8. Mikhail
MIKHAIL
Rain beats the corrugated roof so hard it sounds like machine-gun fire. Everything inside the safehouse is wet: the air, the wood, the makeshift bandage that’s wrapped tight around my shoulder and gone from white to red in under an hour. It was fine until… Until she happened.
We’d made a mistake. Fucking her had been a mistake. But. I didn’t want to take it back, and I didn’t regret it. And I knew Sergey didn’t either.
He looked like he was ready to scoop her up in his arms and run breakneck out into the rain.
But he knows better.
At least I hope he does.
The bare bulb overhead swings with every gust of wind and sends the shadow of my brother’s head looping across the wall.
He sits at the table with both arms planted on the surface, fists flat, jaw tight.
There’s a hairline split in the Formica that runs all the way to the edge, and Sergey’s knuckles are so raw he’s starting to leave red in the groove.
We don’t speak for a long time. The only noise is the rain and the creak of the wind shifting the building on its blocks.
I have to force myself not to look at the back room. We left Veronica sleeping, but she might have been faking it. I’ve never had a hard time leaving a bed before—but this time was harder than I wanted to admit.
“You want to start?” he says finally, not looking up.
“What’s there to say?” My voice comes out flat. My throat is full of acid and the taste of her, which is a new kind of distraction I don’t need.
Sergey runs his thumb along his split knuckle. “I want to know who sent the crew that tried to kill us. You’re supposed to be the one with the answers.”
He’s goading me, trying to provoke a fight. I don’t take the bait. “We’ve been over this, you and I both know it’s Orlov. If it was a local crew, they’d have been wearing colors.”
He lets that settle. “And if it wasn’t local?”
“Outsiders. No insignia, no tattoos. They were disposable. Hired for one job.” I flex my shoulder to keep it from locking. “Means they don’t care about the bodies. They just want us dead.”
Sergey grunts. “You ever seen a hit like that, on a public road?”
“In Novarra?” I snort. “Only twice. First time was that Kirov bastard, the one who tried to blackmail his father. Second time was Vasily’s nephew. Both were meant to be messages.”
Blood beads up on Sergey’s knuckle, dark and slow. “So who are they sending a message to now?”
I don’t answer. We both know the answer, and there’s no point in saying it aloud.
He leans forward, the chair moaning under his weight. “You know what I heard?” He says it like a dare.
I keep my eyes on the table. “Go ahead.”
“First wife,” Sergey says, holding up a finger. “Found at the bottom of a marble staircase with her neck broken. They said it was a fall, but everyone knew she didn’t slip. She was pregnant, too. Six weeks along.”
He raises a second finger. “Second wife. Pretty, educated, imported from the coast. She lasted four months. Then, nothing. No funeral, no divorce, no word at all. Her father was paid off and moved out of the country before anyone could ask him questions.”
He raises a third. “Third wife. Lasted a little longer. Her family got a house in Italy and a new last name, but only if they never spoke to anyone about what happened in Novarra. If you dig through the news, you won’t find her listed as dead. She just… disappears.”
He jams his knuckle into his mouth to stop the bleeding, frowns at it, and then sits back. “You know what they all have in common?”
“Besides being dead?” I say.
He doesn’t smile. “They were all like her. Soft, quiet, proper. Chosen for their pedigree, not their personality.”
A pulse kicks in my temple. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you know more than you’re saying.” Sergey looks at me, and his eyes are colder than I’ve ever seen them. “So let’s stop pretending we’re moving cargo. We’re moving a woman to her execution. For the same man who just killed our guys on the highway.”
He lets it sit, the stink of it, until the rain fills the space with static.
I force my hand to unclench. “You got more to say, say it.”
He does. “Why do you think Orlov wants this one, Misha? Out of all the women in Novarra, out of all the assets he could have chosen, why her?”
I’ve been asking myself the same thing since the job came in. Not just why her, but why us? Why involve Tolya at all?
I know why. Because we’re good. We’re neutral in all of this political bullshit.
But we’re also expendable. And if we fail, it means nothing to Orlov but an extra body count.
Sergey shifts in his seat, restless, like a dog catching the scent of something rotten. “You ever wonder what happens when we make the delivery? Is Orlov gonna send us back with a bonus, or maybe he just lines us up and finishes what the ambush started?”
“If we do the job, it doesn’t matter what he does next,” I say, but the words sound hollow.
He shakes his head. “It matters to me.”
I look up then, and the light from the bulb picks out the lines on his face, the scar across his lip that never healed right, the old tattoo winding down his neck.
I remember when we were kids, when he’d talk for hours just to fill the silence.
Now he’s a man who only talks when there’s a point to prove.
He makes it. “I don’t want to finish this job, Mikhail.”
I let that hang between us. “We walk, we’re dead. Her, too.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. But if we finish it, she’s dead for sure. And we might be, too.”
“When did you grow a conscience,” I say, but it’s not a joke.
He stares at me, unblinking. “She’s not like the others. She’s not built for this shit. You see it in her eyes.”
I do, but I’d never admit it. She’s not built for violence, but she takes it better than most men I know. It unsettles me, how quickly she’s adapted to the terror.
“You want to tell me what you’re thinking?” Sergey says, pushing the issue.
“You remember the Tolya lieutenant,” I say. “Two years back. The boutique hotels.”
Sergey’s eyes cut to me. He remembers. “Orlov’s laundering operation. We killed four men for that job.”
“Three days,” I say. “All of them with families.” I flex my shoulder. “He called me a month after. Not to pay out. Just to talk.”
Sergey goes still.
“Orlov keeps a list,” I say. “A list of women. The kind nobody comes looking for.”
The rain fills the silence.
