I glance quickly into the back seat to find it empty. Tucking my weapon at my waist, I scan the area. It’s desolate and deserted, and right now, the only sounds are the engine and the drip, drip, drip of forgotten rain off rooftops compounded by the eerie whistle of wind.
Using my boot, I kick the guy on the ground to partially roll him over onto his shoulders. His legs remain in the car. I frown and squint. I know this guy. Dmitry Egorov. In his late sixties, at least, he’s a Shestyorka—a low level errand boy. Who sent him to kill me? Hendrix or his mother? Or is somebody else in the organization making a move? Now would be a good time, since Hendrix and I will blame each other. This man is not an inspiring choice. Nobody will miss him.
Is there a contract out on me? I’m not surprised if there is more than one.
I claim his Makarov pistol from his limp hand and check the clip. Eight rounds. It must be a fresh clip. Excellent. I slam it into place before walking around to the other side of the still-running car, the engine grinding noisily.
Using my shirt, I open the other door and shove an elbow into the driver’s face, pushing him back. I don’t recognize this one. His black hair has gray at the temples, and if he’s in the local Russian mob, I should know him, but I don’t. I don’t like that. Several shots had hit his face, but still, there should be something familiar about him. I push him to the side and look down at his back pockets, not surprised to see them empty. These guys didn’t bring ID.
Grunting, I twist the keys and shut off the engine.
I crouch, and still keeping my hand covered by my jacket, click the button to release the trunk. I’d search these guys, but no way do they even have a phone, so I stand again and walk around to find two AK-47s in the trunk, along with several soiled and oil-covered rags.
Using the rags, I lift the AK-47s and look around. I’m not comfortable carrying these on the bike, so I lope into a jog toward the end of the warehouse district, find one of many abandoned warehouses, this one with a pink roof that was probably red metal at one point. I kick open the door to find it empty, save for battered and dented appliances scattered throughout. I hide the AK-47s behind a scratched light-blue electric stove before emerging outside again.
This time I move quieter toward a taller warehouse with a rickety ladder on the backside. Using the rags to cover my fingerprints, I climb to the top and then shimmy on my belly toward the other side. Then I wait. The exit to this warehouse area is barely two lanes with scrub grass and shrubs on either side.
I take a deep breath and then exhale, calming my senses, and then I wait and I watch. Finally, something moves to the right. I wondered how long the lookout would wait. Surely he had heard the firefight, and his friends had not returned.
He finally stands and looks around.
I recognize him. His name is Igor, and his father is the dead passenger. I remember him as a kid. He’s about three years older than me and has always been an asshole. Lifting a phone to his ear, he speaks too softly for me to hear.
The phone has to be a burner.
Tucking it into his front pocket, he looks around and lights a cigarette. Not only is he an asshole, he’s a moron. Even if I reclaim ownership of the local Russian mob, I don’t want this guy.
We’re close enough he should be looking up to make sure he’s not being watched. He doesn’t bother. I pull the Makarov to the side, balance the weapon on the edge of the roof, and fire twice.
His head explodes like a melon, and he falls.
I wait a while longer, but there’s nobody else out there. Even so, I crouch low as I turn toward the ladder to climb down, again keeping my prints safely covered by the oily rags. Just as I reach the bottom, I turn and see Rosalie standing in the road, her jaw slack, her face pale, and her eyes wide as she stares at the man I just shot.
Well. Shit.
FOURTEEN
Rosalie
Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow rapidly, trying to keep lunch in my stomach. It’s impossible to think clearly right now. I won’t say my upbringing was sheltered, but I haven’t seen violence like this. The body by the road doesn’t move. His head exploded like he swallowed a grenade.
No way is he still alive.
There’s no expression on Alexei’s face as he stares at me, a gun in his hand. I blink. This isn’t happening. Slowly I start to back away. He releases the ladder, his gaze intense as he prowls toward me.
I trip over uneven gravel and kick my foot back to regain my balance, my left heel hitting a concrete block. I want to run, but I can’t move. His eyes are dark pools with no emotion. Not a speck of blood mars his dark jacket.
“You killed them.” I try to shake myself awake.
“Get back to the bike,” he orders.
The bike. I’d forgotten all about the bike. “No.” I look frantically around for an escape as adrenaline floods my body through the shock.
He shoves what looks like dirty dishcloths into his pocket before slipping that gun in the front of his waistband. “Rosalie, we have to get out of here.” Without waiting for a response, he grabs my arm and starts pulling me back toward the car of death, his grip relentless.
“No.” I panic, pushing against him, kicking him. His stride doesn’t shorten, and I have no choice but to follow him before I trip. If I fall, he’ll just drag me. I push loosely against him. “Alexei, you killed three men. You’re not even supposed to have a gun.” I haven’t secured him a new trial yet. He’s not a felon since the court overturned his conviction, but I bet that gun is not registered.
“We’re lucky I have one,” he says grimly, so much taller than me that I feel truly vulnerable for the first time.
