And since everyone on the outside seems to be aware that I’m seeking redress for Alexsandr’s death, then so does everyone inside, including Sergei, the new head of the Petrovich family. The new king of the Bratva. His silence on this issue is telling. Sergei is as much a threat to me as I am to him. But for now, I pretend I am undisturbed that Sergei has killed my mentor.
The information provided to me by the Watchmakers about the new mark seems innocuous. One man, a doctor, living in Seattle. His name, social security number, and date of birth are given, along with the type of death requested. No need for discretion. The means of delivery are simple, then, and on my terms. It’s just the way I prefer it, but something about this makes me anxious.
A quick Internet search reveals that the doctor in Seattle is a transplant surgeon. I wonder if he deals with black market organs, selling them or facilitating the purchase for rich patrons. The internet only reveals that he has a toothsome smile, a full head of hair, and a plastic-looking wife. Perfect, pretty, but empty. The idea of running up to Seattle to research the mark displeases me. I don't want to be away from the girl in 224.
I return to the bathroom and look at the video tape of Mr. John Brown, my current mark. Sergei contracted me three months ago to find Mr. Brown and return him to Moscow. Mr. Brown's real name is George Franklin; he is an accountant from Chicago. He was caught skimming money from the Bratva transactions, and instead of running to Mexico or Singapore or somewhere else, he's trying to hide in plain sight. It is a rather inspired idea, but he's only tried to hide once.
I've hunted people all my life. Everyone leaves a trail. Mr. Brown's mistake was his dog, a tiny yippy thing. Rather than leaving it behind, Mr. Brown has carted that dog with him everywhere, zig-zagging from Chicago up to small towns in Wisconsin. Now he’s back in Minneapolis, Minnesota, not a few hundred kilometers from his home city, He’s been buying the dog specialty food wherever he went.
I can fairly predict where he'd go next based on the availability of the food. I’m not to kill Mr. Brown. Simply find him and return him. But plans change. I haven't killed Mr. Brown yet because he has information. The video feed shows Mr. Brown spreading peanut butter on himself for his dog to lap up. Disgusting. I'll be doing everyone a favor by getting rid of Mr. Brown.
Swinging my scope over to room 224, I flip on my night vision goggles. I can only see the outline of her body. She is leaving the apartment, and she appears to have a basket with her. I track her down to the basement laundry. When I first walked the building, I noted the basement laundry facility. It was dank and musty, with only a few lights and disgusting floor.
The girl from 224 should not have to clean her clothes down there. Someone should clean her clothes for her, but I knew she could not afford that. Her refrigerator holds few items and when she does eat, which seems far too seldom for my own peace of mind, she eats noodles and other cheap food. Her roommate does not make any more money, either. The two of them are poor and so obviously prey that it is a miracle that they've survived on their own to make it to adulthood. The one male in their lives is worthless.
I watch again as her outlined form leans over the washing machine. She places her clothes inside and then leaves. She returns to her apartment and heads to her bedroom. It is too dark for me to tell what she is doing in there. Is she touching herself again? Can she bring herself off? I think she may be reading a book. I watch her, and the time that passes is meaningless. Nothing is more interesting to me that watching her, even if it is just the outline of her form. I should be doing so many other things. Researching my potential mark in Seattle. Pinpointing Daniel’s position. Searching for the weaknesses in Sergei’s coterie of advisors. Instead, I am mesmerized by her.
As I watch, I notice that her breathing has evened out and her head has flopped to the side. It appears that she has fallen asleep. Her laundry is sitting wet in that dank basement. Before I can give it another thought, I head out of my apartment, down the one flight of stairs and across the street to the back door of her apartment building. This door has no outside handle, but the lock is so simple that all it takes is a plastic wedge and few jerks of a keycard to get the lock to give way. I jog down to the basement and open the door.
Inside, a man is leaning over a pile of laundry. He jerks around at my entrance and fists something pink and lacy in his hand. Looking around, I take in a quick inventory. The washing machine he is leaning over is the one that my girl used. My nostrils flare and blood zings into my eyes. The mudak is fondling her panties.
With a roar, I charge. He shrinks back and raises his hands to defend himself. I grab the wrist of his fisted hand and crush the bones. His cries of pain are music to me and my rage lessens. The pale pink cotton falls to the ground and, as he tries to wrest away, his sneakered foot nearly crushes it. I hold onto his wrist with one hand and reach down and pluck the panties off the ground and stuff them into my jeans pocket.
"What the f**k do you think you are doing?" I ask him through gritted teeth.
His teeth chatter and he responds with barely legible words. "Laundry. Doing laundry."
He is a lecher and a liar. I squeeze his broken wrist tighter and he cries out again. Using my other hand on the collar of his t-shirt, I twist and pull him close. "These are not your clothes, you filthy motherfucker." I am tired of my girl being surrounded by the dregs of humanity. Mr. Brown living next door with his perversions. This little man trying to steal her panties. How many other women has he done this to? I should kill him right now. My hand releases his t-shirt to grasp his throat. I could squeeze the life out of him.
