34. Seeing Red
SEEING RED
“You were good.”
I scowl at Lev’s proud profile, keeping my arms tightly crossed across my chest. He is absolutely not forgiven for offering me up to play two hours of folk music.
I was part of a group, but a much, much smaller group than I’m accustomed to performing with.
I could see every strange face in the audience and one familiar crooked grin.
His compliment cracks my annoyed veneer a little, although I don’t allow it to show.
I’m accustomed to being cautious. I was trained to stand in the background.
Someone shoving me into a spotlight is a strange sensation.
The only other person who’s encouraged me to step outside of my comfort zone was Lola, and that was more along the lines of giving one of Nancy’s waiters my number or pushing me to audition for first violin.
I’m proud of myself for stepping onto the makeshift stage, but that satisfaction is steadily shrinking, the closer we get to the meeting that is the whole purpose of this trip.
Tomorrow, I’ll begin my new life.
I’ll never see Lev Sokolov again.
“You can stay in the car,” Lev suggests for what must be the dozenth time since we left the pub where we ate dinner. Correctly reading some of my silence as nerves.
We’ve driven about twenty minutes from the hotel.
This neighborhood is very different from the boisterous area where we ate dinner.
It’s a street I’d feel nervous walking along alone.
I’m armed—Lev gave me a gun when we got in the car—but having it makes me more anxious, not less.
Lev’s presence is far more reassuring than a firearm.
I reply to the suggestion the same way I have every time. “No.”
I’m about to be entirely independent. The only reason we’re here is because of the mess I created. No way am I waiting in the car like a small child.
A few minutes later, we arrive at what appears to be an old bar.
The building is long and low, reminding me of a bunkhouse, the parking area in front only containing one other vehicle.
It’s not even midnight, according to the clock on the dash, yet the bar appears closed with no interior lights on.
Odd for an establishment that presumably does most of its business after dark.
Lev parks and shuts off the SUV. He climbs out of the car without mentioning me staying behind again.
I follow Lev across the dimly lit parking lot and over to a side door that he raps twice on.
A dark-haired man with a scruffy mustache opens the door a minute later. He says nothing, just stares as he gnaws furiously on a toothpick.
Lev speaks first, but I have no idea what he says. It’s not English. Not Russian either. Gaelic, I guess?
The man looks at me without replying. He’s not leering, per se, but his attention isn’t friendly either. My palms dampen with sweat.
Lev says something else, his tone sharper, and the man’s eyes leap back to him. The gap between the door and us widens as he steps aside for us to enter. Lev walks in first, literally taking the lead, which I’m grateful for.
I follow Lev down a long hallway that has a basement’s musty scent. There’s a sharp turn left, and then the walls open into a larger space with a damp odor that reminds me of a cave and appears to serve as a storage room.
Another man rises from a circular table in the center of the room as we approach. His auburn hair is the brightest color against the backdrop of shelves stacked high with generic cardboard boxes.
He grins, calling out a cheerful, “Sokolov!”
“Seamus,” Lev replies in a tone that’s decidedly less animated.
I’m not sure if that’s due to the circumstances or not. I assume not. Based on his stance on sightseeing, he handles any business matter with brisk efficiency.
The red-haired man, Seamus, smiles at me next.
He says nothing, tilting his head curiously as he studies me.
His body language isn’t threatening, yet unease slithers down my spine anyway.
I try to keep my expression relaxed and indifferent, but I’m not sure I succeed.
I might be capable of playing folk music with no practice, but I’ve spent hundreds of cumulative hours practicing violin.
My experience meeting criminals is much more limited. At least those who advertise as such.
“You have everything?” Lev asks, drawing Seamus’s attention away from me.
Seamus sits back down, leaning back in his chair. He nods to a manila envelope sitting between two abandoned piles of poker chips. “See for yerself.”
Lev grabs the envelope and opens it. He pulls a passport out first, giving the pages inside a cursory glance before holding it toward me to inspect.
I step forward, attempting to ignore the awareness of Seamus’s returned attention, opening the passport and skimming over the details.
It looks legitimate, exactly like the Carina Carson one my father procured.
My new name is listed as Noemi Wallace. I’m not sure who picked it, and I’m not comfortable enough to ask.
I nod and hand the passport back to Lev, who’s flipping through the other papers.
Once he’s finished reviewing, Lev tucks everything back into the envelope. “You have your payment.”
Seamus nods, which surprises me. Lev said he only deals in cash, yet there’s been no bag of money exchanged, like in the few spy movies I’ve seen—Isabella and I mostly watched musicals or comedies.
I’m certainly not about to ask questions though.
“You’ll stay for a game?” Seamus nods toward the cards and chips spread out on the table.
“Not this time.”
“Just one hand.” He reaches out with one of his, straightening the pile of chips. Rather than fix anything, he knocks another stack over.
“Bye, Seamus.” Lev steps toward the door.
“Wait!” Seamus jumps to his feet.
I miss the split second Lev draws his gun. But he’s suddenly in the position he taught me yesterday, no longer aiming at a potato. He fires once. I literally feel the blood draining from my face as the man standing by the doorway slumps. The gun moves to Seamus before the body hits the floor.
I’m too shocked to scream. I go entirely still instead.
Seamus swears darkly. His hands are in the air in the universal sign of surrender.
I glance at Lev, baffled by what’s happening. What did I miss? I thought Seamus was a friend, and the other guy didn’t seem like a threat.
“What did you do?” Lev growls.
Defeat bleeds across Seamus’s face. “You were going to kill me anyway.”
Lev doesn’t deny it, which startles me. As much as I can be, in this current state of shock. I thought I’d hit my threshold for surprise a while ago.
