4. Mikhail
MIKHAIL
There’s a particular hour on the highway—after the sun has burned through the worst of the morning haze, but before the sky admits it’s going to be another wasted day.
That’s the hour we’re in, the hangover of it, somewhere north of Novarra.
Three vehicles move in staggered formation along a stretch of asphalt that could run all the way to hell for all I care.
I take the lead, as always. Sergey is beside me, one foot kicked up on the dash in deliberate provocation, jaw set in the posture of someone who would rather bite than talk.
The woman is in the back seat, and I know exactly how she’s sitting even though I refuse to check the mirror: hands in her lap, back straight against the leather, eyes locked on the window as if the view might change if she stares hard enough.
I focus on the road. Every kilometer is a variable, every overpass a potential ambush. Our instructions were clear—and so is the threat. Anyone who wanted to hurt her family, or strike at Orlov, would have a chance.
We pass a sign for a service station and I note the distance, then check the fuel gauge, then calculate our margin.
Sergey says nothing, but he keeps twisting in his seat, pretending to look at the road behind us, but it’s always the back seat he cares about.
The reflection in the side mirror catches his eyes, and I see the spark there. He’s not even trying to hide it.
A silence grows, thick and insistent. The only sound is the drone of the tires and the low rumble of the engine. When she shifts her weight, the leather creaks. My grip tightens on the wheel. I won’t turn around. I’m not a child, and I’m not an idiot.
I know what game she’s playing. My brother is dumb enough to fall for it. He’s only thinking with his dick.
I don’t want to get shot for touching merchandise that isn’t meant for us.
We could. No one would know.
But I’d know.
I measure my breathing: in four counts, hold two, out six. Repeat. I can almost taste the mildew of the motel room, the afterimage of her pale skin under my lips, the ghost of her hand on my arm. I grind it out of my head and make myself think about the job.
She moves again—this time just her ankle, crossing one leg over the other.
I know this because I catch the motion at the edge of the mirror, despite myself.
I clock the line of her calf, the fragile bend of her wrist, and something in my chest contracts so hard I have to reach for the radio just to have something to do.
My thumb hovers over the dial, then retreats.
Sergey picks that exact moment to crack his neck, and the sound is sharp. “You ever get the feeling,” he says, voice pitched to carry over the engine, “that we’re being watched?” He doesn’t mean by other cars. He means by her.
I grunt, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer.
“You’re awfully quiet today, Misha,” he presses, this time twisting to face me full-on. “Have some weird dreams last night?”
“Keep your eyes forward,” I say, flat and cold.
He grins, all teeth. “Yeah, me too.”
I want to tell him to shut his mouth, but I don’t. Instead, I flex my fingers around the wheel until the tendons ache. A road sign ahead— Thirty-four kilometers until the next scheduled stop.
The convoy is tight, the way I like it. The car behind us is crewed by two of Orlov’s men, which means they’re less likely to shoot us in the back. The tail car is ours, three of our own boys—the ones who rode in with Sergey—idiots, but loyal idiots.
A motorcycle passes us on the left, and for half a second I tense, ready for the flash of a weapon, or the flicker of a Molotov. But it’s just a commuter, helmeted and hunched, oblivious to the possibility of death. I let the tension bleed out slow.
She clears her throat. Quiet, but enough to register.
Sergey picks up on it before I do. “Everything alright back there?” He says it with a mock courtesy that makes my skin crawl.
“I’m fine,” she says, voice soft but perfectly enunciated.
He leans back, satisfied, and winks at her in the mirror. I see it. I hate that I see it.
I keep my eyes on the horizon. I don’t speak. If I open my mouth, something will come out that can’t be unsaid.
The kilometers blur by. The sky gets brighter, and the traffic thickens as we approach the next waypoint.
The service station is up ahead—a gray prefab with sun-faded logos, the kind of place where nobody asks questions and the security cameras haven’t worked since before the last election.
I pull in first, kill the engine, and wait.
The two other cars follow, and park just behind us.
We are a small army of ghosts, and for a moment everything is suspended.
Sergey is out of the car before I can say anything. He stretches, makes a show of it, then circles around to my window.
I roll it down two centimeters. “What.”
He leans in, voice pitched low. “You need a minute, brother?”
“I need you to stop talking.”
