Last Hit (Hitman)

by Jessica Clare

  For Sergei, whose financial resources might rival the oil barons, he will never have the respect of those he deems his peers because he is a leech. He orchestrates oil deals, but never owns any oil. The weapons he trades are stained with the blood of others. He transports dirt, the nutrient-rich soil from Ukraine, to Russia. In Ukraine, he leaves enormous holes that he fills with garbage. This is Sergei's legacy. It is one of destruction and waste.

  I suddenly realize what drove Alexsandr. For those who love the Bratva, and Alexsandr did, Sergei's fall further into the abyss—whether it be from the sale of young girls to diseased foreigners or hooking our own on flesh-eating drugs—is ruining the Bratva. Soon it will be nothing but a hole full of garbage. He will never be able to fuck the society women or drink vodka in their special clubs. He will always be other.

  I have no allegiance to the Bratva, but for Vasily, it is his life. Daniel, his allegiance is more occluded, but I am committed to trusting Daniel, no matter his loyalties and agendas. Relying on another sits uncomfortably upon my shoulders, but I have no other choice, at least not one which will see both Daisy and me alive at the end.

  Because it is easier to capture one man out in public than one woman in a conclave, we bait a trap.

  All of this is taking too much time, and I'm chafing at the wait. Vasily returns to the Bratva headquarters. There is no reason for him to go to the estate unless he is called there. No one I trust—and I barely trust Vasily or Daniel—is with Daisy, but they both assure me that Sergei is serious about maintaining her virginity for the purpose of the sale. The sale could take place that week.

  The Magvenodov family is my bait. The Magvenodovs are what the Petrovichs aspire to be—or at least what Sergei aspires to be. The patriarch of the Magvendov family is a billionaire with homes in London, Hong Kong, and New York City. They own a British footballer team. They dine with princes and kings. Their names are whispered with jealousy and reverence, and there is no door that is closed to them.

  The eldest son has a sad taste for the lads which, in Russia, is seen as worse than eating krokodil at the dining room table. Better to be eaten by drugs than admit to being a sodomite. I am sorry for Lev that I will use him in this way, but I am desperate. I cannot decide whether Daisy would want me to use every resource at my disposal to free her. The methods I use might be unsavory, but they will be effective.

  I resolutely crush any stirrings of a conscience. Sitting outside his lover's apartment, taking photographs like a low-grade shpion, demeans both of us, but if I had to eat the garbage in the holes in Ukraine to recover Daisy, I would do so.

  I capture the entire evening. Lev's father may actually be more disturbed by the intimate romantic scenes—Lev's boyfriend cooking him dinner or Lev gifting the other man a coat—rather than the sexual scenes. Lev's father has his own perversions, but they are more socially acceptable. Still, it is effective blackmail.

  "Lev Dmitrievna Magvenodov," I quietly call out as he exits the building. The look of post-coitus relaxation is immediately replaced with wariness. This man is no idiot. A person lying in wait for him outside his lover's apartment has no good news.

  I wait in the shadows in case Magvenodov should decide to shoot and run. But he does neither. Instead, he walks straight toward me and my unease at what I am going to ask him grows in proportion to his bravado. "Kak vas zovut?" he calls out.

  "I am Nikolai Andrushko." I answer his question about my name.

  "Vy poteryali?"

  "Nyet, I am not lost." I pause and make a split decision. I swing the camera behind me and tuck the microcard in my pocket. It is enough that I am here. If he has any intelligence, he will know my leverage. If he is too dumb to recognize the danger, he would be worthless. "I come to seek your assistance."

  I step out so that some of the light from the building washes over me, and I hold my arms from my side. With my body, I signal that I am no immediate threat.

  "And what will I get in return?" Magvenodov asks.

  "What is it that you seek?"

  Magvenodov looks at the window of his lover's apartment. "I should say the photographs you have taken, but I curiously do not care. Perhaps I am relieved at no longer having to hide."

  This isn't quite the response I was hoping for, so I wait. Brave and smart, but not as patient as me.

  Magvenodov heaves a sigh. "What is it that you want? Money? Access?"

  "None of those. I want you to meet with Sergei Petrovich. In public. Tomorrow morning. Ten."

