by Renee Rose
The only reason I wake is because I no longer feel Oleg’s solid form beside me. I snuggle into the soft sheets, relishing the smell of him that still lingers. After another moment, I crack my eyes and look at the bedside clock. Eleven in the morning. That’s pretty normal for me the morning after a gig. I sit up and rub my eyes, looking around.
Oleg doesn’t seem to be in the room.
Maybe he went for bagels again.
I swing my legs out of the bed and almost trip over a duffel bag beside it. On top of the navy canvas bag is Oleg’s iPad. I smile. He left me a note.
I grab the iPad and wake it up.
Story,
You are my reason for living, so of course, it is easy to make this choice.
A cold chill sweeps across my limbs. Renders me limp. My fingers holding the iPad tremble.
My death is the best protection for you. Take this money, so I can continue to protect you from the grave.
I love you, my lastochka.
No!
I might have screamed it. Maybe several times.
All I know is that a pounding starts up on the door to the penthouse.
Sobbing, I yank on one of Oleg’s t-shirts. The door opens, and Oleg’s friends pour in. I don’t see them. I barely hear them over the screaming in my head.
Dima picks up the iPad and reads the words out loud to the rest of them.
Someone gathers me into a hug. Nikolai, maybe. I’m passed to Sasha, who also envelopes me against her chest.
I can’t stop crying. I only hear snippets of their conversation: ...turning himself in to Skal’pel’...the bottle of Soviet champagne that was delivered here for him… I can’t track him, he left his phone here…
Finally I make myself speak. “S-stop him,” I sob. “You have to stop him.”
“We will,” Ravil answers grimly, even though I can tell by his face he doesn’t believe it.
He means he will try.
But we may be too late.
Oh God, we may be too late.
How could this have happened? How did I fall in love for the first time in my life only to lose him in the matter of two weeks?
I’m hyperventilating. It’s that ugly, out of control sobbing where you can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can’t release the torrent of emotion trapped in your body.
“Why?” I sob, even though he told me why.
He did it for me.
He sacrificed his life, so I would stay safe.
I hate myself now for insisting on going to gigs. Making him worry about my safety.
Fuck, if I would’ve know it meant him turning himself in to get butchered by some cruel doctor, I would’ve holed up here in this penthouse with him for the rest of my life.
The salt in my tears burns my eyes.
Someone hands me a tissue. Then another.
Then the whole box.
I can’t stop the hurricane.
“You have to stop him,” I repeat again. “Please.”
Some of the men have left the room. I’m not sure what’s happening.
“Are you going to find him?” I ask. I’m like a lost child in the airport. I don’t even know where to begin or who to turn to.
Ravil comes to me. “We’re trying to track them down. I’ll be honest. It might be difficult. Skal’pel’ is a smart man who could be using any identity and wearing any face. He could’ve been living anywhere. But Dima’s working every angle we can think of.”
I shake my head, refusing to accept that answer. “No. You have to find him. You have to get there before anything happens. How long has he been gone? Does anyone know?”
“Not yet,” Ravil murmurs, pulling out his phone. “But I’ll check with Maykl down at the front door. We have security footage.”
I stumble around the room, my stomach scrunched up under my ribs. “This is wrong,” I mutter between hiccuping sobs. “It’s all wrong.”
“Story.” Ravil gently grips my shoulder. “I’d like you to stay here while we figure this out, okay? You may still be in danger, and I need to keep you safe.”
I blink at him then burst into fresh tears, but I nod. “Yes,” I say. I want to be with them. I need to be with the people who know and love Oleg.
Because I need them to bring him back.
Oleg
I blink, trying to open my eyes, but even when I do, I can’t see. I shift. My wrists are bound. There must be a bag over my head.
I’m still alive.
I’m surprised by that fact.
At dawn, I walked outside the Kremlin and stood outside the building to wait.
I stood motionless for three hours, and then a black limo pulled up across the street and parked. When no one got out, I waited a few minutes, then crossed the street and opened the door to the back seat.
It was empty.
“Get in,” the driver said, without looking back at me. He was American. Possibly a thug for hire. He drove to a private airstrip and parked. There, the back doors were simultaneously opened by two more thugs—also American—who told me to get out and get on the plane—a small jet parked on the tarmac. I walked up the steps. The moment I arrived at the top, someone stabbed a needle into my neck. I didn’t fight them or the drug. I just looked around for Skal’pel’ before I topped into the waiting arms of the two thugs who’d followed me in.
I never saw him.
He may never have been in Chicago at all.
That fit. He wouldn’t risk his own neck to get me.
I test my bonds. My wrists are bound in front with what feels like zip ties. I’m sitting upright in a comfortable seat—the jet’s chair, maybe?
“You’re awake.” The mild-mannered voice of my former boss reaches my ears. He’s speaking in Russian.
The bag comes off. We are on the jet—at least, I think it’s the same jet, but it may be a different one. Skal’pel’ sits across from me in an expensive tailored suit. I don’t recognize his face—he’s changed it. But I would remember the voice anywhere. And his body frame hasn’t changed, other than a few extra pounds.
