ROMAN #3
He laughs a little, the kind weak men do when they think danger has turned into vanity and they understand vanity.
“I had no idea she’d made such an impression.”
I grab him by the front of his jacket and slam him lightly but firmly into the wall. Not enough to injure him, but enough to remind him what kind of conversation this actually is.
“This has nothing to do with impressions.”
His mouth opens. Closes. “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“I do,” he says quickly. “I do.”
I let him go.
He straightens his jacket with shaking hands and tries to recover enough pride to still sound like himself. “This really isn’t necessary.”
“No,” I say. “It is.”
I knee him on his dick and he doubles over in pain. “This should be reminder enough.”
Mikhail walks over as I’m walking down the stairs. “I saw that,” he says. “Was it necessary?”
“Yes,” I say simply. “And you would be pleased to know I got us a lead. I know where the rat Oleg is.”
“Really?” Mikhail smiles as if I’ve just told him Christmas is coming early.
“Let’s go,” I say. “We finally catch the bastard tonight.”
The marina is almost empty by the time we get there.
That’s how he likes it. Oleg was never brave, but he was careful in the stupid way frightened men get careful. He hides in places where he can hear the water and tell himself there’s still a way out.
The dock creaks under my boots as I walk toward the last slip.
Mikhail stays behind me, far enough not to crowd the moment, close enough that if this turns ugly in a different direction, he’ll handle it. Two of my men are farther back in the dark. Quiet. Armed. Invisible unless they need not to be.
At the end of the dock, a cabin cruiser rocks gently against its ropes.
One dim light inside. A figure on deck.
Oleg.
For five years I have imagined this in versions. Oleg on his knees. Oleg bleeding. Oleg begging. Oleg trying to bargain his way out of a grave with names and numbers and half-truths. I thought when I finally found him, the anger would come back clean.
It doesn’t. What I feel instead is colder than that.
He sees me and goes still.
He’s older than he should be. Thinner. The expensive coat doesn’t fit him properly anymore. His face has fallen in around the mouth and jaw, and his eyes are too alive in it, still calculating, still searching for a price that might save him.
“Roman,” he says.
I stop three steps from the gangway. “Hello, old friend. We meet again.”
The water knocks softly against the pilings below us. Somewhere in the distance, a bell clinks against a mast. The whole marina feels half-asleep, like it doesn’t want to wake up and witness this.
Oleg looks past me once, sees Mikhail and his face turns pale. He knows it’s over.
Then he says, “If you were going to kill me, you would’ve done it already.”
“No,” I say. “If I was only going to kill you, you’d already be dead.”
Oleg’s mouth twitches, trying for something like composure, but his eyes have gone wrong. He knows this isn’t about fear anymore. Fear is simple. But I’m worse than that. I’m his death.
I step onto the gangway.
Oleg doesn’t move.
“You sold me out,” I say.
He lets out a rough breath. “I sold information.”
“You betrayed me,” I say. “And your double cross left my half-brother dead.”
Oleg laughs. “That’s what you wanted, didn’t you? You wanted them dead. Don’t tell me you have remorse now.”
“I only wanted Andrei Morozov dead,” I say quietly.
“They were there to kill your father,” he says again. “Lev just got there first.”
“You let them pin it on me,” I say.
He gives me a strange look then. Tired. A little pathetic. A little scared.
“I didn’t have to do much,” he says. “People were already ready to believe it.”
I go still. “What does that mean?”
He hesitates.
I drag him closer. “Be careful.”
His breathing is rough now. “You were already at war with him,” he says.
“Everyone knew it. Your father didn’t trust you.
You hated him. You were angry enough to burn half the city down and people knew that too.
Once the house got hit, once Lev died, once everything went bad…
” He shrugs badly, one shoulder barely moving in my grip. “You were the easy answer.”
I stare at him. And then it finally clicks. The weasel doesn’t move on its own, and neither did Oleg. He’s a coward. Someone else did this. Someone else attacked the Morozov house that night.
“Who made sure of that?”
He looks away.
I hit him again, not hard enough to knock him out, just hard enough to bring his eyes back to me.
“Who?”
He laughs once, but there’s panic under it now. “You still think I was the important one. You’ve been blaming the wrong man.”
The dock seems to go quiet under that.
“Who?”
His throat moves against the barrel. He’s sweating now.
“Who?”
He swallows. “You’ll never get it out of me.” I almost respect him for it, almost.
I push the gun harder under his chin. “Name.”
His face changes.
That’s the moment he decides he’s dead either way.
He shoves at my wrist and throws himself backward over the rail.
The shot goes wide.
And he’s gone into the black water below.