He laughs, not unkindly, then walks off toward the restrooms. I watch him go, then unbuckle and turn off the ignition.
She hasn’t moved. She’s watching me in the side mirror, hands folded, face set in that deliberate calm I remember from last night. Not a trace of fear on the surface, but I can feel the tension radiating off her.
I stare straight ahead, count to ten, then open the door and step out. The air is cold and the concrete is slick from overnight rain. I stand with my back to the car and breathe.
She doesn’t make a move to get out. Doesn’t say anything.
We stay at the service station for exactly twelve minutes. When I get back in the car, Sergey is already buckled and ready, a protein bar in his mouth. He hands a bottle of water and a pre-wrapped sandwich with wilted lettuce into the back seat. I don’t see if she takes it or not.
I nod to the rearview, see that the other cars are lined up, slide into the driver’s seat again and start the engine.
The woman says nothing. She just folds her hands tighter and looks out the window, eyes tracing the line of telephone wires as we merge back onto the highway.
The day stretches out, an endless line. The road keeps going, and I don’t look in the mirror again.
I make it all the way to the next checkpoint before I let myself remember the feel of her hand on my arm and the softness of her lips against mine. Maybe she’s playing us—maybe I want to be played. Just once.
Don’t be an idiot.
The next checkpoint is a fuel depot just off the beltway, built for trucks and men who hate their lives in equal measure.
The tanks are buried under a crust of salt and soot, and the buildings are tagged in layers of graffiti.
This is where the Tolya family does its handovers—nobody notices a few extra cars, and the only cameras are for show.
We pull into the lot, nose-to-tail with the other two vehicles. I kill the engine and count off the seconds until the approach. Gregor comes out of the shadows, big as a fridge and just as expressive, his coat collar is up and a cigarette is glued to the seam of his lip.
He walks with a limp that isn’t from any recent injury, but it looks worse than the last time I saw him.
He doesn’t look at me, not really, just flicks the cigarette and taps the window with two knuckles. I roll it down.
“Orders,” he says, and he hands me a phone—a burner, cheap, with a cracked screen and a message already open. Gregor’s fingers are thick as sausages and stained with engine grease, and the gold in his tooth is dull from years of nicotine.
The message is simple and doesn’t bother with hello or context:
Merchandise to arrive in pristine condition. Any deviation—bruising, physical mark, intoxication, or evident distress—will constitute breach of contract. You will be held personally accountable for the asset.
I read it twice. I hand it back to Gregor.
He shrugs. “Orlov’s people are particular about the condition of the merchandise.” He sounds bored by the whole affair.
“Understood,” I say. The words taste like gasoline.
“Take the back route from here,” Gregor says. “Word is there’s surveillance on the main road. You know the drill.” He flicks his hand—a mock salute—then lumbers off toward his own car, already dialing out on the burner.
I sit there for a minute longer than I need to, both hands braced on the wheel. I pop the hood latch, step out, and walk around the front of the car. The engine ticks as it cools and I press my palm flat to the hood and let it anchor me.
Merchandise. Asset.
The words sit in my chest, sharp and dirty.
I think about the woman in the back seat. I think about the way her eyes didn’t flinch, not even when Sergey started testing the edges of her patience last night. She’s not merchandise. She’s not something you can just sell and forget.
I think about the last line of the message—personal accountability. As if they know exactly how much it would take to break me, and are willing to pay in full.
I pull a cigarette from my pocket and light it. I watch the smoke drift until the wind tears it apart, then flick the butt into the oil-slick puddle at my feet. Sergey is talking to the men in the car behind us. He gestures sharply. Arguing. Always arguing about something.
When I get back in the car, she’s waiting. Her hands are folded and her chin is tilted up just enough to look like a dare. She doesn’t speak, and neither do I.
For two seconds, maybe less, I meet her eyes in the rearview. They’re pale and watchful, the kind of eyes that see right through you. I hold the contact, let her know I’m not afraid of whatever she’s thinking.
Then I look away, start the engine.
Sergey runs up to the car and flings himself into the passenger seat as I hit the gas. He slams the door shut and lets out a rough laugh. He loves this shit. He doesn’t care if I’m angry. He’ll notice, but he won’t ask.
The word “merchandise” stays with me, a sliver in my palm that I can’t dig out.