Luca #2
“Fuck, it’s cold out there,” I say with a shudder as I settle in the passenger seat. It’s dark out, the days short as we inch toward December.
“Yep. These winters are the reason why everybody fails to invade Russia.” Milana is in the driver’s seat since she knows her way around the city and insisted on driving.
For a long while, we just sit, breathe, recalibrate. I’m squeezing the envelope with the wad of cash for the guns and satellite phone Benedict arranged. Milana’s clutching the steering wheel, but I can still see her hands trembling slightly.
It’s the release of twenty-four hours of traveling, knowing we’ve crossed some serious hurdles and lines we may never come back from. Knowing we’re heading toward a hurricane that could swing in any direction.
The whole day, I’ve been thinking of my fuckup this morning while we were still in bed.
How I let my fear translate into harsh words I didn’t mean.
At the time, I needed the detachment, but I have no excuse for those words.
There’s no easy way to make it right, not until we’ve taken Zoe and left the country and are safely on our way back to Boston.
I drag in a deep breath. I can’t head into this night without clearing the air. “I know she isn’t mine, Milana, but I promise I will protect her with my life. If only one of us makes it out of here with the baby, I hope for all of our sakes, for Annushka’s sake, that it’s you.”
She doesn’t say anything, but swipes at her face. It could be hair. It could be tears. I reach out for her and squeeze her hand. This time, she grips my hand back.
“I know you’ll protect her with your life, Luca. And her name is Zoe. Let’s not fuck this up right out of the gate.”
“Okay.” Zoe. Zoe Scalera. My daughter. Who I had with a woman who doesn’t exist.
I let go of her hand to reach for her cabin bag I tossed on the backseat.
The black hatchback is inconspicuous and not the type of vehicle you’d like to get into a car chase with.
We booked it with the idea of blending in, a cheap Chinese model which seems to be the go-to in Russia nowadays.
It has almost no luggage space in the trunk.
I pull the bag into my lap and unzip it.
Within seconds, I have the gun in my hands.
I load it with the bullets I extracted from my suitcase earlier and slip it into the door pocket.
“Where’s the ‘real gun’ pickup?” she asks as she turns on the ignition.
I turn on the two smart phones with SIM cards we arranged via one of Benedict’s connections before we left the States. Having Russian SIMs and local phones is the only way to make sure nothing here can be traced back to Il Consiglio. “I’ll put the local map app on.”
I connect a phone to the car’s system, and with a final exhale, Milana shifts the car into gear.
We exit the airport and head onto the highway, where she takes the exit as the map indicates. Soon, we’re in a small industrial area that gives me hives. These are the type of places, with dark back alleys and limited lighting, where shit goes down. I shudder as I call Benedict.
“We’re here.”
“Great.”
“Your man’s good? We’re on our way. Two minutes.”
“Solid as any fucking Russian I know. Watch your back.”
We ring off, no time for pleasantries. Now I’ve turned our phones on, he’ll be keeping track of our every move, my online man. There are other cars on the road, but looking at the map, we’re heading toward a dead end.
“Drive past first. I want to take a look.”
I hate that she’s in the driver’s seat. We didn’t even practice any driving skills before we headed out. If I were on a motorbike, I’d have zero qualms, but this situation leaves her exposed.
She does as I say, and we pass the warehouse where the meeting point is.
There is a lone car parked under the one dim streetlight, a man smoking casually as he leans against his vehicle.
Puffer jacket on, hood with fur rim up to protect against the cold.
I watch him follow us with his eyes, making sure not to turn my head to indicate that I’m tracking his movements too, in case he can see my silhouette.
Fuck. What I wouldn’t give for a motorcycle and the freedom it would give me. “Stop the car here and make a U-turn,” I say, once we’re well clear of him. “I’ll walk back and do the deal, and then you pick me up. If shit goes down, don’t stop, you get the fuck out of here, understand?”
“Okay,” she breathes, hands white-knuckled as she grips the steering wheel.
I wind the scarf around my neck and pull up the hood of my winter jacket to hide as much of my face as possible.
I take the gun, pop the door, and shove it in my jeans’ ass pocket.
It’s fucking cold as I head back down the road, colder than I anticipated.
Apparently, we’re in for the first winter snow within the next few hours.
We flew in just in time, now the weather is turning. I don’t plan to be here for it.
I hold the envelope out, arms away from my body to show the guy I’m not armed as I stalk toward him. I’ve always trusted Ben. It won’t pay to doubt him now.
When I stop a few yards from where the man is leaning against his car, just outside of the ring of light, he tosses his cigarette butt to the ground and kills it with his heel.
The crunch of boot grinding against gravel irks me.
“Saint Benedict?” he asks.
I nod.
“Welcome to Saint Petersburg.” He nods toward the envelope.
I lift a hand, indicating that I want the goods first.
He unzips his jacket and pulls out a brown envelope similar to mine, except it’s padded. There’s no telling what’s inside. He isn’t pointing a gun at me. Not yet.
Maybe not today.
I breathe. “On the hood.”
Car lights beam down the road. Milana. Fuck. The man shifts on his feet, puts the envelope on the hood. He raises his hand, beckoning with his fingers for me to hand him the cash.
My gaze flits to all the dark places where someone could hide, where bullets could come from.
Nothing.
I home in on my sixth sense. Nothing.
It’s now or never.
I walk over, hand him the envelope and palm my guns and satellite phone in the padded envelope just as Milana pulls up right next to us.
“Great doing business with you,” I say.
He smirks as he checks the cash. “Nervous American,” he says, his accent thick and guttural. “As you should be.”
I’m hardly in the car when Milana pulls away, tires screeching, and I fumble for the composite gun that’s poking my ass in my back pocket.
In my head, I hear his maniacal laugh following us.
As you should be.
Fuck.