“They paid me a lot. You can take half.” Seamus glances toward the doorway. “Fuck. Take it all.”
I follow his gaze to the dead man who let us in. His toothpick is on the floor beside his head, blood seeping steadily toward it.
I feel like I was just electrocuted; I’m so wired. Watching Lev shoot a potato was very different from this. I’ve never seen someone killed before. Never been this close to a dead body.
“Who contacted you?”
“No one. I recognized the photo you’d sent for the passport.” Seamus looks at me. “I like to stay informed on current events.”
Lev glances over as well. “Gun,” he tells me, and I hurriedly pull mine out, holding it the way he taught me.
Lev kicks the chair Seamus was seated in earlier, sending it skittering close to him. “Sit.”
Seamus listens quickly. The barrel of Lev’s gun hasn’t wavered from his forehead. His hand is perfectly steady, similar to a surgeon’s in its practiced inertness. He doesn’t look at me again before saying something in Gaelic.
Seamus shakes his head rapidly, hands still raised in surrender. He’s paled, too, giving his complexion a ghostlike appearance that makes his bright hair even starker by comparison.
Lev’s gun lowers. Fires.
I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting copper, watching blood gush down Seamus’s left leg. Lev shot him in the kneecap. My stomach heaves, threatening to spew out the fish and chips I inhaled earlier.
More Gaelic. Seamus’s eyes are wild, bouncing around the room desperately.
I want to turn away from the grisly scene, yet I don’t have to force myself to continue staring. There’s something fascinating about the brutality.
Lev keeps questioning him. Seamus keeps shaking his head. Begging, I think, based on the tone since I don’t understand the language.
It ends with Lev shooting him in the head. The entire exchange lasted a minute, maybe less.
Lev’s face resembles a statue’s stony, serious appearance as he turns back toward me. “Hallway is the only exit. Stay close behind me.”
“Okay.” I sound remarkably calm, I think, considering entering the hallway will require stepping over a dead body.
We both go still as the unmistakable sound of a door opening echoes down the hallway and into this bloody, silent room.
“Seamus?” someone calls. His voice has the same lilt that’s become familiar today. “Why’s the bar closed?”
“ ’E must be doin’ business,” a second voice says.
“Or drunk,” another adds.
Three men. We’re outnumbered.
Lev is already in motion, dragging the man away from the doorway.
There’s blood on the floor, but the ground is dark enough that it’s not obvious at first glance.
Then he points to some boxes in the corner.
They were either pulled off the shelves or never stacked.
They’re angled and tall enough that I could crouch behind and not be visible from the doorway.
But Lev will be, and so will the bodies. Cardboard doesn’t stop bullets.
There’s no time to argue, and I don’t think I’m capable of talking anyway. It feels like a fist of terror is squeezing around my throat. The new arrivals are still conversing, but I can’t distinguish a word of what they’re saying over the roar in my ears.
Lev’s expression hardens even more, waiting for me to listen.
I can hear footsteps. They must be close, approaching the last corner, the one that leads directly into this room.
I run, crouching behind the boxes seconds before the shots start. I don’t know if they’re firing back or if the bullets are all his. All I know is, they don’t stop.
I clutch the handle of my own gun, flipping the safety off and keeping it aimed at the floor. Silently recite the basic instructions Lev taught me. I listened carefully yesterday, yet I only hit one potato. And I had no fucking clue we’d end up in a shoot-out the next day.
I’m terrified I’m about to die.
I’m even more scared I might see Lev get shot. He doesn’t have backup here. All he has is me—because he’s protecting me.
I inch left, peering around one edge of the bottom box. There are three men on the floor now. Lev is on the opposite side of the room, repeatedly shooting at the doorway. A shot is returned, and Lev ducks before firing back again.
I can see the man who is aiming at him. He’s standing just inside the doorway, protected by the angle. He’s turned away, talking to someone farther down the hallway, gun held loosely in his left hand.
He hasn’t seen me, but he will. Or Lev will run out of ammunition since he’s firing more and already shot three people. I have seconds, maybe less, to make a decision.
Grip, stance, aim, and trigger.
I’m not adrift or drowning. I have the tools to swim. The ability to fight.
My first shot hits him in the stomach. I watch his body jolt from the impact. His head seems to turn left in slow motion. His gun is still in his hand. I fire again. He falls forward, not moving. Another man emerges, reaching for the dropped gun.
Lev fires before I have to decide whether to aim. One neat, clean hole in the forehead. The man I shot is bleeding messily, but he’s not moving.
I think he’s dead. Which means …
I killed someone.
I stare at the body, those three words slamming into me over and over again. Taking my breath away with their devastating impact each time.
I hear my name, but it’s muffled. I’m underwater, and everything else is distant.
Lev appears directly in front of me, blocking my view of the rest of the room. All I can see is the black button-down he’s worn all day. He reaches out slowly, tilting my chin up until I’m forced to meet his anxious gaze.
I flinch at the warm contact, but I don’t pull away from his touch.
“Are you okay?” His tone is low. Urgent.
“I-I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
I don’t know if I am okay; I don’t know if I should be okay. Someone is no longer alive because of me. Someone who was born and breathed and existed … until he didn’t. I don’t know his name or if he had a family.
He was armed. He was shooting at Lev. He would have shot at me, too, if he’d known I was hiding.
I don’t regret firing, but there’s no relief that I did. I feel empty.
His thumb sweeps along my jawline once before his hand drops. “It gets easier.”
I’m not sure if he means killing or living with the knowledge you’ve killed someone.
I don’t ask.
Or mention that I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger if that man had shot at anyone else.