The Ghost: A Bratva Blood Novella

by SR Jones

  There’s a knock at the door, and Cole rises from his seat to answer it.

  Vasily and Zoey enter the already busy room, and she shoots me a wan smile. She looks awful. I doubt she slept much, the same as me. Alexei trails in after them, yawning.

  “Morning,” Reece booms from the doorway as he gives us all a big grin.

  “Coffee?” Cassie asks.

  “God, yes.” He shuffles into the room, cracks a huge yawn, and sits at the table, his oversized frame looking silly in the small chair he chooses.

  “You all set?” he asks Priest.

  The man stops chewing his muesli for a moment and nods.

  He’s so quiet.

  Normally not the sort of person to blurt out my thoughts, I do just that.

  “Are you called Priest because you’re quiet?” I ask him.

  He raises his eyes to me, pauses, and smiles.

  Cole turns to me and speaks before Priest can. “Not exactly. He’d be Monk if he’d taken a vow of silence. He’s called Priest ‘cause he’ll take your secret to the grave if you ask him to. Like in confession. Guys knew because he doesn’t gossip or chat shit that you could tell Priest anything, and it would stay with him.”

  I smile. I like that. It shows he’s trustworthy, and as Andrius doesn’t know him well, it’s important that he can trust him.

  “What was your nickname?” I ask Cole.

  “Bear.”

  I frown, a little confused. He’s big built, but not massive like Reece or Priest. It’s surely not because he’s as big as a bear.

  “Likes honey,” Priest says.

  For a moment, I’m not sure how to take that. Does he mean actual honey? Or is it a euphemism for liking the ladies?

  “Whenever he got a care package his mom would put three jars of local honey in there.”

  “Goddamn, the sweetness of that shit after a month of MRE’s was heaven to my tastebuds.” Cole laughs.

  “Fucking addicted to that shit,” Priest says.

  “Worse addictions, my friend. Way worse.”

  “Amen.” Priest’s deep voice is nice, and he has a Southern accent, which I can’t place as I know nothing much about American geography, but it’s charming.

  “Think yourselves lucky you got American food rations,” Andrius says with a raised eyebrow.

  “I’ve seen the shit you guys ate, it’s not that bad,” Reece adds. “You can buy it now as a novelty gift.”

  “What?” Andrius shakes his head. “Fuck off, no way people pay for that crap.”

  “Nah, it’s true. Russian army rations as a gift. Saw it one day when I was buying some survival shit. Cracked me up.”

  “Pity the poor bastard who gets it as a gift,” Andrius says with a laugh.

  He’s finished his food, and he glances at me, and he doesn’t have to speak. I know he’s about to leave.

  Priest rises, takes his plate to the sink, washes it, rinses it, and puts it on the draining board.

  “Ready?” he asks Andrius.

  Andrius nods at him, and Vasily steps forward.

  They each have a bag, full of what I don’t know. I bet they have guns and all sorts in there. It chills me to the bone.

  “K,” Cassie shouts up the stairs. “They’re going.”

  A few moments later, heavy footsteps thud down the stairs, and Konstantin enters the room.

  He gives a jerk of his chin at Andrius and Vasily, who are now standing together.

  “Plane will be ready for you at the airstrip. No bag check. It’s all arranged at the other side too. Got your rooms sorted in Berlin, and a driver. He’s KSK, and he’s on our side.”

  “What’s KSK?” Zoey asks.

  “German Special Forces. He’s a good guy. I know him well, and he wants these fucks out of Berlin, so he’s willing to help out with whatever you need.”

  “Thanks for organizing it all,” Andrius says.

  “Brother, I’d rather be going with; this is the least I can do.”

  I glance at Zoey and see she’s struggling to hold back her tears the same as me.

  “Where’s Esme?” I ask.

  “At the house. Justina arrived and is taking care of her. I didn’t want her to be here when Vasily left in case I get upset. I’m trying to keep things as calm as I can around her because she’s had a lot of scary things happen to her recently,” Zoey says.

  I nod. “Makes sense.”

