12. Konstantin
12
KONSTANTIN
MINUTES EARLIER
“You sure about this?” Sima cranes his neck in the driver’s seat to look up at the apartment.
In the few short hours I’ve landed in New York, I’ve already tracked down a number of Ferrata men.
Unlike the stubborn fool in the Amalfi Coast, these were much easier to crack.
And even though they were clueless to the full details, they’ve provided enough information to tell me that this rundown walkup in East Bushwick is the last place that Alisa was taken to.
I squint through the tinted windows in the back seat at the building.
Its brick facade is chipped and stained by questionable liquids. There’s nobody outside, almost as if people know better than to walk around this area alone.
But the part that concerns me the most is just how close it is to the airport.
It’s less than a twenty-minute drive.
Sima might be right. There’s no way they’d keep her here.
But I have to be sure.
“This is the place.” Feeling for the comfort of the gun in my jacket, I open the car door. “Stay here.”
“I should come with you.” Sima taps his fingers on the steering wheel rapidly. “You don’t know what you’ll find in there.”
“I’m more afraid of finding nothing,” I reply. “Stay here and discourage the curious. Eto moi prikaz. ”
“ Konchecno .” He nods.
Stepping out from the car, I walk quickly over the cracked sidewalk toward the front steps of the apartment.
This place looks like shit.
The windows on the bottom level are protected by rusted bars. Trash bags are oozing on the curb.
My fingers wander to the gun in my jacket as my mind is lured into one of my many vengeful fantasies. I picture screams, explosions, and dark smoke that chokes hordes of my rivals. I see myself walking across their broken bodies on my way to take out Augusto and his son.
I imagine the old man falling on his knees and begging me not to kill them both.
I run my tongue over my teeth.
I’ll make every single person who had a hand in my sister’s disappearance pay.
With interest.
The front door isn’t fully closed, and as I climb the stairs, someone cracks open their door. A single wary eye gawks at me before the door slams shut. The tell-tale click of a bolt locking fills my ears. I keep my hand on my weapon.
The residents here might be Ferrata informants for all I know.
Surely, word will have spread that I’m in the city by now, especially with the trail of corpses in my wake. There will be consequences, that much is for sure. But if I can find more clues as to where Alisa is …
Or better yet, if I can find her here.
It’s nothing more than a fool’s hope, but I cling to it regardless.
I freeze on the landing of the second floor. In front of me is a reddish door with the faded number 28 painted on the surface. The pervasive stench of mold permeates everything. Beneath the strong odor, I can smell my own eager sweat.
With one hand on the gun’s trigger in my jacket, I reach into my pocket, pull out a handkerchief, and grab the doorknob to avoid leaving any fingerprints.
Just then, I hear a startled shriek. My grip tightens on my gun.
What the fuck?
It’s not Alisa. But it sounds familiar.
Tucking the handkerchief back in my pocket, I kick the door open and immediately spot the open bedroom door. A man in leather jacket is face down on the bed, and that’s when I spot something else:
Cropped tan joggers. A pale fist punching uselessly at the man from underneath.
Something glints and I see the knife in his hand rise up in the air.
Without hesitation, I aim my gun at his hand and pull the trigger.