"No, thank you. I'll place it under the seat in front of me." I push the bag under and stretch my legs around it.
She smiles vacantly at me, having mentally moved on to the next passenger. As soon as she leaves, I pull out my phone and look at the message. LAX Singapore Air SQ21.
The weather is good on Jeju Island. I respond. It is my peace offering. Get somewhere safe and far away from me.
Sarah has always wanted to visit. The relief in the text message was palpable.
You should go for at least three months. I will not text him again.
Thank you.
I force myself to sleep on the flight. It might be the only rest I get in the next forty-eight hours.
Arrival comes swiftly, but it is early morning, and the rental car lines are minimal. I am in my Taurus and on the freeway to my storage locker in Brentwood within fifteen minutes. The outskirts of the flashy suburb are filled with cracker-box houses that look like little cartons set in a row. The people inside are probably more content than those in the larger houses. People with bigger houses and more money are never satisfied.
At the storage unit, I open a case that holds a few of my implements. The .40 caliber Glock 23 handgun I purchased from a drug dealer a year ago lies nestled inside. I like this gun because it belonged to a police officer, who traded it to the dealer for something. Maybe blow. Maybe girls. After I am done with the two men from the Bratva, I may leave the gun. The police officer can then be confronted. It will be my good deed, a balancing of the scales—although removing the two is not a bad deed. No one would say that, not even the man who employed them.
Sitting on a trunk, I carefully dismantle the Glock. The shaft is clean, and despite the lack of use, it still looks good. I dry fire it as if I am cleaning out the thirteen-round magazine. As I count out the bullets, I smile. A buyer who was not in law enforcement would be limited to a ten-round magazine.
Everything is in perfect working order. The suppressor is stuck down my sock, and the gun is tucked into a shoulder holster concealed by my jacket. The rest of the tactical weapons are left in the case, which I slide onto the passenger seat of the Taurus. Twenty minutes later, I am on my way back to the airport.
The Taurus is traded for a Lincoln Town Car, and my suit is now a hundred-dollar warehouse purchase, ill-fitting and wrinkled. I hold up a sign waiting for Ben Nelson. To the rest of the people here, I am merely one poor driver waiting to pick up his passenger.
The heat is stifling, and the press of bodies near the baggage and transportation claim makes me edgy and tense. I suppress the urge to pull out my gun and shoot until I have space around me.
I spot Bogdan, a high-ranking member of the security force in the Bratva, and an unknown man saunter down to the baggage claim check. Bogdan is an unimaginative killer but very loyal. You must give him specific instructions because he does not know how to improvise. I wonder what Sergei told Bogdan. Go find Nikolai in Minneapolis. Kill him and find the mark. Return.
As they stop at the baggage claim, I contemplate what they have brought on their commercial flight. What would they be so dumb to have packed? I'll search it later. I glance at my watch and then take a phone call. I pretend that I am at the wrong terminal and move out quickly. In the town car, I follow the two. They are headed to Portofino, just as I suspected. They will want to be on the beach, not because they like the ocean, but because they want to ogle the women in bikinis. I wonder why Sergei has not sent Vasily. Do I not warrant Alexsandr’s successor? At least Vasily would be a true challenge. Bogdan and his friend would be a task for an apprentice, not someone who has been hunting since he could hold a stick in his hand.
I leave the town car in a parking garage and pick up my case. Inside the basement of the hotel, I pull off my suit and stuff it down the incinerator. A row of uniforms are hanging in the laundry facility. I choose a bellman's uniform with its convenient white gloves and pull it over my thin pants and a tank. The laundry room contains carts and master keys. I tuck the Glock in the back of my pants and place the case of other weapons at the bottom of a luggage cart and head upstairs.
I keep my head lowered and am soon called on to deliver a guest’s luggage to their room. I complete the task and then continue up to Bogdan's room. Once there, I don't bother knocking. They will not open the door. I pull out my gun, attach the suppressor, and use a master key I've pilfered from the maids downstairs. Bogdan looks up as the door swings open. I pull the trigger. He falls. I swivel, locking the Glock on my new target, and I hit.
They both fall to the floor in agony. Quickly, I enter, shut the door, and have them both trussed with duct tape. My favorite. The whole process has taken less than thirty seconds. The second man, one I do not know, spits at me, and I hear a grinding of his teeth. Bogdan must have heard it, too, because he shouts no. I step back from the second man, who is now foaming at the mouth.
"Cyanide?" I ask Bogdan. He closes his eyes and nods.
"In his tooth." Bogdan says, hanging his head.
"A new recruit then."
"Da, they are so earnest." Bogdan and I both watch the man. The poison he has swallowed is fast-acting. That's positive. In the past, Sergei would give his foot soldiers dimethyl-mercury. It took a long time for them to die. And it was painful. It was as if Sergei wanted to punish them one last time for failing him. But the downside was that the man, angry about the painful death, could be coerced to give up secrets. This unknown foot soldier is unconscious, and he will soon be dead. I turn away. There is nothing to be done.
"Bogdan, why are you so careless?"