  We give one another a sympathetic look before I focus back on Andrius. My heart is beating far too fast. I don’t want him to go. Part of me wants to fall at his feet and beg him to reconsider. I know he won’t. Andrius is not the kind of man to back down from a fight, or to hide away and wait for his enemies to find him. He might not go looking for a fight anymore, but you bring it to him, and he’ll go for you.

  He walks past me and out of the room. I turn to see where he’s gone only to find him beckoning for me to follow him. I do, heading out of the bustle of the kitchen and into the quiet of the living room.

  He pulls me into him and wraps me in his arms. “I want you to promise me something,” he murmurs against the top of my head. “Promise me to be strong for you and Eliana. Kiss her for me every day, and tell her that Daddy loves her.”

  I nod against his chest, swallowing past the lump in my throat.

  He kisses my head and then tips my face up to his. “I’ll call when I get there, okay?”

  “Yes. Please be careful. I can’t do this without you.”

  “I’ll be careful. Always am.”

  “I love you,” I tell him.

  “You’re my everything, zaika; don’t ever forget that.”

  He takes my mouth in a passionate kiss, and he tastes of tea and Andrius, and it rips me apart that I won’t get this again for maybe weeks.

  “I have to go,” he says, and kisses me once more softly on the lips.

  “I know. I’ll be fine; I promise.”

  I don’t ask him to promise me he will come home. It’s considered bad luck by soldiers right before they leave home, and that’s what he’s becoming once more.

  In the kitchen hugs and goodbyes are passed around, and then Vasily, Andrius, and Priest leave.

  The moment the car disappears down the drive, I flee to my room and cry into my pillow.

  Chapter Five

  Andrius

  Berlin is a dump. I hate it. Lots of people love it, but not me. It’s the concrete and the buildings. Reminds me too much of Mother Russia.

  I love my home nation, but I’m also happy I live somewhere warm and beautiful now.

  It’s freezing in Berlin. The snap of the beginning of a Northern European winter bites at your skin. We’ve been here two days now, and I’m walking the streets alone, head down against the wind and driving rain.

  Back at the hotel, Priest is watching porn, and Vasily is moping and drinking scotch. They’re both irritating me, but it’s not them; it’s the situation. In reality, I don’t want to have to be here doing this. Fuck the piece of shit Starz Allianz and all their members for coming at us.

  I’m going to make them wish they never had.

  In front of me is a nondescript apartment building. I wait to one side until someone comes out, and then I slip in the door. Taking the stairs, I jog up four flights until I get to the floor I want. I walk silently along the threadbare hallway carpet until I arrive at door nineteen. I’ve memorized the address. This is where the accountant lives. The one who finances this whole shitty operation, and who likes to fuck with the women being trafficked.

  I pick his lock with ease and slide into the apartment. Closing the door with a quiet snap, I listen. No sounds of life at first, and then I hear it. A deep, rhythmic rumble. Dirty old fucker is snoring. Sleeping like the dead, I think to myself. He soon will be.

  Taking my phone out of my pocket, I turn the flashlight on and look around. There are books on a coffee table about law and politics. The place is freakishly neat and tidy. Before I came here tonight, I checked with Damen
what this sick fuck’s usual schedule is. Tonight is not a night when he tends to entertain a lady friend. Or rather, screw an abused and helpless young woman.

  After a good look around, I turn off the phone and head into the bedroom. The fat bastard is laid on his back, snoring loudly. I take his phone and take a picture of him, using the flash. He gasps and wakes up on a choked snort.

  “What the fuck?” he shouts in German.

  I switch the bedside lamp on and stare down at him.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asks.

  “The ghost of Christmas Past,” I reply with a vicious smile.

  “What? What the hell do you want?”

  “I want nothing more than what you owe.”

  “I don’t owe anything.”

  “Tell that to the girls you rape.”

  He sneers and narrows his eyes. “I don’t rape anyone. They’re whores.” It’s amazing to me that he’s basically just admitted what I’m accusing him of. He’d make a terrible lawyer.

  “Whores choose to do what they do for money. Those women are victims, and that makes you a perp.”