But before I can say another word, I hear footsteps. It's her. Somehow I know it is her. The thief and I exchange glances. I push the dolboeb, the fuckhead, away and shove her clothing back into the washing machine. I see a dark corner and a bulb. I bat the hot bulb with my hand and break it, feeling the burn immediately. This side of the laundry room is plunged into darkness. It is the perfect place to stash this man. I push him into the corner. "You make noise, you so much as breathe too loudly, and it will be the last sound you make."
He nods his comprehension, cradling his broken wrist. Grabbing the one chair in the laundry room, I pull it in front of him and situate it so that I am partially lit but that he would have to push past me to get out.
I do not have a book or magazine, so I pull out my phone and pretend to be checking the Internet. I'm holding my own breath because this will be the closest I have ever been to her. My hands shake with anticipation. I clench my phone harder to keep her from seeing how she affects me. I do not want to frighten her, so I say, "Allo," as soon as she turns the corner.
This is still unexpected and she jumps, placing her delicate hand to her chest. She has no idea that the action draws emphasis to her beautiful br**sts. I want to see those br**sts exposed to my gaze. I want to touch them with my hands. I want to rub my face between their valley, thumb her n**ples, and lick every round inch of those swells. My c*ck hardens at the thought. I'm grateful that I am leaning over so she can't see the evidence of my arousal. Perhaps it is better that I've never been this close. I'd come at the first touch of her hand on my bare flesh.
"I-I didn't see you there," she stammers sweetly. Her voice is clear and melodic. I'm completely entranced.
"Nyet, it is my fault. I apologize for startling you." Is it uncouth to remain seated? With fuckhead behind me, I feel like I cannot stand up. Him and my aching cock.
"That's okay." She smiles at me, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. "I've just moved in, so I don't know everyone in the building. I'm Daisy Miller."
Daisy. I roll her name over my tongue. It fits her, like her smooth soft hands and her clear complexion. The women in the Ukraine, some of them would wash their faces in goat’s milk to keep a perfect countenance. I wonder if this is what she does. Her skin is creamy but golden as if she lives outdoors instead of within the stained brick walls of this dirty rundown apartment complex. Her eyelashes are thick and rest like lace curtains against the curve of her cheek.
"Daisy Miller," I repeat. "Like Henry James?" The Daisy Miller of Henry James’s story is light and intangible, all beauty and no substance. It does not match this woman.
She frowns at me, clearly not following my conversation attempt. "Beg pardon?"
"Is nothing."
She holds out her hand and offers it to me. I want to get up and touch it but I cannot. Instead, I slide the chair slightly forward and lean toward her, offering my own hand in greeting. She looks at me uncertainly like I'm some dolboeb who won't cross the distance to her. I should've beaten that man unconscious so I wouldn't have to be worried about him. I rise up slowly to see if there is any reaction, and I hear a slight movement. Gripping the chair as I stand up, I swiftly lift and then bring down the leg of the chair on some body part of the thief. It might be his calf. I hear a choked sound.
"Do you hear something?" Daisy looks around, and I take the opportunity to shove the chair back. The sound is cut off. The thief has received my message.
"I do not. Nick Anders." I say, walking toward her. My given name is Nikolai Andrushko, but I tell that to no one. I pull her tiny hand in mine and lift it to my mouth. It smells of lemon and detergent. I brush my mouth lightly over it, amazed I do not fall onto her and ravage her like an animal. Rather than tempt myself further, I let her hand drop to her side. She is blushing now, and her other hand is covering her mouth. I rub a thumb across one flushed cheek. "Daisy. It is a lovely name."
"Thank you."
I hear more sounds in the corner. "This place sounds like there are animals in the walls. I think unsafe, perhaps, for someone like you?"
"Like me?" She frowns. She does not like this. I grapple for a better response.
"For anyone. For women, especially alone. Come," I draw her toward her washing machine. "Let's finish this."
"Um, you don't have to wait for me. I'm just going to drop this all in the dryer and then come back when it is done."
"Da, I will watch," I offer. I want to wait with her, but I have a loose end I must take care of.
She looks uncertainly at me again, and I offer her a benign smile. It is enough, because she quickly transfers her items from one machine to another, although it is apparent she is separating out her tender under-things to take somewhere else. She pauses and then looks back at me, still flushed. Is she embarrassed? She shouldn't be. She should know that her delicate items only make her more desirable. I frown, wondering if the jackal behind me can see. I spread my legs and cross my arms, hoping to make a bigger barrier so he cannot see. I do not want anyone to see her private things. I wonder if she should wash them again.
Her unease is evident, and I know I should leave her. Not just because of the wary glances that she flicks toward me but because everything about her is in direct conflict to my entire existence. I can scarcely breathe standing this close to her, watching her in the flesh.
Her thin but capable arms are moving swiftly to lift and carry her clothing. Her hands are delicate with elegant fingers, perfectly shaped for her body. I imagine those fingers stretched around my shaft. There are freckles on her cheeks and forehead. Standing so close, there are details here that I could not have captured from my scope, my night vision goggles, my paltry imagination. Daisy is a riot of colors with her chestnut-colored hair and her blue eyes. Her pale skin is lovely even in this dimly lit basement. It is a good thing, I decide, that I’ve yet to see Daisy fully exposed in the sun. I may die.