  "A mobster? What are you trying to get me into?"

  "I have a," I curl my tongue around the word and release it because it feels right, "a loved one in the grasp of the Bratva. After tomorrow, Sergei Petrovich will no longer exist, and the Bratva will owe you a favor. Anything."

  "You are in a position to make these promises?" Magvenodov pulls out a cigarette pack and pops two smokes up. He offers me one. I gesture for him to hand me the lighter so that I can help him light the cigarette. As he hands it over, I think he's not so smart then. He hands me a weapon and bows his head in front of me. But then, not everyone was raised by Alexsandr.

  "Yes." I take deep drags on the cigarette, inhaling the nicotine as if it were oxygen. Magvenodov smokes more slowly, almost leisurely, as if he were enjoying an after-dinner coffee. My patience is waning now. I want to be ready to move to the next step. The distraction.

  Magvenodov nods slowly, as if thinking something agreeable to himself. "Yes, I will do this."

  "Good. Tomorrow at Baltschug at ten." I instruct. "If you do not come, it will go poorly for you."

  The warning is unnecessary because Magvenodov simply rolls his eyes. "Do not treat me like I am a child. You want something from me, and I am delivering." He thumps his chest lightly. "And Baltschug? So we can stare at the Kremlin while we eat? So passé."

  "You need only occupy his time for ten, twenty minutes at the most. Offer him nothing. Just the whiff of opportunity will render Sergei Petrovich weak at the knees. A disturbance will happen at the restaurant. Act concerned, but ensure no one interferes."

  Magvenodov nods, but I make him repeat the instructions. "Offer him nothing. Do not interfere."

  I give a curt jerk of my chin in acknowledgment. Magvenodov begins to turn away, but I grasp his wrist and pull up his hand to shake my gloved one. "Tomorrow then. You should think about London or Switzerland. Maybe even America. Easier to breathe there."

  And then I walk away, disappearing into the shadows. I'm on to the next play. Behind me, I've left the only bargaining chip I have, but my spirit feels lighter. The microcard with the incriminating photographs belongs to Magvenodov now.

  Chapter Fourteen

  NIKOLAI

  THE SUITE AT METROPOL HOTEL is carefully outfitted. I roll up the Aubusson carpet that covers the nearly century-old parquet floors. The Bolshevik officials resided in these suites after the Revolution. It makes sense for Sergei to meet his fate here.

  I have a kit ready that includes plastic sheeting, a gun bought on the street after my meeting with Magvenodov, and cyanide pills. A black duffel, large enough for a body, is stuffed inside my case. A quick look around the room assures me everything is in order. We are just missing two pieces: Daisy and Sergei.

  Because I would never be able to get into the Petrovich compound by myself, I am tasked with retrieving Sergei. I must leave Daisy to Daniel and Vasily. For over an hour I argued with the two of them, but Daniel was resolute that there was no chance of me getting into the compound. Sick at heart but resigned, I left to seek out Magvenodov.

  Now I am alone in the palatial hotel suite, but I appreciate none of it. I do not want to sleep because I know Daisy is out there, in danger. Anything could happen tonight, and the unknowing is like thousands of knives piercing my flesh. I use every trick I've ever learned to get my body into a restful state. Tomorrow I must be sharp and ready. Eventually, I drift off.

  A few hours later, I awaken. The night still lingers but the rest has been eno
ugh. It must be, because I know I will get no more. I drive toward the Petrovich compound and sit in the rented sedan watching the traffic move by. The scenes from the video replay in my head and the screams I imagined Daisy must have made when she feared they would take her finger make me want to bend the car in half. Instead I must wait.

  I wait so long I fear Sergei is not going to meet Magvenodov, that he is pissed off by the short notice, which amounts to not much more than a royal summoning. When I see the three-car cavalcade leave in the morning, I sigh with relief. Sergei may be angry, but he is too eager to lick the boots of the oligarchy.

  The drive into Moscow proper will take Sergei thirty minutes. I speed up and pass the three vehicles. About five miles ahead of them, I cause a collision between a semi-trailer truck and a livestock hauler.