“Her name was on it,” I say. “Before the marriage was ever arranged. He wants her because without her father’s name, she’s nobody,” I finish. “If she dies, her father won’t even cause a fuss as long as he’s got his campaign coffers filled.”
Sergey’s fist slams the table. “Then why the fuck are we doing this?”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t know.
He stands up and the chair scrapes loud enough to drown the rain for a second. He paces to the wall, plants both hands against it, and lets his head hang. I watch the muscles shift in his back under his shirt.
“We turn back,” he says. “Tonight.”
I watch him, but I’m weighing the options.
If we run, Orlov will come after us, but so will our own. There’s no good outcome, only slower or faster deaths.
It doesn’t matter. I know now that we were dead men the minute we took the job.
But I look at the door to the back room, and I think about the way she looked at me after the fight. Like she knew what was coming, and wanted to face it head-on.
“Fine,” I say. “But we do it my way.”
Sergey turns, eyes wide. “Which is?”
“We take her off grid. No contact, no trace. They’ll think we died in the crossfire.”
He grins, the old wildness flickering in his face. “Now you’re talking.”
I stand up, ignoring the hot lance of pain in my shoulder. “Get your shit. We move in fifteen.”
He moves to obey, the old dynamic snapping back into place. I watch him go, and for a second, the guilt is almost manageable.
Then Sergey pauses and looks back at me. “What about the kid?”
Shit. The driver.
He’s still passed out on the cot. I’d almost forgotten about him.
“He’s not part of this,” I say, and the words come out harder than I intend.
Sergey’s jaw works. “You trust him to keep his mouth shut?”
“Do you want to shoot him? He lied about his age. He’s seventeen.”
Sergey’s eyes widen. He’d been younger than that when he killed his first man. I know it sits with him even now.
I grab my jacket from the hook by the door. The weight of it pulls at my injured shoulder, but I ignore the burn. “Give him the cash from the emergency kit. Tell him it’s his retirement. He’ll take it and run.”
Sergey nods and moves toward the driver. I watch him shake the kid’s shoulder, and the driver jerks awake with a gasp. His eyes dart around the room, wild and unfocused, until they land on me.
“What’s happening?” he asks, voice cracking.
“You’re leaving,” I say. “Get up.”
He scrambles off the cot, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Where are we going? Did you call it in?”
“No.” I watch his face as he processes what I’ve said. The fear is immediate and total. He’s expecting to die.
Not today, kid.
Sergey steps in with the cash—a thick envelope of bills, all non-sequential, all clean. He shoves it at the kid’s chest. “Take it and go. Don’t look back.”
The driver stares at the envelope like it’s a snake. “What—I don’t understand. I’m supposed to drive the convoy. I have a job.”
“Not anymore,” I say. “You’re done.”
His eyes dart between us, then toward the back room where Veronica sleeps. The realization dawns on him slowly, and the color drains from his face.
“You’re going to run,” he whispers. “With her.”
Sergey grabs the kid’s jacket from the floor and tosses it at him. “There’s a bus depot three miles east. First one leaves at dawn. Be on it.”
The driver clutches the money to his chest. “Orlov will kill me if he finds out.”
“Then you better get moving,” I say.
The rain hammers the roof, a reminder that time is running out. I check my watch—thirteen minutes until we move.
The kid looks like he wants to argue, but he sees something in my face that makes him swallow the words. He nods once, a jerky motion, and shoves the money into his pocket.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he says.
“Get the fuck out,” Sergey snarls.
The kid staggers back and then runs.
I cross to the back room and pause at the door. My hand hovers over the handle for a moment before I push it open.
Veronica is sitting up in bed, the blanket pulled to her chest. Her hair is a mess, her eyes bright and alert. She wasn’t sleeping after all.
“How much did you hear?” I ask.
“Enough.” She doesn’t flinch from my gaze. “You made a decision?”
I nod once. “We’re taking you somewhere safe.”
She stands, letting the blanket fall. She’s still naked, but makes no move to cover herself. “And then what?”
The question hangs between us. I want to tell her we’ll figure it out, that we’ll protect her, but the words feel hollow. We’re two men with guns and a death sentence, not heroes.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, though the promise is heavy in my mouth. “Get dressed.”
She doesn’t move immediately. Instead, she studies me with her pale eyes. “You’re not sure about this.”
I should lie. I should tell her everything will be fine. But something about the way she’s watching me makes the truth spill out.
“No,” I admit. “But it’s the only choice we have.”
Her mouth twitches, as if I’ve confirmed something she already suspected. She moves to the small pile of clothes we salvaged from the wreck—a simple black dress, now torn at the hem, and a pair of low heels. She dresses quickly and efficiently, her movements precise despite the dim light.
When she turns back to me, she looks like she did when she first stepped out of the sedan: composed, elegant, and utterly out of place in this rotting safehouse.
The only difference is the cut on her jaw, a thin red line that stands out against her pale skin, and the way her lips are still swollen from?—
I can’t think about that now.
“Where will we go?” she asks.
I don’t have an answer that won’t scare her. “Somewhere they won’t find us.”
Sergey appears in the doorway, his expression tight. “Kid’s gone. We need to move.”
I check my watch. “Grab everything we can carry. Weapons, cash—anything.”
Sergey nods and disappears back into the main room. I hear him moving quickly, the sound of drawers opening and closing, the clink of ammunition being gathered.
Veronica grabs my hand in both of hers. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
I grit my teeth. This was what she wanted. This was why she fucked us. She knew we’d break—or maybe she didn’t.
If our lives hadn’t been on the line, we still would have fucked her.
She doesn’t need to know that.
“Shut up,” I growl and pull my hand out of her grasp. “Get moving.”