I don’t answer.
He studies the body again, this time slower. “Gun?”
“Ruger. Suppressed. Jacket zipped, gloves on. Professional posture.”
Lev nods. “Yeah, he came to finish something.”
“I finished it first.”
He taps the burner pouch. “Boris gonna crack it?”
“Already on it.”
Lev snorts. “Let’s hope he finds something interesting. Otherwise, we’re chopping up a ghost.”
His voice drops a note as he closes the trunk. “So, if this guy’s not Kozlov, and he’s not one of ours… who the fuck is he?”
I don’t respond.
Just roll my shoulders once.
I’m not ready to brief him. Not yet. Not until I know what the phone says. Not until Boris scrapes whatever’s buried beneath the shell accounts and burner trails. The less they know now, the safer they stay if this goes sideways.
We’ve worked together long enough to read each other without asking questions.
He doesn’t push.
Just shifts his weight, jacket creaking as he leans in again; black tactical cut open over a ripped tee, dog tags flashing once before they disappear beneath the collar. Jeans torn at the knee, boots heavy and scarred from actual use, not fashion. When he grins, it’s all teeth. One side pulls harder than the other, thanks to the jagged scar trailing down his jaw. His nose never healed straight, and he never bothered fixing it.
“You want the head or the hands as a trophy?” he asks, like it’s a real question.
“Lev.”
“Right. No souvenirs. Professionalism.” He straightens, flicking the trunk closed with a lightthunk.“Dima’s loading the dissolver. Got that new-grade lime you like. German. Fancy.”
I nod once and walk toward the alley behind the abandoned Thai restaurant down the block, where Dima’s already parked. Black SUV with tinted windows, newer plates.
Dima doesn’t look up as we approach. Just opens the rear hatch and pulls out a large, padded black case. The kind that says,“I could kill you in twelve ways and write a poem about it after.”Or code it into a spreadsheet.
He’s also six-five, leaner than Lev but just as lethal; less brawler, more bone saw. Broad-shouldered, built to move fast and hit harder. His tactical gear is clean, organized, black-on-black like a second skin. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Forearms inked in tight, angular lines; old scripture mixed with circuit diagrams. There’s a surgical calm to how he moves. Precise. Efficient. Too quiet.
The back of the SUV lights up as he pops the latches, revealing tools in foam cutouts. Not weapons. Instruments. Dima likes tech. Loves hardware. Gets weirdly talkative about body temps and ligature bruising. We don’t ask why.
“ID?” he asks, snapping on nitrile gloves without looking at the body.
“No wallet. Burner phone. Still locked. Boris is running it.”
Dima nods once. Lifts the tarp with the kind of detachment that says this isn’t his first corpse today.Or even his second.
“Pro,” he mutters. “Veins are clean. No tracks. Jacket’s custom; foreign stitching near the cuffs. Expensive.”
Lev peers over his shoulder. “Belgrade or Eastern Bloc. Cyrillic tags. Definitely a subcontract.” He sniffs. “No cheap aftershave.”
I glance down the alley. Dark. Still. No eyes on us.
“Get rid of him. Quietly.”
“You want him whole or in pieces?”