  The semi tips over, and the two drivers are out of their vehicles screaming at each other. Debris from the interior of the trailer litters the highway. Cars swerve in and out; their drivers try to avoid witnessing this misfortune lest it follow them home. The confusion allows me to easily pull over to the side in my stolen vehicle, and I race back toward Sergei's motorcade.

  My heart pounds fiercely as I run along the tree-lined highway, and I am grateful there is still some foliage to provide me cover. Even though the traffic is still moving, it has slowed. I know my window of opportunity will be small. The drivers will move their vehicles or others, like Sergei, will simply drive in the ditch or on the shoulder to move forward. He'll not want to be late for a meeting with Lev Magvenodov.

  I'm grateful for my regular workout regime as the burn of the run begins to spread from my lungs outward. The chill air makes it hard to breathe, but I force myself to run faster and faster until I see the motorcade in front of me. The sight spurs me forward. I run past the vehicles and slip into traffic, knowing that the dash cams will pick me up. I pull my skull cap lower and raise the collar of my overcoat to conceal my features as best I can.

  I run to the vehicle just behind the last SUV in the motorcade, which has allowed itself to be separated by two cars from Sergei's Maybach. This inattentiveness will serve me well. I pull out a heavy metal disc and throw it toward the front of the SUV, striking the hood. The driver predictably slams on his breaks and looks forward. With a quick inhalation, I sprint forward and grasp the driver's side door and wrench it open. Quickly I aim for the passenger side but there is no one there. It is only the driver. I catalog that detail but give it no further thought. It is just one of many signs of the sickness in the Petrovich Bratva. Sergei's laziness and lack of attention to detail will be his downfall.

  "You're going to climb into the passenger seat or get your brains blown off," I tell the random Petrovich soldier in Russian as I get in.

  He raises his hands from the wheel and nods. I cannot push the dead man out of the vehicle. Everyone in Russia has a dash cam, and I don't need this posted on the internet later.

  The Petrovich soldier does what I tell him, and I climb into the driver's seat and pull the car forward. He looks awkward sitting hunched against the passenger seat, my gun in his face.

  "How old are you?" I ask.

  "Twenty-five," he answers. Older than I am, but he still has an air of naiveté about him as if he can't believe he has found himself in this situation.

  "Do you know who I am?"

  He shakes his head. The line of cars moves forward slowly, but we are undeterred by death here in Russia. No one is gawking at the accident, for these types of roadside injury are all too common.

  "I am Nikolai Andrushko." I hear his quick inhalation of breath. "So you've heard of me?"

  "Da. Alexsandr talks, I mean, talked of you some." The young man squeaks. He is so young and untried that I feel exhausted by the idea of having to terminate him.

  "The girl that Sergei brought to the compound. She belongs to me."

  Silence then. I think the baby soldier is afraid to speak, and when he does, his fear is evident in the high-pitched tone of his voice. "Yours?"

  "Did you touch her? Did you look at her? Did you laugh at her terror?" I spit out. This is unfair, but I have no one else to vent to.

  "N-n-no," he stutters. "I didn't see her. I only know that there was someone brought in who was important and who no one was to talk to."

  We are nearing the city proper, and I debate what I will do with this kid. I cannot have him interfering with my business, but I am loathe to kill him. He is so green he doesn't even know to use his cyanide capsule.

  At a stop light, I reach over and thump him over the head with the Glock. He slumps down, unconscious. I reach over and pull off his coat and hat. Unless the driver in the front knows this kid closely, I will pass. The function of the Petrovich motorcade is to simply provide protection for the interior vehicle. The bodyguards in the interior car will enter the restaurant with Sergei while the motorcade drivers stay outside.

  Thankfully Sergei does not deviate from this typical procedure, and he enters the restaurant without glancing toward the rear SUV. Leaving the vehicle idling, I hop out and walk to the lead SUV. Popping the lock, I slide into the rear seat, strike the driver unconscious and then turn to the passenger. He is another unknown.

