“Da, boss,” they reply in unison.
I lean back, mind racing.
What’s your play, Wren? What do you know that we don’t?
“Incoming call, boss,” Saveliy says. “It’s our guy tailing Zimniy.”
I nod. He puts it on speaker.
“Talk.”
A breathless voice comes through. “Boss, Zimniy’s making moves. He’s heading to—”
The line goes dead.
Silence fills the car. Then Saveliy curses. “Lost him. Signal’s jammed.”
I slam my fist into the seat. “Find him! Now!”
66
Wren
“Aquick in and out,” I mutter, the lie bitter on my tongue as I hang a sharp left onto Rustbucket Road, a strip of cracked asphalt that looks like it’s been through a war.
The sun’s sinking fast as I cruise through Chicago’s old industrial district. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel of this piece-of-shit rental truck. Every few seconds, my eyes flick to the rearview mirror. Nothing yet, but that don’t mean shit.
I pull over near a rusted-out warehouse, kill the engine, and sit for a moment. The silence is fucking deafening. Reaching into my pocket, I fish out the crumpled paper where I’d scribbled the address Jake gave me over the phone. 1492 Dockside Lane.
I’d called him from a payphone at the motel—didn’t trust my cell. Luckily, the junkie bastard was still breathing.
“Alright, let’s do this.” I hop out of the truck, my boots crunching on broken glass.
Jake’s new digs are a far cry from his old apartment. It’s a squat, ugly building that looks like it’s one stiff breeze away from collapsing. Guess the city got too hot for him.
I rap on the steel door, three quick knocks. A panel slides open, revealing Jake’s bloodshot eyes.
“Well, if it ain’t the Ghost of Christmas Past,” he drawls, swinging the door wide.
I shoulder past him into a space that smells like stale beer and desperation. “Save it, Jake. I’m not here for a trip down Memory Lane.”
He chuckles, shutting the door. “Always in a rush, ain’t ya, darlin’?” His bare feet pad across the concrete floor as he moves to a cluttered workbench. “Got your party favors right here.”
Jake tosses me a flip phone. “Burner. Clean as a whistle.” Next comes a wicked-looking combat knife, seven inches of gleaming steel. Finally, he slides a Glock 19 across the bench. “Nine mil. Fifteen rounds. She ain’t pretty, but she’ll get the job done.”
“Thanks.” I pocket the phone, then bend down, sliding the knife into the shaft of my knee-high boot. The cold steel against my skin is a grim comfort. I straighten up, grab the Glock, and tuck it into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back.
“So,” Jake says, leaning against the bench. “You gonna tell me what kind of shitstorm you’re walking into?”
I holster the gun, avoiding his gaze. “Better you don’t know.”
He snorts. “That bad, huh?” Jake runs a hand through his greasy hair. “Look, Wren. This Russian war… it ain’t like the old days. Ivankov Bratva’s been cracking skulls left and right. They—”
“I don’t need a history lesson,” I snap. But something in his tone makes me look up. Jake’s eyes are serious for once, worry etched in the lines of his face.
“These ain’t your garden variety thugs,” he presses. “They’re stone-cold killers. No mercy, no hesitation.”
I don’t have time for this. My hands clench into fists, anger coiling tight in my chest. “I don’t care what they are, Jake. I’ll kill them. All of them.” I hiss.
