Chapter 4 - Viktor
Thirty seconds isn’t my fastest time, but it’s respectable enough, considering the shitty set I grabbed from the glove compartment. The lock gives without putting up much of a fight.
And why wouldn’t it? Free of its patrons, there’s nothing to romanticize about the club. When no writhing bodies are packing the building, it’s dark, dank, and vacant. It’s more like a tomb than anything, if tombs reeked of stale beer and industrial-strength cleaner.
I walk past the mop bucket abandoned in the middle of the floor. It’s so quiet, I swear I can hear the hum of the refrigerators behind the bar.
I’d gone through the blueprints before I’d ever considered it as an option last night.
It’s easy enough to navigate. My eyes adjust to the darkness soon enough.
I’m in the hallway to the manager’s office in no time, where no one would expect me to be.
At least that’s what I’m holding onto, wading deeper and deeper into the quicksand of my own curiosity.
Objectively, this is a smart play. There’s no denying that my reputation precedes me. I can make it work for myself.
People still expect chaos and mayhem, their expectations hinging on rumors of a past life.
I used to let the white-hot anger guide me.
I tore through this city—and a few others—without shame.
I’m not ashamed now, either. Nor am I above using their expectations against them.
If they can’t foresee my picking a lock and slipping through the shadows in search of the most magnificent woman I’ve ever met, it’s on them.
Let them underestimate me.
Meanwhile, I find that the manager’s office door, though locked, is flimsier than the back entrance.
The inside is what one would expect from a club manager’s lair: cramped and cluttered, with a minor mountain of cigarettes in a gawdy ashtray, and the persistent odor of pine-scented cologne.
The desktop computer immediately monopolizes my attention—and the metal cabinet behind it.
The latch on the cabinet takes some jimmying, but it comes loose eventually.
It probably shows that I don’t often resort to doing this menial bullshit myself when there are many lackeys and sycophants at the Zakharov name’s disposal.
But I’m not here as a Zakharov. So, my hands are getting dirty either way. It’s fine.
At least the effort reaps some reward.
Inside, the compact NVR unit is right there, its green lights blinking away merrily. I’m no savant. It takes some figuring out to find my way around the tiny touchscreen interface on the front and, taped to the side like a fucking gift, a sticky note with the admin password.
I almost laugh.
Some tinkering around, and I deduce they’ve got the device set to auto-upload to some cloud storage. There’s still a week’s worth of local backup on the hard drive. Evidence of last night—and then some.
I typically have more fucking patience than this. To look at me now, hastily scrubbing through footage to get to the timestamp I need, you wouldn’t know it. And it doesn’t even matter. The moment she’s there, captured on-screen, it’s already worth it.
The footage is clearer than I expected. It’s a decent resolution.
Whatever gaps the image of Mystery Woman—leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between two long fingers, and one leg kicked up behind her—leaves, my memory fills.
I’d at least been careful enough not to get caught by the back-alley camera.
She looks like she’s talking to herself.
She’s still hypnotic.
I pause the footage. My gaze homes in on her doll-like face. I snap a photo with my phone. The quality isn’t perfect, and it certainly isn’t helped by the slight glare from the NVR’s screen, but it’ll do. I take three more photos, from varying angles, regardless.
Then I plug in the USB drive I brought and get to copying the files.
The progress bar crawls across the screen, and I think about how I meant for the Yuris to catch me with the front curb cameras.
They had plenty of cops in their pockets.
I knew they would flag me on the traffic cams. I had been careful when I’d left with my Mystery Woman.
Even still, it grates on me that they could zero in on her. They could target her. Fuck. It churns my stomach to consider them finding her, or using her, to get even with me for the sins I’ve committed.
The progress bar hits a 100%, distracting me.
I eject the USB drive and slip it into my pocket.
Then, without further ado, I yank the NVR unit free from its cables.
The green lights die. I drop the unit on the ground.
The plastic casing cracks on impact. It doesn’t break, though.
I bring a steel-capped boot down on it, stomping ferociously, over and over, until the casing splits open and the exposed circuit boards come apart.
I don’t let up until the drive is in smithereens.
By the time I’m done, it’s all a mess of fucking shards.
If the Yuris track me here, let this be what they find. If the manager is the one to come across the debris? Well, then he should probably invest in some better fucking security measures.
