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35
They waited until it got dark to load the three black Range Rovers. The neighborhood in Brighton Park was quiet, but there was no need to draw attention to themselves.
Lyon watched, turning over the details of the operation as the men loaded the duffels filled with weapons. Michael Fedorov, one of Roman’s men, had been watching Musa’s apartment in West Town for the past three days, establishing a routine. Based on this, they knew he was almost always in by three a.m., although to be safe, Lyon had left Michael in front of the apartment building to make sure Musa was there.
West Town was both home turf and enemy territory now. Lyon couldn’t afford to be seen, much less caught, by one of Musa’s men. Not when he’d been exiled. It would be the last straw for the Spies, who would undoubtedly order his execution.
Of course, they could very well do the same thing after he killed Musa, but there was nothing to be done about that. He’d tried using strategy to win the role of pakhan. Perhaps the Spies — the soldiers on the ground — wanted to see violence instead.
The move he was making would be considered a bad one in a game of chess. He couldn’t see three moves ahead, the outcome dependent on what the Spies did after Lyon killed Musa. With Ivan’s help, they might slap his wrist.
Or they might just order his death.
He’d spoken to Ivan the day before, warning Ivan of what was to come. He’d half-expected Ivan to talk him out of killing Musa, but the old man had quickly given Lyon his blessing. He was in agreement: Musa had to be removed from the board. There was still a possibility someone else would rise to challenge Lyon, but right now Musa looked to be his only real competitor.
With Musa out, the Spies would only have two choices: sift through the remaining brigadiers for one worthy of leading the organization or appoint Lyon — who had proven he was prepared and who had the weight of the Baranov name behind him — to the role.
“That’s it,” one of the men said, shutting the back of the third Rover. His name was Paul, one of the six men Roman had sent him from New York. They all seemed solid enough, although Michael was a bit green, which was why Lyon had positioned him as a lookout at Musa’s apartment building.
The other men filed out of the house, all of them looking beefier with Kevlar under their jackets. It was a precaution Lyon hoped they wouldn’t need — the plan was to enter Musa’s apartment quietly, kill him quickly — but better safe than sorry. Sending Roman’s men back to New York in bodybags wouldn’t be a good precursor to their eventual partnership.
Full of bluster and camaraderie, the men piled into the vehicles lining the curb. Lyon caught sight of movement across the street and focused on a second-floor window, the curtain drawn back in the moment before it fell closed again.
They needed to move out.
“All set,” Alek said, walking down the house’s cracked, narrow sidewalk.
“I’ll be right back,” Lyon said.
He headed into the house, his chest heavy. He realized a moment later that for the first time in his life, he was afraid. Not for his safety, but for someone else.
For Kira.
What would become of her if something happened to him?
He went inside and found Rurik sitting on the sofa, watching a football game. He loved American football with a passion, an interest Lyon didn’t understand and didn’t share.
The weight in his chest lightened at the sight of the giant man in the living room. Rurik would watch out for Kira, and in the event of Lyon’s death, she would at least have plenty of financial resources.
“Where is she?” Lyon asked.
“Bedroom,” Rurik said without looking away from the TV.
Lyon walked down the short narrow hall to the room he’d been sharing with Kira.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed. She stood when she saw him.
He’d expected to find her scared, or at least worried, but he should have known better. She crossed the room to stand in front of him, her eyes clear, her expression calm. Was she really so unconcerned or was it a ruse? He was betting on the latter. She cared for him. They hadn’t spoken of it, but he saw it in her eyes, felt it in the way she clung to him in bed each night.
But she was a strong woman, and if he knew her — and he was beginning to think maybe he did — she would want to be strong for him.
“Is that everything?” she asked.
He nodded and held her face in his hands. “You’ll be alright?”
She smiled. “Unless death by football is a possibility.”
He laughed softly. “Thankfully, I think we’re in the clear on that front."
