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The clock ticks, reminding me I have somewhere I need to be. Carefully, I refold the picture, sliding it back into my wallet.
Tonight, if I’m lucky, will yield another clue.
When I leave the apartment, it's raining out, so I hail a cab. I slide into the warm, musty space, trying not to breathe too deeply as I give the driver directions to the bar, leaning backagainst the seat as he pulls into traffic. If not for the contact I’m meeting tonight, I might not have gone out at all, but the prospect of a stiff drink sounds better and better the closer we get to my destination.
Another man in my position might have hesitated to go out often at all, but it’s long been my belief that the best place to hide is in plain sight. As far as Viktor Andreyev knows, I’m likely dead, but nonetheless, I doubt he’d look for me here first. Moscow is the site of a hundred jobs I’d done for him, two hundred–more, even. We’d traveled here together, drank together, picked out women to fuck together–and then taken them back to our rooms separately. We’d killed together. For more years than I like to count, I’d been his trusted brigadier, his hand of violence.
His left hand, while Levin Volkov stood on the right.
I have no idea who his left is now. I don’t have the same contacts I used to, nor can I trust the same people. But I don’t fear Viktor Andreyev finding me in a Moscow bar.
Especially not this one.
I know the man I’m meant to meet by description. I see him as soon as I walk in and shake off the rain, sitting at a table far back, lit only by one dim lamp attached to the wall. Without hesitation, I stride through the crowd, walking towards him with purpose. He catches sight of me halfway, and I see his eyes widen slightly with fear, as if he didn’t entirely expect me to show up.
Fool.
I pause at the bar, mostly because I want a drink before I go any further and somewhat to throw him off. I enjoy the look ofconfusion that flits across his face as he watches me as I order a vodka neat from the bartender.
“Make it two, actually,” I tell the wiry-looking man, who shrugs and grabs a second glass. I enjoy keeping others on their toes, and I can guarantee that my contact isn’t expecting me to buy him a drink.
His main concern is likely whether or not he’ll end the night with my knife in his throat.
I haven’t entirely discounted the possibility.
“T-thank you,” the man stammers when I sit down, pushing one of the glasses of vodka toward him.
“Consider it an incentive to loosen your lips, beyond the payment I’ve promised you.” I lean closer, pitching my voice low. “What do you have for me? You said it was good, Yuri, don’t disappoint me.”
The man smiles, a toothy, half-rotten smile that makes me want to flinch back, but I don’t. “It’s about Konstantin Obelensky,” he says, the gleam in his eyes clearly saying he’s proud of himself. “Good stuff,da?”
A flush of cold rage washes through me as I sit back, stiff and angry. “Fuck your information,” I snarl, my voice still low. “What can you tell me that I don’t already know? Konstantin Obelensky is dead.”
There are a number of rumors swirling around the city about how exactly that came to pass. One of them is that he had his bastard daughter–another rumor that no one is exactly sure of the truth about–locked up in his compound, before a rescue squad came in guns blazing and killed Obelensky. Thereare other rumors, including ones involving poison, mutiny, his legitimate daughter poisoning him, that same daughter shooting him, and a particularly disgusting one involving an affair with that daughter, which climaxes–no pun intended–with her stabbing him in the throat mid-coitus.
My suspicion is that none of them are true. One thing remains the same, however, throughout all the stories. His daughter, thelegitimateone, played some part in it.
Beyond the rumors, one thing is true beyond a shadow of a doubt–Obelensky is dead.
And I’m fucking furious about it.
Iwanted to be the one to kill him. Now, without that to lean on, I’ve been at a loss as to how to move forward–what to do next in my quest for revenge and redemption rolled into one.
Yuri had been meant to help me. Instead, he’s given me nothing of value.
I consider the option of my knife in his throat, throwing the vodka I purchased him in his face, and weighing them as Yuri looks at me dumbly.
“This is good information,” he insists. “Listen.”
“I don’t want to hear about Obelensky,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “I know all I need to know about him. I asked you fornewinformation.”
“Thisis,” Yuri insists, reaching into his pocket. “Look.”
He unfolds a photo, pushing it across the table towards me. It’s a poor copy of one, actually, but in color, so I can see more details of what’s in front of me.
What’s in front of me, however, makes no fucking sense.
It’s a picture of a woman–a stunningly gorgeous one–in silver lingerie with her back against a stripper pole in the middle of a stage, her hands stretched above her head to grasp it. Her dark hair is wild around her face, her eyes wide as if with stunned pleasure, her back arched deeply, her lips parted. She’s a statue of lust, a work of lewd art cast in poorly taken photographic form, and the moment I see her, I feel a deep bolt of arousal that I haven’t felt in some time.