  "Sergei is using recruits for cover?" I shake my head. The Petrovich Bratva is going to hell. Sergei's uncle would've never used unseasoned soldiers for this task. Every one of the individuals in the vehicles would have been known to him by their first name. They would've worked for him for at least ten years. It was an honor for a Petrovich foot soldier to guard the head of the Bratva. The lack of a known Petrovich in either of these vehicles is a telling sign of the insidious sickness inside the Bratva, and it makes Vasily's actions all the more understandable.

  Like Alexsandr, Vasily's loyalty is to the Bratva itself, not to Sergei. That he is facilitating Sergei's demise is an action consistent with saving the organization—it is not then considered insurrection.

  I breathe a little easier. Vasily is a man of his word. Daisy would be delivered safely to me, and in order to uphold my bargain, I must dispose of Sergei without this being tied to Vasily.

  I knock the other baby soldier out too. I don't care that they will report back to Vasily that it was a dark-haired Ukrainian who attacked them. After tomorrow, Nikolai Andrushko will cease to exist. I'm here to ensure the death of only one man. Sergei.

  The rest of the morning goes off without a hitch, so smoothly that I begin to worry. The waiter I bribed replaces the sugar with baking soda. Sergei drinks his supposedly sugared coffee and spits it out immediately, but the reaction of the baking soda with the Perrier he always begins his breakfast with causes foaming to appear at the mouth.

  "My god, he's got rabies!" cries one patron. Others stand up and move away immediately.

  "What kind of disease have you brought in here?" Magvendov demands and shoves back from the table. Sergei holds his hands out, pleading with the wealthy oligarchs.

  "It's nothing!" he shouts but no one there believes him. Sergei is vermin to them, and that he is actually foaming at the mouth only proves how he does not belong. I would laugh at him if I didn't want to twist his head off his neck.

  His bodyguards are trying to help him, but they are being blocked by the staff. It is easy enough to slip into the melee and administer a syringe of curare to both bodyguards and to Sergei. Curare is a paralytic drug harvested from vines of the South America rainforest that causes almost no harm but renders the victim immobile for a short time.

  When Sergei goes limp, it's easy enough for me to shoulder him and push my way out of the restaurant. The staff and patrons think I am one of his foot soldiers, coming to his aid. If only they knew the truth.

  I drag Sergei out, his heavy body made more unmanageable by his paralytic condition. I fold him into his Maybach and take off for the hotel.

  The private hotel elevator for the top floor of the Metropol Hotel is convenient. I encounter no others on my trip up to our suite. Sergei is fully awake and shooting poi
sonous glances my way. I feel almost jubilant.

  "You look unhappy, Sergei. Is it because you cannot move your limbs or because the whole oligarchy of Russia now thinks you are a diseased dog?" I don't even try to stifle a laugh. My joke at his expense only enrages him further. I drag him down the hall and into the suite. Dropping him by the door, I go to the kit and get out the plastic wrap and duct tape, and I position one of the heavy mahogany chairs in the middle of the plastic.

  "I know. You are thinking, 'Just wait, Nikolai, until I gain full function of my limbs again. You will be hunted like the dog you are.'" I click my tongue at him, watching as a little saliva dribbles from his tongue. The curare is wearing off. I debate giving him another dose but decide against it.

  He flops in the chair, and I tape his arms to the sides so that he can sit upright. Then his legs. I text Daniel that my quarry is secured.

  I receive an immediate OK in return.

  I sit on the sofa and dissemble the Glock, clean it and reassemble it. It's larger than I would like for Daisy, but I can help hold it when she shoots Sergei. I wonder how long this can take. The drive from the Petrovich compound is only half an hour, but I suppose Vasily must mobilize the transport for Daisy. Perhaps news has already reached the compound of Sergei's kidnapping. In order to be able to effectively lead the Bratva after Sergei's demise, Vasily must appear as if he had nothing to do with Sergei's death.

  "Why do you not kill me?" Sergei chokes out. The curare is wearing off.

  "Because that is for Daisy."

  He gives a weak cough and leans his head back to spit out his extra saliva to the side. It makes a slight splatting noise when it hits the plastic. "She's too weak. She'll never do it." His head lolls to the side.

  "I wonder why you do this, Sergei? Why you take these risks?" I muse. Leaning my head to one side, I pull and crack my neck muscles. I do the same on the other side to relieve tension.