Chapter 10 Ryder
Ryder
My back was screaming at me in protest.
Probably had something to do with first being crammed into the boot of a fucking car and then forcing myself under a bed. Oh, and then spending a few hours lurking in a wardrobe like some deranged stalker, waiting for the perfect moment to slip out unnoticed.
Not that this was my first rodeo.
The hiding under the bed part, I mean. Not the whole wardrobe creep or being shoved into a car thing.
Let’s just say I’ve been caught in beds I had no business being in more than once, and sometimes the only way out was to wedge my six-foot-three-and-a-half—yes, the half was important—arse beneath the frame and hope for the best.
“Ty vyglyadish' der'movo,” Maxim muttered, staring at me as he cleaned a glass with a cloth behind the bar.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you just say I look like shit?”
Maxim tilted his head slightly to the side, confirming my translation.
I clicked my tongue, tapping my empty glass on the bar. “See, this is why this place has terrible reviews on TripAdvisor. Have you thought that maybe you’re the problem? You old kozel.”
Козёл was one of the first things I’d learnt in Russian. It was still a strange insult to call someone a goat, but it was apparently a classic according to Roman. It had the desired effect, Maxim’s brows tightening just a little. Which was almost a full-blown expression for him.
“Roman’s asking for you,” he said with a painfully thick accent.
“Yeah, he’s clingy like that.”
“Ya skazal yemu, chto tebe nuzhno povzroslet’.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, mate.”
With a shake of his head, Maxim turned his back and continued to clean his already clean glass. Rude fucker.
Returning my attention to my phone, I leaned forward on the bar, watching Violet’s little picture flash on my screen.
Okay, so the camera hasn’t been the most reliable.
It seems to have a mind of its own, keeps glitching, and not reporting any movement.
I guess that’s what I get for buying surveillance equipment from some dodgy bloke on the dark web.
Lesson learned, and all that. But that means I’ve had to rely on Violet’s whereabout through her phone, which hasn’t left her bloody flat in two days.
“Who’s the blonde?” asked a familiar voice, and I immediately slammed my phone face-down on the wood in what was in no way a guilty gesture.
“None of your business,” I commented, turning with a grin to find none other than Roman Antonov.
“You’ve been ignoring my calls.” He crossed his arms, using his whole half an inch height advantage to its full potential.
“Have I?” I itched to check my phone, but that would only give Roman ammunition. “Anyone else would’ve taken the hint,” I muttered.
Roman pursed his lips, his tousled dark brown hair coming over to partially block his narrowed eyes. “What have you gotten yourself into?” he asked. Unlike the disgruntled bartender, Roman’s accent passed as a born and bred Brit just with a slight inflection, despite being from Russian royalty.
Mafia royalty, that was. Probably because his cunt of a father thought it would be character building to drop his only son in a foreign city to live off the streets at age twelve.
Strange way to tell your kid you love him.
But in return, the streets were where I’d met him, and while I became a world-class thief, Roman specialised in the art of the con. He was still one of the best con artists I’ve ever met, when he wasn’t running his branch of the Russian Bratva, that was.
“What do you mean?” “There’s been some German throwing around your name.”
“Hmm. Was the guy dressed in a black suit and stood about yay high?” I held my hand just slightly taller than my current sat position. Roman nodded. “Ah, that’s Klaus. No wait, shit… Jürgen.”
“Why the fuck are the Germans doing coming in here asking about you, Ry?”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t control what ze Germans do, Rome.” I thought my fake accent was flawless. Roman’s expression suggested otherwise.
Taking the stool next to me, Maxim brought Roman a whiskey like the well-trained hound he was, while simultaneously ignoring my clear signal for another drink. “Do you even know who he is?” Roman asked.
I glared at Maxim a moment more before turning to my friend. “I’ve just told you, he’s Jürgen.”
“He’s a fucking cleaner, Ry.”
I loudly slurped my empty glass. Maxim simply stared blankly in response. “Like… offices, or…?”
“Blyaaaaat. You’re such a prick, you know that?” Roman shook his head. “Who the fuck have you pissed off?” he growled.
“Is that a trick question?” Also, why would a contract cleaner liaison with this mysterious C? “It’s just a job that’s taking longer than usual. I’m sure they’ll disappear back under the rock from which they came once I deliver the USB thingy.”
“Is this the reason you’re sitting at my pub, adding to your unpaid tab and watching a picture of a woman on your phone? Because you’re in hiding?”
“I’m not hiding.” That was absolute fucking blasphemy. “And I’ll pay off my tab, you know I’m good for it.”
“Ryder…”
“And the blonde is the job.” Technically true; she was just in my way, and I didn’t do witnesses. Rule number one of being a world-class thief: don’t get caught. And not getting caught meant keeping the number of witnesses to an absolute minimum.
Geraldine, or Greta, or whatever the fuck her name was didn’t count because she was too unhinged for anyone to take seriously anyway.
“So, the job is to what? Just watch her location?”
“I just need her to leave,” I explained.
Good old Geraldine had already let slip that the USB was in the house, tucked away in the bedroom.
All I needed now was to tear the place apart properly.
But it had been two fucking days, and I hadn’t caught either leaving.
This was starting to become tedious, and I was soon going to have to resort to more unpleasant methods.
Which just wasn’t me, I was good—no, great at what I did because I was clean.
In and out, with no one the wiser.
Rule number one and all that.
“Sure… That’s why you’re watching her.” Roman shoved his shoulder against mine, but luckily, he was one of the few people my fucked-up brain didn’t inconveniently short circuit with. Not that something as casually as a shoulder nudge would usually cause me to panic.
A brief touch from someone passing by? Absolutely fine.
Me touching them? Perfect, no problems what-so-ever.
A touch lasting more than a few seconds?
Violence.
“Don’t judge me, Mr Mafia Prince,” I grumbled, not feeling that familiar weight in my chest even though his shoulder stayed pressed against mine.
If it had been anyone else keeping contact that long, I might’ve done something irrational… like stab them a little with my favourite butterfly knife. Totally not an overreaction.
Flipping up my phone, I found Violet’s picture had finally moved. I jumped up, grabbing my leather jacket and downing the rest of Roman’s drink in one go.
“Where are you going? We need to discuss my offer,” he called after me.
I flashed him my award-winning smile. “It’s been a real pleasure, but I’ve got bills to pay and a job that won’t do itself.”
“Ryder!”
“Let’s do this again sometime.” I winked, disappearing out the door.