  “Listen, I have money,” he starts to beg. “Lots of it. I can give you anything you want. Who sent you?”

  “No one. I want you to do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “After they’ve stitched you back together, tell all your friends that a ghost came to you in the night and told you he was going to make them all pay. You mess with me and mine, and I come for you. I can find any of you, anytime, anywhere.”

  “Who are you?” he screams.

  “Andrius.” I hold him down by the throat as I take the knife, pull his pants down, and slice into the pathetic flesh he’s used to harm so many women.

  Ten minutes later, I’m back on the street, and my hands are washed clean of any blood. The accountant will survive, but he won’t be raping anyone again. He’ll also spread the word. I’ve come here to put the fear of God into people, and he’s a good start. He isn't the end, though. I imagine we’ll have to spill a lot more blood before this is over.

  I turn my collar up. It’s so cold I think my fingers will drop off if I stay out here much longer. Glancing around, I spot a bar.

  Heading to the patch of warm colored light on the shiny pavement, I push open the door of the bar and head inside.

  It’s quite cozy indoors. Reminds me of an English pub, with wooden tables, a long wooden bar, and a thick green carpet with a dark red diamond pattern.

  Wiping the rain from my shoulders, I head to the bar.

  I glance at the shelves behind the bar and the bottles running along them. “Cardhu, bitte,” I say, requesting the Scotch by name.

  The bartender nods and takes down the bottle, filling a heavy glass with two thick fingers. He asks for eight euros; I give him ten and tell him to keep the change.

  Heading for a corner of the long bar, I sit and cradle my drink. There’s one couple in one corner of the place, and two men who appear to be in their fifties in another. No one else.

  Sipping at the single malt, I take out my phone and pull up my messages. There’s a picture of Violet with Eliana that she sent me this morning. She’s smiling at the camera, and Eliana is in her arms, asleep. It’s a gorgeous picture. She said Cassie took it for her. I stare at it then put it away. Too much time spent thinking about my wife and daughter will dull me. I need to stay sharp, and pining for home won’t cut it.

  Finishing my drink, I head out of the bar and back into the rain. I wonder where Jan is right now. Is he sitting drinking in a bar somewhere, or hiding away in the hotel he’s commandeered with his goons? It’s only a five-minute walk from our hotel, and in two days we’ll be there, bringing swift and bloody justice to the fuckers. I’d rather get eyes on them before we go in for the hit. See how they move, how alert they are. It’s too dangerous, though, to go hang out where they do because they’ll be on alert for us once the accountant calls them. Although, he probably isn’t going to be speaking to anyone for a couple of days. He has a few emergency surgeries to get through first.

  I glance up and see two skinny kids, in skintight trousers with long, stringy hair hanging in their faces. They look like the grunge rockers from back in the nineties. An idea comes to me, and I grin like a motherfucker.

  I reach the hotel and head up to my room. I can hear shitty music streaming from the room next door, which means Priest is either still watching porn, or he’s moved onto eighties action movies. I sigh and put my arms behind my head as I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

  I move through the permutations again in my head of all the ways it could go down at the hotel when we go to take them out. I want to get a look at Jan’s men for sure before we go after them, and I’ve thought of a way we can do it. I take out my phone and dial Vasily.

  “Da,” he answers.

  I speak to him in Russian. “Fancy a night out tomorrow? Go check these fuckers out?”

  “They know what we look like, it will give them a heads-up,” he says.

  “Well, then let’s look different.”

  “How?”

  “We go buy some shitty clothes. The sort of crap they wear: jogging bottoms, running shoes that cost more than a car. Dye our hair.”

  “Dye our fucking hair?”

  “Not me,” I say. “You can, though. You’d look good as white blonde.”

  “Fuck you. I’m not doing that.”

  “Yeah, you are.” I say. “They don’t know Priest.”

  “What about you? You’re the most famous one of us all, so you’re the one who should be dying his hair.”

  I grin to myself. “I’m going to buy a wig.”

  There’s a choking sound. “A what now?”

  “Yeah, a wig.”

