Time to go.
I start the Charger, back out slowly, turn the corner, disappear down the street. No headlights. No sound.
I drive five blocks before I finally exhale.What the fuck is wrong with me?
Phone out of the console. Dial.Two rings.
Click. A line opens. Lev’s voice first, loud, chewing something. Dima’s there too; I can hear the engine in the background.
“How fast can you and Dima get here?”
“Faster if you admit you missed me,” Lev says around a mouthful.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I mutter, cutting down a street with one flickering light. My burner buzzes again in the console. Boris. I ignore it. “Bring gloves. Bleach. And whatever you’ve got for chopping and dissolving. This one’s messy.”
There’s a crunch, like he’s cracking a shell with his teeth. “Messy’s my favorite. Dima’s driving. I’m riding shotgun with a hacksaw and a smile.”
“Use the smile. Lose the hacksaw.”
“You’re no fun anymore.”
Another voice cuts in—deep, husky.“Address.” Dima.
I give it, short and low. He hangs up without a word.
Lev sighs dramatically. “You hear that? No goodbye. No warmth. No ‘Lev, you’re my favorite psychopath.’ Just click. You two deserve each other.”
I hang up before he can say more.
Twenty-three minutes later, the knock on the trunk of the Charger is light. Familiar rhythm. Three taps. Pause. One more.
I unlock it.
The man inside doesn’t move. Still warm, but stiffening. Tarp’s soaked under his neck where the blood’s pooled, no longer fresh enough to stream.
Lev leans in, one hand braced on the edge of the trunk, the other hanging loose; casual, like he’s admiring a painting instead of a corpse. His broad frame blocks the alley light, shadow stretching over the dead man’s chest. Six-five, built thick through the shoulders and arms, the kind of size that makes people cross the street, even when he’s smiling.
“Look at that placement. Dead center. Like a fuckin’ gift tag. You romantic bastard.”
I ignore him.
Instead, I reach into my jacket and pull out the burner I took off the body. Cheap plastic. Clean… too clean.
I hand it to him.
Lev’s grin fades as he takes it without another word, sliding it into a plastic evidence bag he pulls from his coat. His fingers move fast—habit. He doesn’t like unknowns.
He lifts his chin, watching me. “You know who he was?”
“No.”
“Then why’d you shoot first?”
“Because he wasn’t here for me.”
Lev pauses, head tilting just slightly.
“What, and you’re suddenly not the most popular guy in town?”