***
Back in my car, I scroll through my contacts and stop on a name I haven’t contacted in forever.
Alexei is a jack of many trades. One of those is dealing with a variety of drugs. Another is background checks and surveillance work. Most importantly, he owes me for pulling his sister out of a trafficking ring three years ago. He won’t squeal.
“Vik?” He answers on the second ring.
“Hey, man. I’ve got a job for you. Interested?”
For a beat, he says nothing. Then, “Always.”
“Good. I need an ID on someone. I’m going to shoot you the photos now. How soon can you get this done?”
“Is this person gonna end up dead?” he asks wryly.
I choke on a laugh. “Worse.”
“Deadline?” There tends to be one with me.
“End of the week, max.”
“Fine. I’m charging you double.”
“I’m rich, motherfucker.”
He chortles like he’s fucking hilarious. “And a pal. That’s why I didn’t say triple.”
“Done.”
I hang up, forward the photos, and turn the car toward the airport.
Now that the hunt is in motion, I’ve got to zero back in on the shipment headed for Port Newark. The Solntsevskaya contact doesn’t tolerate delays or fuck-ups any better than I ever have.
For now, I tuck Mystery Woman in the back of my head, safe and insulated as a dragon’s treasure chest.
I have to.
***
With a buzzing announcement, Alexei’s name appears on my phone on Thursday night. Right then, I shove away from the dining table with a grunt.
“I’ll be back,” I excuse myself.
I shove open the doors to the balcony, knowing I want to be alone when I find out who she is.
The message is as no-fluff as ever.
Alexei: Nadya Yuri. Full workup attached.
My eyes rove the words over and over again, certain there’s a hallucination at play. It can’t be. It’s not that common a name—but maybe…
I open the attachment with a knot in my chest. My back hits the brick with a heavy thunk.
My brain swells with the information I consume.
The document, though it took him a matter of days, isn’t too comprehensive.
That alone cements the dread brewing in my belly.
If she were just anyone, this document would be several times its size.
Meanwhile, I learned that her name is Nadya Ivanovna Yuri.
She is twenty-five years old as of this past April.
She has no listed address. The number plate of the midnight-blue Ducati Monster 821 is not registered under her name; there are many pictures of her astride it. It was purchased by Iosif Yuri.
This woman lives an extremely off-grid existence.
Alexei couldn’t pin down a daily routine, or even a phone number. However, she’s got associations with an underground racing circuit. She appears in the background of other racers’ social media posts. Her reputation precedes her.
There is a single clear photograph of her that puts anything the club’s security footage offers to shame.
It’s all the confirmation I need. Because there she is, that glossy hair of hers pinned up in some twisted chignon thing, leaving all attention on the bejeweled black gown wrapped around her willowy frame.
In the professionally taken photograph, she smiles vacantly.
Each of her arms is around the men who flank her like pillars.
I don’t need to consult the attached caption to identify them.
Trifon and Valentin Yuri.
Oh, fuck me.
The implications unspool with cutting clarity, one after another. It’s like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
The Yuris aren’t just my enemies. Besides Anton, they’re the single most significant obstacle in my way. It’s why everything has escalated to this. I may have made it worse, but I didn’t fucking start it. The Yuris did, by never minding their own damn business. And she’s one of them.
And I fucked her.
And I fucking loved it. I’d like to do it again.
When you put her beside them, despite how sharply her hair contrasts with the thick, dark signature Yuri locks, it’s obvious they share blood.
I’d bet she’s the youngest of them. Why the fuck wouldn’t they keep her hidden?
Off the grid, out of bratva business, and tucked far away from anything that could touch her.
Except they didn’t do a good enough job.
If I didn’t know any better, I could call the deflating sensation inside me disappointment. It’s close to it. Four days, and I’ve managed to unveil their best-kept secret? A woman who—on paper, at least—barely exists.
Tragic.
Yet, by the next morning, I’m back in Boston.
By noon, she’s in my sights.
It’s a little humbling to surveil her myself, but needs must. I’m the resource I’ve got in Boston—and for this task, which I neither would nor could entrust another person with.
Regardless, my bitterness is short-lived.
It fissures the moment I see Nadya Yuri again.