I don’t move. I have no fight in me. My only plan was to surrender to this man to save Story.
“I appreciate the way you operate, Oleg.”
The routine is familiar. The fond way he looks at me. The praise. Then he’ll tell me what he wants with a total and complete expectation that I will deliver.
And I always did.
He leans forward and pulls my lower eyelid down, like he’s inspecting my pupil. “Are you all there? All the way back?”
I don’t answer.
“Oleg?” That quiet, expecting tone coaxes a nod out of me before I realize I’m giving it.
He lifts a finger, and a thin guy with a mustache appears with a bottle of water, which he opens and hands to Skal’pel’. My former employer leans forward and brings the bottle to my lips.
I don’t want to accept his help, but the moment the water enters my mouth, I swallow greedily. The tranquilizer made me cotton-mouthed and thirsty.
“You did the right thing. Your little songbird will be safe. No more bullets on the rooftop.”
Fuck. That was him. I guess I knew deep down it had to be.
I don’t move. If this were a movie, I would struggle against my bonds. Lunge out like I wanted to kill him for talking about hurting my girl. But it’s not a movie. I hang on his every word, needing to hear the rest of them.
I’ve been waiting twelve years for closure. To know why he abandoned me. Balled me up like a used rag and then lit me on fire and left me to burn.
“I never knew what sort of woman would turn your head, but I knew she’d have to be unusual. It’s personality for you, isn’t it? Not that your Story isn’t lovely. But you never looked twice at normal beauty. You were unmoved by the perfect tits or a nice pair of long legs. It takes a special one to captivate you.”
I scowl.
“I’m sorry, Oleg.” Skal’pel’ considers me. “You were never anything but loyal to me. You always
did what I asked. Performed better than any man I’ve hired since. But your size made you too hard to hide.” He offers me another drink, and I take it. “Changing your face wouldn’t have worked. And keeping you with me would’ve been a tell for my old identity. I had to cut you loose and ensure no one would come after you.”
God help me, it’s all I can do to keep the skepticism from my expression.
“I left you money. Enough to make you a rich man when you got out.” His expression turns to disappointment, like I’m the one who let him down. “You never used it. Just a few thousand dollars to get to America.”
I shrug.
“The rest of it is still sitting in a bank in your name. Untouched.”
I don’t respond.
He gets up and starts pacing, hands clasped behind his back.
I turn and check out who’s on the plane. I see the two men in the back who put me on the plane. A third, skinny, more secretarial-looking guy with a mustache. He’s the one who brought the water.
The door to the pilot’s cabin is closed.
Skal’pel’ goes on with his monologue. My being mute now hardly makes a difference. The man always preferred to hear himself talk. Not like Ravil, who listens.
But he’s just as smart as Ravil. He strategizes just as well. He reads and understands people like Ravil does. At least, I always felt like he knew me better than I knew myself. That’s what makes him a master manipulator.
“You joined the bratva. A surprising choice although perhaps not, considering the friends you’d made in prison.”
I’m sickened by how closely he followed my life after he mutilated my body and ruined my life. I don’t know what I’d thought he would do. I hadn’t wanted to think about him. What had become of him. Where he was or what he was doing.
But I certainly never imagined he was tracking and following me. My life.
It turns my stomach.
Or maybe that’s just the aftereffects of the tranquilizer.
“I realized that my gift to you wasn’t the consolation I’d hoped it would be. You didn’t crave cash. You craved a master to serve. And you found one with your new bratva cell. Ravil Baranov, smuggler and self-made real estate mogul of downtown Chicago.”
Now I want to kill him.
It’s all I can do not to flex my hands against the zip ties. I don’t like him talking about Ravil. And I especially don’t like his assessment of me, however true it may be.
I could snap his neck. Right here, right now. He’s within my reach. But I might get shot in the back of the head before I finished the job. Would it be worth it?
The world would be safe from this maniac.
Story would be safe.
Oh fuck, Story.
Just thinking of her brings on a wave of grief so heavy it nearly drowns me.
I left her. My sweet lastochka.
And probably like Skal’pel’s payment to me, that bag of cash I bequeathed to her won’t be any kind of consolation for my death. She doesn’t seem to care much about money, anyway.
I didn’t think this through. I just blindly followed the path Skal’pel’ laid for me, just like I always have. I’d thought I was doing this for Story. Sacrificing myself, so she could live. Being the honorable, trustworthy man I’ve always considered myself to be.
But this isn’t honoring Story. And sure as hell isn’t honoring myself. This is the first time in my life I really have something worth living for, and I chose not to fight for it? Not to even try to find a solution other than the one Skal’pel’ picked for me?
Am I really going to let him continue to write the script of my life?
“I don’t know who figured out your connection with me, but when I saw a reward had been put up for your safe capture, I had to come for you.” Now he turns an indulgent gaze on me. Like I’m the wayward child he’s taking back into his fold, instead of the psychopath who thought cutting out my tongue and putting me in prison was the best way to reward me for my loyal service.
