Chapter 1
Kolya
With one final flicker, the last security camera switches to a still of the empty hallway.
Slipping the tablet into my jacket pocket, I scan the back entrance of Northwood Elementary. Shadows stretch across the playground beneath the setting sun, creating warped shapes out of the slide and swings.
My fingers brush the gun I always keep close.
Not that I anticipate any trouble tonight.
The head enforcer of the Kozlov Bratva hacking a security camera to break into an elementary school?
Child’s play.
In fact, asking me to apply my talents to a job this easy is almost insulting.
Though I’d never dare voice that gripe. When the Pakhan asks, you say yes. His orders are law.
Even orders that revolve around a kindergarten teacher and a cache of missing diamonds.
Easing out from my hiding spot behind a tree, I approach the rear point of entry with soundless steps.
A metal frame and basic lock greet me at the back door. Most suburban public buildings like this lack halfway decent securitymeasures. School budgets go to classroom supplies and salaries rather than deterrents against criminals like me.
Pathetic.
Convenient too.
At this rate, I’ll be back in Chicago proper well before midnight, and thank goodness. The suburbs, with all their bubbly soccer moms, chain restaurants, and men whose idea of violence revolves around playoffs on giant flat screens after ten at night make my skin itch.
Crouching, I pull out my picks. Within twelve seconds, the lock yields. Just shy of my personal best.
After spraying lubricant on the hinges to forestall telltale squeaking, I sneak inside a corridor with a gleaming linoleum floor. Emergency exit lights paint the walls in a soft, faded red.
My nose wrinkles over the mixture of odors.
Bleach and dirty shoes, with sour notes underneath.
Unlike most people, I experience no nostalgic hit from childhood memories.
My education took place at kitchen tables and back rooms, the lessons delivered by a variety of tutors, aunts, and cousins. After my dad died, the family decided that my most crucial lessons should center on their business. Academics were a distraction. That’s why I was homeschooled long before e-Learning became popular.
Public school never would’ve taught me how to invest money, rebuild a car engine, pick locks, or hide a body. Useful life skills.
I slip down the hall and silently review the plan. We don’t have much to go on. Our Bratva brother, MJ, compiled the scant information we possess before someone killed him. His scribbled notes leave a lot to be desired.
When I was still a teen, the family lost millions in diamonds during the tropical storm on Isla de Huesos. Now that we havea lead on where those missing gems might be, Roman Kozlov, MJ’s uncle and our current Pakhan, has demanded I retrieve them. Immediately.
MJ only jotted down two specific clues—Northwood Elemen.andChloe D.
A kindergarten teacher.
So here I am, breaking into an elementary school.
Daniil Ilyin, my father and the man who ran banks and brokered territory, took a bullet for Roman’s father and died a warrior’s death. And after that, Roman mentored me. Which means I owe everything to the Kozlovs. My life. My loyalty.
Funny that my current mission involves sifting through arts-and-crafts supplies and goldfish crackers for a handful of sparkly rocks.