  “Like some curly long shit?”

  “Like some fucking not-like-my-own-fucking-hair shit. Stop questioning me, and be ready to go shopping tomorrow morning.”

  I hang up on him and text Priest, telling him to meet us in the foyer, then I head for a shower before bed.

  The next morning the three of us step out of the foyer into Berlin’s still windy and wet streets to go and get some gangster clothes and hair dye.

  “I still think this is dangerous as fuck,” Vasily says. “Why give them the chance to know we’re here?”

  “They won’t. For a start they’ve never seen Priest, and they won’t expect him to be part of our crew.” I sweep my arms over him. “Look at him. He isn't Bratva or mafia. No fucking way.”

  Priest glances at me.

  “No offence,” I add.

  “None taken. Glad I don’t look like a criminal. No offence.”

  “You look more like a criminal than us,” Vasily says.

  Vasily has been trying to wind Priest up for days now, and it isn't working. It seems to make him try harder. I think it’s because he’s bored.

  “Listen, fuckers,” I snap. “The point is they aren’t going to expect us to turn up with a six and half foot biker dude with long hair and wearing leathers, and they aren’t going to be expecting you to have white blonde hair or me to have some sort of fucked-up, middle--aged woman’s hair.”

  “You’re going to buy a middle-aged lady's wig.”

  I smirk. “Yeah, some mid-length shit; what do they call it?”

  “A bob?” Priest asks.

  “Yeah, something like that. Saw a couple guys with hair like that on my way home last night, and there is no way they’ll expect me to have hair like that, plus, as Vasily said, I’m the one they’re going to be looking for, and it will help hide my face.”

  Vasily looks at me as if I’ve lost the plot but merely shrugs. First, we hit up some high-end stores and buy some fancy street wear. I crack up as Vasily drops a thousand euros on a designer tracksuit, his face looking like he’s sucking lemons. Then we go get some shoes and blingy jewelry.

  Popping into a chemist, Vasily buys some bleach and asks the girl how to use it. Finally, we find a wig shop. It too
k us fucking ages to discover one, and I’m tired now.

  We enter, and I go to the brown mid-length wigs. They are all too full, though. I need something that looks … drippy, for want of a better word.

  A smart woman in her fifties comes out of the back of the shop and looks at the three of us askance.

  “Hello, gentlemen, erm, can I help you?” she asks in German.

  “Can you speak English?” I ask her. My German is nowhere near good enough to have a conversation about damn wigs.

  She nods and gives us a nervous smile. “Yes, I speak English.”

  “Good. I need a wig.”

  “For your wife?” she asks hopefully.

  “No, for me.”

  “Oh, erm, okay. I see.”

  I stride across the shop and grab the mid-length brown wig off a model. “Like this, but this is too … full. I need it to look stringy. You know? Like an indie rock singer from the nineties.”

  Her face relaxes, and her smile broadens. “Ah, fancy dress?” she asks.

  “No, he’s into wearing women’s clothes,” Vasily deadpans. “We’re going to get him a bra and panties next.”

  “That’s transphobic,” Priest rumbles, shocking the shit out of me. He compounds this by smacking Vasily hard on the shoulder. “Cut that crap out.”

  Vasily shoots Priest an annoyed glance but doesn’t say anything else.

  I sigh. “I am indeed going to a fancy-dress party. Ignore my idiot friend here. I need to look like some indie dude, you know? All these are too full and glossy.”

  “It’s no bother. I can make it lighter by cutting a lot of the weight out of it, and you can put some gel on it to weigh it down. If you want to come back tomorrow I can have it done?”

  “In an hour,” I state.

  “Sorry?”

  “We’ll come back in an hour. Can you have it done?”

  “I, erm, an hour?”

  “Yes, you’re hardly bursting at the seams with customers. I’ll pay. You make it look good, and I’ll pay you two hundred euros, cash.”

  She can keep that I think, and sure enough her eyes light up. “Well then, of course. I’ll get it done.”

  “Thank you.” I give her what I hope is a charming smile, and we head out of the shop.