but there’s no time for coddling at the moment. We’re forced to work together in this grisly task, and a pang of regret hits me, because I don’t see how she’ll ever trust me again once this is over.