I reply to the suggestion the same way I have every time. “No.”
I’m about to be entirely independent. The only reason we’re here is because of the mess I created. No way am I waiting in the car like a small child.
A few minutes later, we arrive at what appears to be an old bar. The building is long and low, reminding me of a bunkhouse, the parking area in front only containing one other vehicle. It’s not even midnight, according to the clock on the dash, yet the bar appears closed with no interior lights on. Odd for an establishment that presumably does most of its business after dark.
Lev parks and shuts off the SUV. He climbs out of the car without mentioning me staying behind again.
I follow Lev across the dimly lit parking lot and over to a side door that he raps twice on.
A dark-haired man with a scruffy mustache opens the door a minute later. He says nothing, just stares as he gnaws furiously on a toothpick.
Lev speaks first, but I have no idea what he says. It’s not English. Not Russian either. Gaelic, I guess?
The man looks at me without replying. He’s not leering, per se, but his attention isn’t friendly either. My palms dampen with sweat.
Lev says something else, his tone sharper, and the man’s eyes leap back to him. The gap between the door and us widens as he steps aside for us to enter. Lev walks in first, literally taking the lead, which I’m grateful for.
I follow Lev down a long hallway that has a basement’s musty scent. There’s a sharp turn left, and then the walls open into a larger space with a damp odor that reminds me of a cave and appears to serve as a storage room.
Another man rises from a circular table in the center of the room as we approach. His auburn hair is the brightest color against the backdrop of shelves stacked high with generic cardboard boxes.
He grins, calling out a cheerful, “Sokolov!”
“Seamus,” Lev replies in a tone that’s decidedly less animated.
I’m not sure if that’s due to the circumstances or not. I assume not. Based on his stance on sightseeing, he handles any business matter with brisk efficiency.
The red-haired man, Seamus, smiles at me next. He says nothing, tilting his head curiously as he studies me. His body language isn’t threatening, yet unease slithers down my spine anyway. I try to keep my expression relaxed and indifferent, but I’m not sure I succeed. I might be capable of playing folk music with no practice, but I’ve spent hundreds of cumulative hours practicing violin. My experience meeting criminals is much more limited. At least those who advertise as such.
“You have everything?” Lev asks, drawing Seamus’s attention away from me.
Seamus sits back down, leaning back in his chair. He nods to a manila envelope sitting between two abandoned piles of poker chips. “See for yerself.”
Lev grabs the envelope and opens it. He pulls a passport out first, giving the pages inside a cursory glance before holding it toward me to inspect.
I step forward, attempting to ignore the awareness of Seamus’s returned attention, opening the passport and skimming over the details. It looks legitimate, exactly like the Carina Carson one my father procured. My new name is listed as Noemi Wallace. I’m not sure who picked it, and I’m not comfortable enough to ask. I nod and hand the passport back to Lev, who’s flipping through the other papers.
Once he’s finished reviewing, Lev tucks everything back into the envelope. “You have your payment.”
Seamus nods, which surprises me. Lev said he only deals in cash, yet there’s been no bag of money exchanged, like in the few spy movies I’ve seen—Isabella and I mostly watched musicals or comedies.
I’m certainly not about to ask questions though.
“You’ll stay for a game?” Seamus nods toward the cards and chips spread out on the table.
“Not this time.”
“Just one hand.” He reaches out with one of his, straightening the pile of chips. Rather than fix anything, he knocks another stack over.
“Bye, Seamus.” Lev steps toward the door.
“Wait!” Seamus jumps to his feet.
I miss the split second Lev draws his gun. But he’s suddenly in the position he taught me yesterday, no longer aiming at a potato. He fires once. I literally feel the blood draining from my face as the man standing by the doorway slumps. The gun moves to Seamus before the body hits the floor.
I’m too shocked to scream. I go entirely still instead.
Seamus swears darkly. His hands are in the air in the universal sign of surrender.
