45. Luca
LUCA
This three-way communication is annoying the living fuck out of me, and we could probably have done something else to get around the phone situation, but I’m not exactly sure what tech these Russians have, plus we decided to travel light.
We came with as little as possible—nothing that can be traced back to Il Consiglio.
Fuck, I don’t even have a laptop with me.
I’m relying on a phone and my wits, two semi-automatic Makarov pistols, and a locally approved satellite phone.
And my wife.
My wife who is trying to keep her cool, but who can really stay cool when their baby’s life is on the line?
Milana is driving down the road again and slows as if she’s looking for parking outside Masha’s apartment building. When she spots one, she turns to park, but a figure steps into the headlight beams, almost colliding with the car.
“God!” she cries out, and brakes so hard we both fall forward. “Masha!”
Fuck. My heart sets off on a gallop. This isn’t in the script.
A woman, clad in a thick black winter coat, black scarf wound tight around her lower face, taps the hood and comes up to the passenger window.
It’s only then that I notice she has a baby strapped to her chest, also clad in black, her little hands in black mittens and a black cap on her head, camouflaged.
Masha taps on the window with a gloved finger, and I open it, cautious. I can’t read her face, what with the fur-lined hood of her coat obscuring most of it.
“Masha, what’s going on?” Milana says as she leans over me, her voice spiked.
“Don’t kill the car,” she says softly, in perfect English, laced with a Russian accent. “Eyes on my gun. Hands on the dashboard.”
I was already fisting a gun in my coat pocket, but then I drop my gaze and spot the barrel of a handgun pointing straight at the baby’s side.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I knew it. My sixth sense not the trust Masha kicked in a long time ago, but this is unprecedented.
I’m shaking. Milana has turned to stone next to me, hardly breathing.
“Masha—”
The woman interrupts her, gabbling something in Russian, and Milana puts her hands on the dash.
“Hands on the dash, Luca,” Masha repeats, in a tone that sends shivers of dread creeping up my neck. Milana didn’t expect this at all.
I do as she says, letting go of every weapon in my arsenal. Buckled into my seat, my body too big to maneuver easily in this small car, all I can do is obey. As I put my hands on the dash, I caress Milana’s pinkie with mine, the only assurance I can give her.
“Okay. Good,” Masha says, leaning in at the window. “No sudden movements. I’d hate to abort my plans early because you don’t know how to follow simple instructions.”
“Annushka,” Milana whispers, eyes wide, her pinkie trembling against mine.
“She’s fine,” Masha says, “and I plan for her to stay that way. Just do exactly as I say.” She straightens, shoots a glance up and down the road, then leans forward again.
“First, you two are going to swap places. Luca, you drive. Milana, you will get into the passenger seat. But”—she raises a hand to pause us— “Luca gets out first, and you scoot into his seat. Don’t leave the car. Nobody gets to see you.”
Fuck. I have no idea what her agenda is.
I know in my gut she has no intention of hurting the baby, but there’s a glint in her eye that speaks of madness.
Fucking Masha Baykova. Not finding anything on her even on the dark net didn’t mean she was safe—it meant she’s as fucking dangerous as anybody else who leaves no digital trail.
Fuck these Russians and their layers upon layers of secrets.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, not lifting my hands off the dash, feeling like a fucking drunk driver pulled over by the local sheriff.
“Ending this, once and for all. Don’t worry. I have planned everything down to the last T.”
“And holding a gun to a baby is how you go about it?”
“You don’t get to question anything. Needs must. Where’s the money?”
“In a suitcase in the trunk.”
“Open it, Milana.”
She slowly reaches down for the lever, not wanting to spook her friend, and pop the trunk.
“Don’t move,” she says as she walks around and glances at the two small suitcases. “Which one?”
“The black one.”
She heaves it out, opens the back passenger door, and tosses it on top of Milana’s cabin bag. “You better not have messed that up. We don’t have time for mistakes. Now get out, slowly. And leave the guns behind, cowboy.”
Cowboy. Fuck me. Nobody has ever called me a cowboy before. I smirk, slipping right into character, trying to break the tension.
“I’ve never even ridden a horse before. May I?” I ask, lifting my hands an inch off the dashboard.
“Place the guns you have in the back. That said, if you use them and this whole delicate operation goes belly-up, know that I blame you for being a fucking trigger-happy cowboy.”
“Masha—” Milana cuts in. “I—”
“I know what I’m doing, Milana. I’ve lived my entire life in the Bratva, most if it right here in Saint Petersburg. I know how these fuckers operate. Now let me lead the dance.”
I glance at Milana and our gazes meet. She’s petrified.
She trusted Masha—with her baby—and now this.
My sixth sense told me we were walking into a fucking trap, but I didn’t dare mention my suspicions to Milana, not when she trusted her friend like she did.
With the tiniest of nods, Milana indicates I should do as Masha instructed. She still trusts her.
With a frustrated shrug, I pull the guns from my body and slide them onto the floor in front of the back seats, out of sight.
“Good. Any other weapons?”
“No.” I’m totally unprepared for what’s to come, with only Chertnikov’s 3D-printed composite gun and ball-bearing bullets in the door’s side pocket where Milana left it.
“You can get out now.” Masha steps away from the door, giving me space to get out of the car. As I straighten next to her, making sure she clocks my height as I stare down at her, she gives me the once-over. “Motorbikes are more your thing, I understand.”
“Yes.” I take in her face, the shine of burnt and stretched skin covering most of it, her one eye beautiful and perfect, the other open only a slice, melted closed by the acid.
My whole being revolts, and bile stirs in me for what they’ve done to her.
Acid. A Russian favorite to ruin beautiful women.
This. This is what they’d subject Milana to. Will I kill my wife to spare her the worst? For all I know, this isn’t the worst. How much could a body take—how much would they force her to endure? I drop my gaze, remembering I shouldn’t stare. “I have several bikes back home.”
“Good. You’ll be happy to know I’ve left one for you in the shed, with two helmets. It’s an off-roader that will take you through the forest to the main road. It will be snowing tonight, so your tracks will be covered. You’ll have Annushka with you, just like this.”
What is she on about now? She’s rambling, but the gun is still pointed at Zoe.
“What—”
“Be glad it isn’t a horse. I was so tempted. Now move. Before Annushka starts crying.”
I round the car, my mind not exactly latching onto anything she’s saying.
Half of me registers she’s a threat; the other half tells me she’s busy with her own vendetta and our lives have just become twisted together like an inseparable DNA strand.
Whatever we do tonight, how we react to her instructions, is going to dictate how this night turns out.
Everything planned to a T. From both sides. But it’s as if we’re staging two different plays. A heads-up would have been nice, but we would have blocked her plans before she was even out of the gate.
Fuck it. Now she’s given us our first curve ball to mess with our carefully laid plans. And I bet that’s not going to be the only one.