He shrugs. He doesn't know. I believe this. Sergei does not surround himself with anyone who is smarter than him. It is too dangerous. That person will eventually want to throw you over. I go into the bedroom and rip the pillow cases into strips and hand the cloth to Bogdan. He ineptly tries to bind his hand, so I do it for him. "It will heal, you know."
"We were just coming over to warn you, not harm you." Bogdan whines.
I glance at the dead body of his companion in obvious disbelief.
Bogdan tries to smile, but it is a grimace. Smiling is something that comes hard to all of us. Not to Daisy though. She seems to smile constantly. I shake my head to get her out of there. Time for business now; pleasure later.
"Why kill Alexsandr?" I ask bluntly. I want to hear Bogdan’s story. His will be the one told throughout the Bratva.
"He fell in love with wrong woman." Bogdan tongues his tooth, the one with the poison, as if taunting me. I want to beat Bogdan for lying, but I wait. Patience. We both know that if he intended to use the poison, then he would've done it earlier, perhaps as soon as I had shot him. The stink of nicotine from Bogdan's clothes almost overwhelms the sulfur, blood, and now piss from the dead man. I rifle through Bogdan's clothes until I find his cigarettes. I place one in his mouth and offer him a flame. He nods in gratitude, takes a few puffs, and begins.
"She comes home two weeks ago. Angry. She says to her papa, ‘Alexsandr is a mudak.’ Sergei answers. 'What’s new?'"
I nod. Alexsandr is an a**hole. We all know this.
"She yells at her papa that she wanted to marry Alexsandr, but he refuses to marry her. He won’t marry her, but he'll f**k her anytime he gets the chance."
Heaviness sets in. Alexsandr killed because of a woman. This makes more sense to me than the claims that Alexsandr was disloyal, yet I cannot shake the feeling that I do not know all of the story. I think of Daisy again, of f**king her, of her being angry that I cannot marry her. I see her face crumple and cry. I shake my head again. Daisy. I must not think of her now.
"Because she gives voice to the truth, Sergei thinks Alexsandr must die?" I ask.
Bogdan gives a negligent shake of his shoulder. "Sergei says to his daughter, 'I'll take care of this. No man f**ks with the Bratva.' Then he is gone."
"He does the deed himself."
Bogdan shakes his head. "Don't know. He takes Daniel with him. Maybe Vasily, maybe Grigory."
I’m shocked to hear Daniel’s name. He plays a deeper game than I suspected, but I will pursue that threat later. I need to understand the extent of my vengeance. "Is she happy then?"
"No, she finds out two days later. I guess she wanted a f**king." Bogdan curves his lips around his cigarette. I swallow down the urge to make him eat it. "She comes storming back, screaming and crying. She fights with her papa. Nonstop. She screams that he has ruined her life. He tells her that it is his right to protect and avenge what is his. She does not come out of her room for days. He says he is sorry."
"And now you are here to tell me this story."
"Sergei knew you would not be happy."
"Yet he acted anyway."
Bogdan looks away, draws hard on his cigarette. It is almost ash. I make no move to take it from his mouth. With Bogdan's hands behind his back, he cannot move either. He drops it to the carpet and then spits on the cigarette. When I watch it burn, he shuffles over on his knees and rubs it out, grimacing at the burn through the wool of his trousers.
"So, you let me go?" Bogdan asks, hopeful.
"I cannot do that."
Bogdan tries to lean forward; perhaps he thinks to attack me on his knees. Some men could take me from this position, but not Bogdan. I move back with ease, and he falls forward, his nose now crushed in the carpet.
"You should take poison, Bogdan. It seems fast-acting." I stand to leave.
"Stop, Nikolai. Don't do this."
"What?" I turn and put my arms out. In the plate window beyond, I can see myself, thick cheeked in my red bellman's uniform. I look like a clown. A clown with a Glock 23 and suppressor. I lower my arms. "You come to me, Bogdan. I have job to do. Then I'm done. Don't interfere."
"You'll never get out," Bogdan snarls. "None of us ever do."
"That is what they said when I was six and taken in by Alexandr’s crew. That I'd never get out. But I did."
Bogdan looks torn between wanting to hit me and cry. He does neither. Instead, he begs me. "Don’t leave me here."
"I cannot take you with me, Bogdan. I am in the middle of a job, one that you interrupted." I turn to leave.
"Take me into your network. Make me disappear. Please."
I hate it when they beg. It is an attempt to manipulate me through unsavory means. Through feelings, when they know I have none.
"I know you have a network you work with. I can be part of that network. You just need to give me a little hand." Bogdan offers this.
"Bullshit, Bogdan," I chastise, “always trying to sell out. At the first sign of danger to yourself, you are bargaining. What else will you bargain with? What information can you provide?"
"Anything." Bogdan is beginning to cry. Soon, no doubt, he will piss himself. The room already smells like a urinal.
"I cannot trust you, Bogdan. You have no allegiance."
"Neither do you. We are no different!” he cries.
Whatever sympathy I have for Bogdan disappears. I curl my lip at him. "You and I are nothing alike. I would not sell out a trusted friend or partner for my life."
"You would for a girl."