“Waiting there.” He indicates a black van parked across the street. “You make a move and they’re with you.”
I take a deep breath. Paris in the springtime. It’s a beautiful city filled with beautiful, vain, ugly, hateful people. That’s how cities are. All that humanity crammed tightly together creates gorgeous nightmares, and maybe that’s what I love about them. I miss New York sometimes, miss my old beat, miss my brothers and my family. The Russo world feels so far away, so fucking small.
But in the end, what I learned kicking down doors and selling drugs to crackheads applies to high-stakes Dragon warfare too.
Winners pull the trigger first.
I stride forward, pushing down any nervousness and keeping my face calm. As I pass the van, the back door opens and five men clamber out, all of them wearing black pants and big jackets. At a glance, they look normal, except a second look would make it clear they’re in full on tactical gear and barely concealing assault rifles.
We push through the front lobby. The doorman cries out, trying to stop us, but one of my men shoves a gun in his face to make sure he doesn’t call the police. I take the stairs, leading the remaining four shooters at a fast clip up four flights, until I push through another door into a cramped hallway.
There’s not much here. Tile floor, probably from when the building was made in the twenties. The elevator entrance is to the left. Straight ahead is my target.
“On me,” I say, striding straight up to it. I hesitate, about to kick?—
But try the knob first instead.
I laugh, unable to help myself.
The fucking thing is unlocked.
“Arrogant fucking bastard,” I murmur, pulling the door open.
I charge inside, my men at my back. My gun’s leveled as we storm into a beautiful Parisian sitting room. There’s a couch, a coffee table, a fireplace, tons of art hanging on the walls, so much art it covers almost every inch of available space. Light streamsin from enormous windows. It’s gorgeous, and a stupid thought occurs: I wish Nika could see this. She’s an art fiend. She’d love it here.
“Well now, that’s far enough.” The voice has a Greek accent. It’s very calm, which is strange, considering the number of guns pointed in this enclosed space.
I stop dead.
There are more men waiting. A dozen of them at least, all of them heavily armed and patiently standing there with their barrels aimed at my chest. Several laser sights waver over my heart. I’m wearing ceramic body armor, but that’ll stop a bullet or two, max.
Sitting on the couch is an older man. My guess is fifties. His hair’s thick, black, and graying at the edges. He’s paunchy, heavyset, with dark bags under his eyes, olive skin, and black stubble on his cheeks and chin like he’s perpetually filthy. He’s sitting back comfortably, dressed like an average golfer out for a round in a casual collared shirt and khakis.
But while he looks like an average businessman, I know him by sight, and my blood runs instantly cold.
“Dragon Zohran,” I say, heart hammering into my throat.
“Hello, Gabriel. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Zohran smiles at me kindly and gestures to the man at his side. “You know Artyom, yes? Your wife’s cousin? I suppose that makes you two related, ha ha, very funny.”
Artyom glares at me. He doesn’t look good. His skin’s pale and pallid and there’s a twitch to his eye. “I told him to shoot on sight.”
“Nice, thanks for that.” I don’t look away from Zohran. My calculus immediately changes. Artyom is no longer the threat here.
In any room, the Dragon is always the most dangerous.
“Come, come, join us. Tell your men to lower their weapons. There’s no need for killing today.” Zohran waves me over and gestures at the coffee table. “Tea and cookies if anyone is hungry.”
I don’t move. “Why are you here? What’s going on right now?”
“That’s what we have to talk about. Come, sit, and let’s end this.” Zohran’s kindness drains from his face. He fixes me with the blank, baleful expression of a man used to killing and getting what he wants. “Or else I will simply give my friend here what he wants.”
I hold my hand out to the side. “Stand down.” I walk to the couch and sit opposite Zohran and Artyom. My men back off uneasily.
Zohran’s smile returns. He snaps his fingers and his soldiers ease off. They don’t put away their weapons, but the red dots of death aren’t attached to my chest anymore at least.
“Wonderful, I’m happy you could be so reasonable.” He leans in and pours three cups of tea. “Do you know I love Paris? What a wonderful city. So many gutters. And the catacombs, so beautiful and deep, easy to get lost. Easy to bury anything that needs to be buried, ha ha.” His laugh is forced and strange, like a nervous tic. He lifts his tea up and sips, waiting for something. Artyom realizes before I do, takes his cup, and drinks.
Reluctantly, I do the same. It’s weak and bland.
