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They entered the 606 at one of its many entrance points and proceeded toward the meeting place established by Antonov. They continued along an elevated concrete path busting with late afternoon walkers, the neighborhood’s small restaurants and stores lining the streets below.
After about fifteen minutes, the crowd thinned, and they entered a quieter stretch of the trail lined with trees and bushes, the city receding behind them as the neighborhood became more suburban.
In the distance, a hulking piece of twisted metal rose from the ground like some kind of industrial tree. Next to it, a man sat on a bench, studying the sculpture.
“This is us,” Mauz said quietly.
“Where’s his man?” Logan asked.
“There, by the trees.”
Logan followed Mauz’s gaze to the tree line where a tall man with close-cropped hair stood, staring at the man sitting on the bench. “Got it.”
“Good luck,” Mauz said, peeling off toward the trees “I’ve got your back.”
Logan continued toward the man on the bench. He rose as Logan approached, surprised by what he saw. He’d expected a bratva soldier, someone in jeans and a leather jacket, someone with an attitude and a gun.
The man waiting for him wore tailored trousers and a button-down shirt, a $30,000 Patek Phillipe watch glinting on his wrist. He was tall and muscular, with a build somewhere between the lean muscle of an athlete and the gym rats Logan saw at Clinch where he and Hawk trained.
Logan saw immediately why they called him the Lion. It was’t his thick head of dark hair or even his reputation for quiet brutality.
It was his eyes. Focused and watchful, they glinted like amber in the afternoon light. Logan wasn’t slow on his feet, but he still had the sense that the other man could break his neck before Logan even registered he was in motion.
Logan waited while the man took his measure. A full minute later, he held out his hand.
“I was surprised to hear you wanted to meet. I’m Lyonya Antonov. You can call me Lyon.”
33
Lyon sat next to the man named Logan Bane and hoped he hadn’t made a mistake.
One could never tell with these things.
He’d spent more than a decade waiting for the right moment, the right opportunity, putting all the pieces in place. He’d been a good bratva soldier, had done what he was told, had asked no questions even when they filled his mind.
He’d quietly invested the money his father had hidden before his incarceration, had set his mother up in Russia when she’d decided to go home. He’d lived in ugly apartments, worn clothes that allowed him to fit in with the other soldiers, and eventually, the other bratocks.
But he was not like them, had never been like them.
Now he had a chance to prove it.
“Viktor Baranov didn’t sanction the abduction of the boy,” Lyon said.
“And what does Viktor say about it now?” Logan asked.
“Nothing so far,” Lyon said. “Which says quite a lot.”
“Like?”
Lyon chose his words carefully. Logan Bane was not a friend. He was not an ally. It wouldn’t do to divulge too much, both because it would be disloyal to the bratva and because it might hinder Lyon’s plans.
Nevertheless, he needed Logan Bane in this moment as much as the other man needed him. That required some level of trust.
“Viktor hasn’t been happy with Yakov for some time,” Lyon said. “I believe it's safe to say those feelings have been exacerbated by the current situation.”
It almost felt strange to speak so many words at once. Lyon had spent most of his adulthood remaining silent, listening, filing every piece of information away for later. For today and the coming weeks and months when he would finally take what was his.
The other man didn’t immediately respond, as if he were processing the information.
