1
VADIM
The alley is narrow and the brick walls trap the summer heat until sweat soaks through my shirt and runs down my spine. I stand with my back against the wall and watch the two buyers count their money under the flickering streetlight twenty meters away. Their fingers move through the bills like they're paranoid because they’ve been burned before.
Vuk stands beside me with the duffel bag at his feet. The product inside is worth twice what these idiots are paying, but I need the cash more than I need to hold out for a better price. My visa expires in twenty-three days and I have a crew to pay.
The taller one finishes counting and walks toward me with the stack of bills held out. His hand trembles when he gets close enough for me to see the sweat beading on his upper lip. He's got the shakes, which means he needs this pretty badly. I take the money and flip through it quickly, feeling each bill between my fingers to make sure nothing's off.
"Twelve thousand," he says in broken English.
I nod and shove the cash into my jacket pocket while Vuk picks up the bag and tosses it to him, and the buyer catches it against his chest hard enough that he staggers backward. His partner rushes forward to help him unzip it and peek inside at the contents.
They inspect the product for thirty seconds before the shorter one pulls out a brick and turns it over in his hands, squinting at it. I watch them both and resist the urge to tell them to hurry the fuck up. The longer we stand here fucking around, the higher the risk that we'll be caught, which I really can't afford.
"Good," the taller one finally says.
They turn to leave, and I let myself believe for exactly three seconds that this deal will end cleanly. Then car doors slam at the mouth of the alley and blue lights explode across the brick walls. The buyers drop the bag and sprint toward the opposite end without looking back.
"Move," Vuk hisses, but I'm already running.
My boots hit the pavement and broken glass crunches under my soles as I race toward the chain-link fence at the far end of the alley. Behind us the police are shouting orders in Serbian and their radios crackle as they close in on us.
The fence is three meters of rusted metal topped with barbed wire that promises to cut my gut to hell, but I grab the links with both hands and haul myself up, my boots scrambling for purchase on the lower sections. The fence rattles and shakes under my body and I climb faster, ignoring the way my shoulders burn and my forearms scream.
Vuk hits the fence beside me and swears in Russian as I reach the top first and swing my leg over, trying to clear the barbedwire. The rusted metal catches my jeans and tears through the denim into the meat of my thigh, drawing a roar from my gut.
Pain rips through my leg and my vision goes white for a moment, but I tear myself free and the fabric shreds, exposing my leg to the cool evening air. I drop to the other side and land hard enough that my knees buckle, sending me rolling backward to displace the impact.
Gravel embeds itself in my palms when I catch myself, and Vuk lands beside me a second later. I push myself upright, feeling blood run down my leg inside my jeans. The warmth spreads and soaks through the torn fabric.
"Can you run?" Vuk asks between heavy breaths as he glances at the police who are now closing in. They're shouting in Serbian, a dialect with which I'm not very familiar, but I get the point. We have to run or they've got us dead to rights on a drug deal.
"Yes."
My leg throbs with every step, but neither of us slows down as we race through traffic. Cars honk and swerve when we cut across intersections without looking. I taste copper at the back of my throat and my lungs burn from the humid air I am dragging in too fast. Getting caught isn't an option. My job of finding Andrei Lebedev is too crucial to end up in a Serbian lock up for something as stupid as a petty drug deal.
The sirens fade after two blocks, but we keep running for four more before I finally duck into a doorway and press my back against the wall. My entire body shakes from adrenaline and my heart hammers against my ribs.
Vuk joins me, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. His face is pale and his breathing comes in ragged gasps. We standthere in silence for a full minute before either of us moves. Then he bursts out laughing hysterically at how close we came to being caught. It's not every day you get that close to being nabbed and get away. It draws a wry smile from my lips and I chuckle for a second.
"The money?" he asks, still heaving, then he straightens and mops the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.
I pat my jacket pocket and feel the bills still folded inside. "Got it."
"Good." He drags a hand through his hair and loosens his coat. "I'm going home before my heart gives out." He grunts playfully while he presses an open palm to his chest. "I'll catch up tomorrow."
I shake his hand before he disappears into the darkness. Then I wait five minutes before stepping out of the doorway to test my leg. Blood's soaked through my jeans and dripped into my boot, but it's not so bad that I'm taken out. I can support my own body weight. it's just a flesh wound, though it looks gnarly enough. I'll have to get it cleaned up, but first I need some coffee and to lie low for a while. Cops will be looking for someone out walking around.
I walk the remaining few blocks to the diner where I usually get breakfast, keeping to the shadows and avoiding eye contact with anyone I pass. My phone buzzes twice, but I ignore it because whoever's calling can wait.
The bell chimes overhead as I walk under the flickering neon light and slide into my usual corner booth with my back to the wall and my eyes on the door. My leg throbs in time with mypulse, but I ignore it and pull the cash from my pocket to count it under the table.
Twelve thousand euro—every bill is there the way those idiots owed me. It's exactly what I needed to keep my operation funded without dipping into personal money. I fold the stack back into my jacket before the waitress approaches. She has dark hair tied back in a ponytail and circles under her eyes from working too many shifts, but she's pretty. I've always noticed that.
She sets a mug down and pours coffee without asking if I want it. Steam rises from the cup in thin ribbons.
"Anything else?" she asks me plainly, though her Serbian isn't as easy to understand as some folks’. She must be from Nis or Leskovac where their dialect is rougher.
