Professional courtesy? Unlikely.
Strategic value of some kind? Possibly.
A moment of weakness? Absolutely not.
I suppose it doesn't matter, all these silly thoughts.
One day, Ivan will give the order, and when he does, I'll do what needs to be done.
Until then, I have a job to do.
I'm in Romania to kill this man, I pick up my phone and unlock it, this Bogdan Cristea.
When it's done, I'll get the hell out of Constan?a and Romania.
Come on, Danika. Stay focused.
It's 11:47 p.m. He'll be off soon, and I need to be waiting for him.
3
VICTOR
Iturn onto the correct street. The only streetlight flickers as I drive past it, causing the shadows to shift around me.
I kill the engine and settle back into my seat, fingers tapping against the steering wheel as I look around.
Bogdan's house sits ahead, larger than the surveillance photos suggested. It's two stories with clean white paint. It's a respectable-looking Romanian home. One wouldn't think it belongs to a piece of shit human trafficker.
I hear a dog bark somewhere in the distance, and it causes me to look over my shoulder in the direction of the sound.
The sudden turn makes my side throb. The skin pulls tight against the surgical tape beneath my shirt. The doctor told me if I was going to do anything strenuous, to tape the area to keep the skin from moving. I'm not sure it's working.
Either way, I do what I've done since it happened, ignore it.
Besides, pain's just your body telling you you're alive. At least that's what my dad used to say to us. Maybe the one good thing he did.
I glance down at the dash, and the digital clock reads 12:11 a.m.
Any minute now.
I adjust the rearview mirror, checking the empty street behind me. No movement. No cars. Just the occasional flicker of television light from behind curtained windows from the neighbors.
At exactly 12:17, headlights sweep around the corner. A black sedan comes crawling up the street. I lean back in my seat as the car passes.
I pop my head up and watch as the car turns into Bogdan's driveway and stops with a squeal from the brakes.
There he is.
I stay low and watch as Bogdan hauls himself out of the driver's side. He's gained some weight since the photos were taken. Thick around the middle, shoulders hunched forward. He slams the car door and fumbles with his keys, nearly dropping them twice before he gets the front door open.
He swings it open, and a light turns on in the entryway. He walks inside and shuts the door.
I count to thirty in my head, watching, waiting. Finally, the upstairs bathroom light turns on and he walks over to the window and pulls the curtain across.
The bathroom light stays on, and I can see his shadow moving around.
I reach for the black leather gloves on the passenger seat and pull them on, flexing my fingers to work out any stiffness. The leather creaks softly as I grip my gun. I check the magazine even though I already know it's full, then slide my gun into my holster.
