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I roll my eyes, fighting the urge to say, “Yes, Father,” as he stomps back up the steps.
Sighing heavily as the door closes behind him, I turn to Boris and give his neck a good scratch.
“At least you seem to still enjoy spending time with me, eh, boy?” I ask and kiss him on the top of the head.
His responding whine of confirmation accompanies his impressive attempt to lick my face. I laugh, allowing him to climb into my lap with his front paws in his effort.
When he finally settles down, I keep my arms wrapped around him, soaking up his warmth and comfort as I try not to focus on the conspicuous white Toyota that tells me my next conversation with Mishka is going to be even harder than I thought.
“It’s alright, right, Boris? He has a right to feel and do what he wants. I should be happy if he’s ready to take a step back. It might be for the best.”
But I don’t believe that.
And as I sit, watching the sun sink below the horizon, I try not to give in to anguish.
Though the air is chilly, the breeze cutting through my sweater, I wait until the sunset starts to fade, its golden-pink hues melting into a soft purplish-blue.
“Alright, sweet boy. Let’s get you dinner,” I murmur, planting a last kiss on Boris’s snout before I stand.
He gives a happy dance at the mention of dinner that completely contrasts my emotional state. Still, it brings a smile to my face as I head up the steps and back inside.
36
MISHKA
Idrum my thumbs on the steering wheel of the van and glance over my shoulder at the five unconscious men who lie blindfolded, gagged, and bound on the floor in the back. It’s probably the twentieth time I’ve done so since I pulled up along the curb at the end of Commonwealth Avenue. But I hate feeling like sitting ducks, just waiting for someone to question why a strange, unmarked white van is lingering in the wealthy neighborhood of Back Bay.
“Knock it off, Novichok. You’re stressing me out,” Malik snaps from the passenger seat. He scrolls idly through his phone like we don’t have prisoners just waiting to give us a hard time. A reason for the police to throw us in jail.
The guys always refer to me as the newbie when I do something to call attention to my recent promotion to high-stakes tasks. I’m used to it now. It’s starting to feel like a term of endearment—though I hardly want one of those with Sergio’s men.
Behind his seat, Kristof sits on the floor, his knees pulled up, arms resting casually on them as he leans his head back and closes his eyes—catching a short catnap, it would seem.
“Sorry,” I state flatly. “I just don’t want any of them to wake up early and cause a big commotion.”
“If they do, just knock them out again. It’s almost time.” Malik gestures to the sun that’s nearly below the horizon now.
That eases the tension in my shoulders slightly. We’re waiting until dark to get the prisoners inside the Sakharov house because the last thing Sergio wants is for a witness to see criminals like us carting bound and gagged bodies through his front door and into his basement.
And as funny as it is to picture Sergio getting busted for something like that, I don’t particularly want to be involved if he does. That would end in no small amount of jail time on my part. Again.
So, instead, we’re waiting for the cover of darkness before I even pull the van into the alleyway behind the massive Brownstone. Then we can sneak the prisoners in through the back door. Most of the staff will be off duty by that time, anyway.
Biting back a sigh, I drop my head against the headrest and close my eyes. I hate waiting. It leaves me feeling trapped. And it doesn’t help that the men tied up behind me could easily be me any day now. It’s what happened to my brother.
The image of Sascha being thrown into the back of a van and hauled off the last night I ever saw him keeps replaying in my mind. It seems tonight, I will be reliving my worst nightmare—and not just reliving it. I’ll be participating in it this time.
“How come Lenka got preferential treatment?” Kristof gripes, eyeing the Brownstone outside the van’s window.
Rasputin, Viktor, and Lenka have the luxury of already being inside the house while Malik, Kristof, and I were tasked with keeping an eye on our prisoners until we unload them.
“Shut up, Kristof. Don’t be such a baby. We just pulled the short straws this time,” Malik snaps, though by his tone, I gather he would much rather be inside as well.
Kristof’s phone vibrates from inside his pocket, and he pulls it out, answering with a simple, “Da.” He listens, ends the conversation with another “Da,” then meets my eyes. “They’re ready for us.”
I breathe a silent sigh of relief as I start the van and roll around the corner onto a side street. Making another left, I head into the alleyway that runs behind the grand Brownstones of Commonwealth Avenue.
“That one,” Malik confirms as I pull up behind the high-fenced yard of the Sakharovs’ mansion. It’s not hard to know which fence belongs to him, even from the back. It’s the largest yard by far in the neighborhood, stretching to nearly three times the size of the others around it.
