Page 25 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

There’s one loose end I can’t sort from the laptop, and it can’t wait two weeks either. An hour later I tell Raya. “I need to go out. Need anything?”

She looks up; the expression on my face must give away the fact it’s not just a grocery run, because her eyes are scrutinizing my face. “How long?”

“A few hours. My phone is on. You know where the gun is. The perimeter checks I’ve been running show noone’s set foot near here. You’ll be okay. Unless you want me to stay? I won’t leave if you’re scared.” Fuck it, if she’s scared, I’ll just have to get Sergei to deal with it.

“No, it’s fine. Be quick though.” She doesn’t push or ask any questions.

I pick up a few things from a convenience store first before heading out to the yard. It’s a good forty-minute drive, far from anywhere that could be called a neighborhood, down a service road that runs alongside a rail spur that’s been unused since the port consolidated its operations a decade back. Rows of shipping containers stand in ranks under half-working lights, throwing everything into long orange stripes with deep black shadows between. I don’t own the place. It’s not anyone’s officially. More a long-forgotten graveyard of rusted metal. Exactly why it’s useful.

Sergei’s already there waiting for me to arrive, leaning against the container smoking. I brought him over from Ukraine myself three years ago. He was working the back end of my operations out of the Black Sea. He has no ties to my father, no mixed loyalty, so I was more than happy to bring him over. His son is working his job over there now. Misha, the motherfucker I’m here to see, I’d vetted just as carefully. It doesn’t matter. Money will always buy some people’s loyalty.

“He’s ready for you,” Sergei says, blowing out the last of his cigarette, flicking it to the ground.

“Talking?”

“Nyet. Given him plenty of reasons to want to, though.”

Inside, the container smells like motor oil and, on top, the coppery tang of fresh blood. Misha sits, zip-tied to a chair bolted to the floor, one eye swollen shut, breathing shallowly in order to protect his cracked ribs.

“Yakov,” His voice cracks. “Whatever they told you-”

“Do I have the word ‘cunt’ tattooed across my forehead?” I crouch down so we’re eye level. “Do I?”

He shakes his head, eyes darting between Sergei and me. “I swear! I never!”

My fist connects right between his eyes, snapping his head back, blood gushing out of his nose. “Are you trying to say that Sergei’s son here is stealing my merchandise?”

“You motherfucking fuck!” Sergei bellows at him. It’s only because I’m here that he doesn’t finish the job himself.

“I’ll tell you what happened, shall I?” I don’t take my eyes off him. He’s frozen in fear. He knows what’s coming. He knows he’s fucked. The blooming piss stain across his pants tells me so. “You wanted to feel like the top guy. So when some fuck came to you wanting my guns, you skipped the chain of command, cut the deal yourself. Taking my merchandise and their money. And this isn’t the first time, Misha, is it? I wouldn’t be about to punish you if this was the first time.”

His face has drained of all color except the red of his blood smeared over it. Normally men clam up right about now. Knowing what’s about to happen. Misha doesn’t. “It wasn’t meant to get like this. It was just a gun here, a gun there, nobody ever counted close enough to notice-”

“I noticed.”

“Yakov, please-”

I snap his index finger before he finishes the sentence. His scream bounces off the corrugated steel. I wait for him to shut up, for his breathing to settle a little so he can tell me what I want.

“Who bought them?”

It takes two more broken fingers and taking off his pinky before he breaks—the whole story spilling out. I don’t know why men are disloyal like this. They’re always so relieved when they finally get to unburden themselves, even when it comes with the knowledge that they’re going to die for their betrayal.

It turns out some random fuck called Krakov from the other side of the country is currently in possession of a crate full of my AK-47’s. The only saving grace is he’s not tied to anything or anyone near us, and had no reason to believe he was buying stolen weight. It’s one less war to fight, at least. Krukov is going to have to be a write off, he’s not my problem right now. Misha is.

“Thank you,” I tell him, and I mean it. At least I don’t have to worry about where and who the guns are with. He gives me a desperate look of hope, that somehow, in telling me the truth, his death sentence will be reprieved. “The trust is gone, Misha.” I shrug, raising my Glock, ending this swiftly. A quick death is all the reward he gets for his honesty at the end.

“Clean this up.” I turn to Sergei. “I want a stock check by the end of the day tomorrow.”

I don’t stay. I know how competent Sergei is.

When I get home, I leave the shopping on the kitchen table and head straight to the shower.

When I’m done, I head back to the kitchen. She’s unpacked the shopping, so I pour two mugs of tea and carry them into the living room. She’s sat on the couch with her book. I set her mug down on the side table without a word. She looks at it, then up at me, and a tiny, soft smile tugs at her lips. I reach over, my fingers catching a loose strand of dark hair, tucking it back from her face. She stills, and I can feel her battling with herself not to lean into my touch. I smile to myself, move to the other end of the couch, sit down, and grab the remote to turn on the TV. Before the screen even flashes to life, I reach over, lift her ankles, and settle her feet firmly across my lap. She lets me do it, shifting her weight without a single word of protest. We sit there in the quiet. Neither of us says a damn thing about last night, or the storm coming for us. We let it be.

Chapter 12 - Raya

Selene calls first. “Yakov spoke to Simon,” she says, and the relief in her voice is loud enough to echo through the receiver. “Thank God. I was getting interrogated at family dinner and was fast running out of ways to say everything was fine without them all doing the whole macho ‘we’ll go get her and bring her home, she should be here with her family.’ They calmed down after Sofie piped up and told them she’d spoken to you and you were perfectly fine.”