4. Mikhail #2
On the way out of the depot, Sergey leans forward, low, and says, “Everything good?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice flat. “We’re clear.”
He laughs again, but there’s an edge to it now.
The road unspools ahead, cold and empty, and we follow it into the dark.
Night by the industrial quarter is different than in the city proper. The safehouse is a cinderblock cube stacked above a garage, its door is still bandaged with police tape from some forgotten incident and Veronica’s nose wrinkles as Sergey rips it away from the door.
No one here has the stomach for real policing, so abandoned crime is just part of the scenery.
The only light comes from a flickering streetlamp that bathes the lot in sodium sickness.
The convoy is parked behind the loading dock. Sergey leads; I bring up the rear, the woman between us. She moves with the slow, upright caution of someone who expects every step to be a trap. She’s not wrong.
Inside, the safehouse is smaller than I remember: one room, a narrow bed, a folding chair, a table covered with stains and a single, dim lamp.
It’s cleaner than the motel but somehow feels more dangerous.
The only window is a narrow slit cut high in the wall, painted shut.
I drop my bag beside the table and gesture to the bed. “You sleep there,” I say. “Sergey, you’re on the door.”
He grunts, shrugs off his coat, and collapses into the chair like he means to break it. He picks up the remote for the space heater and clicks it three times in quick succession. The thing wheezes to life and fills the room with a burnt-dust scent.
Veronica stands, unmoving, in the center of the room. I watch her not-watch me. For a long moment, nobody says anything. She’s not used to this type of treatment.
There’s worse waiting for her.
“How long do we stay?” she asks.
I check the clock on the wall, then the itinerary on my phone. “One night. In the morning, we run the last checkpoint, then north to the drop. Two days, maximum, if there are no complications.”
“I didn’t realize it was so far away.”
Her hands are folded at her stomach, squeezing, releasing, squeezing again. I see the tremor in her fingers, the subtle way she tucks her chin to hide the movement.
“You should eat. You haven’t eaten anything.” My voice is too loud, the question too sharp.
She looks up. “I had the sandwich,” she says. “So, no. I’m fine.” Her eyes are dry and wide, the color of something fossilized.
Sergey grins. “What, no room service? Can we order pizza? Will they deliver out here?”
The heater gives a little cough and dies. The temperature in the room drops by three degrees. I hear her teeth click together, just once, before she stops it. She’s tougher than I thought.
I go to the small fridge in the corner and take out a bottle of water. I hand it to her, and she accepts it with both hands. Her fingers brush mine for a fraction of a second. The contact is like static.
She twists the cap, takes a careful sip, then sits on the edge of the bed. She stares at the floor, jaw set, feet side-by-side. The silence balloons until Sergey bursts it.
“So what’s the plan if they come early?” he says.
I answer anyway. “They won’t.”
Time shuffles on. The night grows longer, the room colder. I do the inventory, check the weapons, count the ammunition, then count it again. I’ve never been good at stillness, and now is no exception.
At some point, she says, “I want to take a shower.”
I glance up from the table. She’s still seated, but her voice is clearer. “The shower works, right?”
I look at her for a long moment, measuring the request against the risk. The bathroom is barely a closet, the shower is a rusted nozzle over a drain. It’s definitely not the Novarra Albion. But she’s been on the road for days, and I know the feeling of wanting to wash the grime off.
“Yeah,” I say. “It works. But I’ll check it first.”
I stand, my chair scraping against the concrete floor.
Sergey doesn’t move from his position by the door, but his eyes follow me as I cross to the small door in the corner.
The bathroom is even smaller than I remember—a toilet, sink, and shower crammed into a space barely big enough to turn around in.
I turn the knob on the shower, and rusty water spurts out before settling into a weak stream.
“It’s not much,” I say, stepping back. “But it’s hot.”
She nods, then rises from the bed. Her movements are stiff, like she’s been sitting too long. She gathers a small bag from beside her and disappears into the bathroom without another word.
The door closes with a soft click.
Sergey waits until the water starts running before he speaks. “What are you thinking?”
I don’t look at him. “Shut up.”
“She’s not going to try anything,” Sergey says, his voice low but carrying in the small room. “Not with us watching her every move.”
I don’t answer. The sound of running water is a constant reminder of her presence, just feet away, separated by nothing but a thin door. I stare at the table, at my hands, anywhere but at the bathroom door. My fingers drum an uneven rhythm on the wooden surface.
“You’re not even listening to me,” Sergey continues, pushing himself up from the chair. He walks over and leans against the table, blocking my view. “Misha. Look at me.”
I raise my eyes to his, reluctantly. His expression is serious now, the joking mask gone.
“You can’t keep pretending you’re not thinking about her,” he says. “I know I can’t.”
“I’m not,” I say, but the words are sharp and hollow even to my own ears. “She’s a job. A delivery. Nothing more.”
Sergey laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Bullshit. I saw your face last night. I saw how you looked at her. And I know you, brother. You don’t look at jobs like that.”
I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “This isn’t about me. This is about completing the mission without getting all of us killed.”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying— It’s not like anyone will know.”
Before I can answer, the bathroom door opens. Steam billows out, carrying the faint scent of cheap soap and something floral. Veronica steps into the room wearing only a thin towel wrapped around her body, her pale skin is flushed pink from the heat.
Water droplets cling to her collarbones, tracing a path down her chest. Her hair hangs in wet curls around her ears.
My mouth goes dry. I should look away, give her privacy, but my eyes refuse to obey. Sergey makes a sound—half cough, half groan—and turns toward the window, though I notice he doesn’t move far.
“I didn’t bring a change of clothes in,” she says, her voice steady despite her state of undress. “My bag is still out here.”
I clear my throat. “Right. Yes.” I cross to her small suitcase and set it on the bed, then step back. “There you go.”
She doesn’t move immediately. Instead, she stands there, water still dripping from her hair, making small dark spots on the concrete floor. Her eyes meet mine, but only for a moment. So quick I might have imagined it.
“Thank you,” she says simply, then turns to her bag.
I force myself to walk to the other side of the room, my back to her. Sergey hasn’t moved from his position, and I can feel the tension radiating from him. She disappears back into the bathroom and the door clicks closed.
“You know,” Sergey says quietly, “this is torture.”
“Shut up,” I whisper back.