Or maybe I just need a high position and a clear sight line. Her white hair would stand out in a crowd. One good shot, and I could disappear into the night. Be home by noon tomorrow.
Roman’s order replays in my mind.“Bring her back to me. Alive.”
Could I blatantly disobey the Pakhan to satisfy my own thirst for vengeance?
The question remains unanswered as I continue my retreat.
Traffic sloshes past. Headlights sweep across storefronts decked out in Christmas decor. Red, green, and silver lights hang on every eave to combat the gloomy near-winter weather.
A few holiday decorations won’t chase away my foul mood.
I wipe my neck, unsure if the wetness trickling down is rain or blood. Time to change my clothes.
Two blocks down, I find a narrow alley. Not the kind that smells like piss, but the type kept clear so service staff can show up to work without walking through lobbies filled with customers.
I duck between buildings, my boots splashing through standing puddles of water.
About fifteen feet in, I spot two guys huddling against the brick wall. One’s swathed in a soaked blanket. The other one guards a shopping cart full of wet cardboard. Addicts, maybe.
They perk up as I approach.
Blanket Guy’s fingers dart to his pocket, then still when he gets a better read on me. He raises his palms to show they’re empty and drifts deeper into the alley.
People who live outside of society’s good graces learn to recognize signs that others miss.
The subtle signals of monsters who wear human skin.
My lips peel from my teeth in a lethal smile that promises violence. Both guys take off without a word.
Once they vanish from view, I open my bag.
Inside, I packed everything I require, including extra clothing. I retrieve a charcoal gray button-down shirt that remains wrinkle-free because I roll my clothes.
I learned that helpful tip from Vanya Orlov, the man who can charm his way into or out of almost any situation. He knows how to blend in better than the rest of us.
After stripping off my soaked, bloody shirt, I shove it into a plastic grocery sack and cram the whole thing in my bag.
I’m almost finished dressing when three twentysomething women in skimpy, night-out attire stroll into the alleyway.
They laugh while passing around a shopping bag overflowing with tissue paper and red and gold ornaments. One with coal black hair in a high ponytail does a double take, her heavily lined eyes widening. She nudges her friend and stage-whispers. “Helen, check him out.”
They all glance over.
Unfazed, I smooth my shirt and zip up my pants.
“Oh my god.” Helen whistles like I’m not standing mere feet away. “Are you Superman? Like, did you just change in an alley?” She combs her manicured fingers through brown curls.
I pull out a suit jacket. “Something like that.”
“Hot damn.” The third woman has long blond hair and legs that go on for days. She murmurs the words in a half-awed, half-hungry way, her green eyes pinned on my chest.
Her shopping bag tilts. One of the ornaments tumbles out and rolls toward me.
I bend down, grab the shiny gold sphere, and offer it to Blondie. “Happy holidays.”
She bites her lip before tentatively reaching out. When our fingers brush, she jolts at the contact. “Thanks.”
I grimace. “You’re welcome.”
