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“Stefanov claims Pavlov sold him out to Besov. According to him, Pavlov is a traitor and Besov a blackmailer.”
“This drama is getting more intriguing by the minute.”
It doesn’t take much to connect the dots. Stefanov and Pavlov were in cahoots. One or both of them ordered the hit on my life, hiring Besov for the job. Stefanov has already killed Pavlov. Now he’s putting a target on the assassin’s back. If the price is high enough, someone will eventually find Besov and deliver his head on a platter. Stefanov is silencing everyone who was involved in his scheme to get rid of me. The only loose end left is me, which can only mean one thing. He’s getting ready to come after me.
“Tell the men to be extra vigilant. I have a feeling it won’t be long before Stefanov strikes.”
Igor nods and leaves briskly.
I unlock my laptop screen with my thumbprint and pull up my emails. A call comes in from Nelsky. Since I’m back from the States, he reports to me on a daily basis.
I take the call from my laptop, which is connected to my phone. “You’d better have something for me.”
“As a matter of fact, I do, sir.”
I freeze with my fingers over the keyboard. “Did you crack the code?”
“Ten seconds ago, sir.”
My body tenses with anticipation. “Did you have a look at the contents?”
“No, sir. I’m sending an encrypted file to you now.”
A message from Nelsky pops up in my inbox. “Got it. I’ll call you back if I have further instructions.”
I end the call and download the message in the encryption application that descrambles the code. It’s a security tape recording of a man tied up in a chair, his face beaten to a bloody pulp. I barely recognize the symmetrical features and square chin, but I do recognize the round table with the checkered tablecloth and the wooden bowl with fruit.
Our kitchen.
My father.
An untimely flashback hits me in the gut, a memory of coming home from school to the smell of my mother frying blini. I can see her smile as she told me to wash my hands.
“An orange first,” she said, ruffling my hair as I stuffed a blin with honey into my mouth after washing my hands at the sink. “What are oranges for, malysh?”
“For not catching a cold,” I replied dutifully with a full mouth, taking a seat at the table.
The lines around her blue eyes softened. “And why is that?”
I rolled my eyes. Could these questions have been any more basic? “Because they have vitamin C.”
She put an arm around me, hugging me to her waist. “Good.”
The scratchy fabric of her apron felt abrasive against the first man-scruff on my cheek. She smelled of frying oil and soap. I hugged her back, but then embarrassment made me pull away.
“I’m too old for hugs,” I said in a gruff voice.
She patted my cheek. “You’re right. You’re almost a man now, my Sasha.”
My chest swelled with pride. “I’m Alex. I’m too old for Sasha too.”
“Alex,” she agreed gently.
The memory fades, and my chest squeezes with pain. Had I known what would happen the next day, I would’ve hugged her longer and told her I loved her.
Snapping out of the past, I force my attention back to my laptop, pain and anger mixing to create a violent cocktail in my blood.
On the screen, two men face my father. Both are fat around their waists and flabby in their arms. My father, a police officer who regularly encountered the worst of humanity, had security cameras in the apartment, just in case. The men must be unaware of the hidden cameras because they turn their backs on my father, revealing their faces.
My pulse jumps.
Vladimir Stefanov and Oleg Pavlov.
Putting his head close to Stefanov’s, Pavlov says, “He’s not going to talk.”
Stefanov grins. “Oh, he will.” He faces my father again. “Tell us what evidence you have against us and where it is, and we’ll let your wife and son live.”
My father spits blood on the floor. “I have nothing. You’re wasting your time.”
Stefanov flicks his fingers at Pavlov. Pavlov walks somewhere, disappearing from view. A moment later, he’s back, dragging a chair with him.
My heart stops.
My mother sits in the chair, her hands tied behind her back. He leaves the chair next to my father’s so that their shoulders are touching. My mother cries softly, but she doesn’t scream.
“You’ll talk,” Stefanov says. “Or you’ll watch her die.”
“She has nothing to do with this. Please, let her go,” my father begs, a desperate entreaty in one eye and the other one swollen shut.
Stefanov bends down, putting him and my father at eye level. “Talk.”
Pavlov grabs my mother’s hair, fisting her dark curls in his fingers. She whimpers when he raises his other arm, poised to strike, but she doesn’t cower.
