Chapter 3
The red-roped VIP section empties out as Antonov plays the part of the Pied Piper and leads a parade of girls and drunk hangers-on down the stairs. One girl stumbles on her heels and he catches her, picking her up like a trophy and passing her to one of his friends. To him, she’s a thing and not a person.
She doesn’t object. The Night Governor has broken her in and trained her well. It makes my skin crawl, but it’s not my job to worry about these things. I’m here to provide security tonight, and anyway, teenage girls aren’t my preference. Not anymore. Nothing good can come from hanging out with someone that na?ve.
I scan the room once more and find nothing out of the ordinary. Dima, Sasha, and Sergei patrol the other three corners of the VIP deck. Sasha catches my eye as he prowls toward our boss. My best friend always moves like a jungle cat, padding across the room like he’s one move away from springing on someone and ripping out their throat. He waves at me to signal that I’m in the clear.
Time to make a move. I’ll walk the rest of the club. Check the corridors. Clear the exits.
I rise from the bench, and a painful twinge sparks through my right knee. Damn fighting. I can still feel it in my muscles as I stalk toward the fire exit. I push the bar attached to the door, knowing I’ll have to loop through the club and come back up the stairs and step into the darkened hallway.
Once I’m away from the main stage, the illusion of glamor falls away. Lighting and scantily clad teenagers make up the fa?ade in the front of the house, but back here it’s just plywood and dust.
Sticky carpet clutches my boots near the fire exit, likely from the spilled champagne and vodka that have soaked in from the club. Then the last evidence of parties fades to dusty gray fibers. The soles of my shoes slide against the surface as I open each door to check for people I don’t recognize, anyone who’s in a place they shouldn’t be, or packages I haven’t seen before.
Brooms and cleaning products wait behind door one. Door two leads into an empty conference room. A fluorescent-lit whiteboard smeared with the remnants of black writing dominates the back wall. Giggles float beneath door three, and I stand outside, listening to the sound and checking for my knife and gun before I open it a crack. Dancers move around the room and defer to Oksana, an auburn-haired stripper I sometimes sleep with when we both need to scratch an itch. Nothing to worry about here.
I open the door wider, and she grins at me. “Vadim, honey, have you come to pay us a visit?” she says, leaning back in her chair, her thigh slung provocatively over the side. The sight is tempting when I’m off duty, but not when I’m working.
Around Oksana, dancers pull off their lingerie and stalk naked around the room, looking for sweats and sneakers as they journey back to normal life. One girl becomes a headless vision as she wrestles a sweatshirt over her bouncing, pink-tipped tits. Oksana catches me watching and offers a sly smile, but I shake my head and keep my hand on the doorknob. She winks as I close the door behind me and return to the gray corridor.
The girls’ voices fade as I make my way past empty rooms, listening at doors for anything untoward. I’m about to head back to find Sasha and check in with our boss when voices with an odd rhythm catch my attention. They sound more American than Russian.
It’s none of my business because she’s not likely to be a threat, but curiosity propels me past the next few rooms in the hope of catching another glimpse of the little songbird. As I near the end of the corridor, I’m certain it’s her voice. She has a southern accent that sounds like honey, and I tell myself it’s not really eavesdropping as I lean against the wall and listen to the rise and fall of each word she speaks. I close my eyes and let the sound wash over me, but the thud of heavy male footsteps approaches the bend in the corridor, putting me back on alert. Alive to a possible threat, I slink into the shadows.