“I couldn’t let them capture you, even though you probably hold little knowledge of value in that glorious, big head of yours.” He drops back into his seat and crosses one ankle over his knee.
“I could have just sent an executioner.” He stands again to pace away from me. “It would’ve been safer for me. Far easier. Definitely simpler.” He turns and looks at me. “But the truth is, I’ve missed your service, Oleg.” He flicks a glance at the American thugs. “No one takes care of business the way you used to. Without complaint or interjections. You never did speak much, even when you had a tongue.”
He paces back. “So I came myself for you. And your obedient response to my message showed me you’re still as reliable as ever.” He passes by me and places a hand on my shoulder in the way he used to show his approval or affection. He squeezes.
One blow with both my fists would knock him out.
“Again, I couldn’t bring myself to kill you. I’d rather have you by my side again, where you belong. Serving your old master.” He’s behind me now, where I can’t see him.
Where he can’t see my face.
I make a few micromovements of discovery. My ankles aren’t bound. I’m not tied to this seat. And that’s when I remember—you can’t fire a gun on an airplane.
Those thugs would know that, too.
“Would you like to serve me again, Oleg?”
I wait for him to walk around to the front of me. He’s holding a syringe. A fatal dose of poison if I answer incorrectly? It doesn’t matter. People always underestimate how quickly I can move for my size. I lunge out of my chair and twist his head around on his neck, snapping it. I take the syringe from his hand as he falls.
My movements are slower than I’d like—the after-effects of the drug still weigh me down, but I have far too much practice in clearing a room for it to stop me.
The thugs in the back come for me, guns drawn. They won’t fire them, not unless they want us all to die.
I plunge the syringe into the first guy’s neck and dodge a blow from the second one, knocking into his belly with my elbow. I punch him again with an awkward side-swing of both arms, but I put enough power behind it to lift him off his feet and knock the wind out of him.
A blow to the face, and he goes down. The mustached man picks up a gun from one of the fallen men and points it at me, his hand trembling.
I shake my head.
“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.”
I risk it. I take two long steps to reach him, snatch the gun from his hand and strike him in the temple with it. He goes down.
I search the pockets of the thugs and find the zip ties, then fasten them around the wrists of the three guys still breathing. Killing them might be cleaner, but I can make that call later.
Now I have to get this plane turned around.
Chapter 14
Story
I don’t know how many hours it is before Ravil gets a text from an unknown number, but it comes. There’s a wild scramble of activity.
Oleg’s alive. On a plane flying back to Chicago.
I cry more tears—this time of relief. And then there’s more waiting.
As I wait, my grief morphs into anxiety. A gnawing, itching anxiety. The kind that’s plagued me my whole life. I consider it to be my gut instinct telling me when something’s not right.
When it’s time to bail.
And the longer the minutes stretch until Oleg is back, the stronger the feeling grows.
I get bundled into the back of Oleg’s Denali with Nikolai and Dima in front, and we leave, along with two other vehicles, for some private airstrip I’ve never heard of.
It’s snowing. Thick, wet flakes that hit the windshield and melt the minute they touch it. Nikolai drives. Dima brings a laptop along and is searching things as we drive, making short comments to his brother in Russian, then pausing to throw an apologetic smile over his shoulder at me.
The nervous buzzing grows louder, so I can’t think about anything. I can�
�t remember if I’ve eaten anything today. I don’t think I have. My lips are dry, my throat is parched.
Vaguely, I realize I have to perform tonight at Rue’s. It seems like last night’s performance was a lifetime ago.
When we get there, Nikolai turns around and says, “I’m going to need you to wait in the Denali, okay? Please don’t come out, or you’ll be an accessory to anything you see out there. Understand?”
I think I nod. I’m not sure. My brain is barely functioning.
And then I’m alone in the vehicle. I should be excited. I get to see Oleg. I thought he was dead, but he’s coming back to me.
Except it’s clear as day that there is no going “back.”
I’ll never feel the way I did last night again.
That moment has passed, and we are on to a new one. And in this one, I don’t even want to be here.
Sitting in the warmed seats, watching the sleet fall, I feel like I’m waiting for something awful to happen.
But what?
Is it Oleg coming back?
No.
It’s me breaking up with him.
That’s the gnawing anxiety. I know this isn’t right. I can’t do this thing with him.
Oleg
We land back at the same airstrip we took off from. I was able to communicate my desires to the pilot, who thinks I’m going to kill him.
He’s a talker. I sit in the co-pilot’s seat for the duration of the trip, and he’s one constant stream of monologue, nervous sweat dripping from his forehead.
I left the phone on speaker, so Maxim could hear everything, since he’ll have to fix this.
The pilot already told us he didn’t know Skal’pel’ very well but flew him in from Florida, and that’s where he had orders to fly back. He had enough fuel to turn the plane around and got clearance to land back in Chicago.
He says he doesn’t want to know what happened in the cabin of the plane, and as far as he’s concerned, it’s none of his business. Then he talked a lot about his wife and two small kids. How they’re expecting him home this afternoon, and he’s their only income.
After he lands the plane, Maxim lets him off the hook.
