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The exit door has no alarm. I race down the staircase bare-footed, my gown flapping open behind me.
I’m dizzy and reeling, delirious with pain.
I couldn’t tell my father the real reason I stayed:
I need to see Adrik one last time.
He won’t be back from the delivery yet. I could go to the Den and wait for him.
I pull on my clothes in the alleyway and stuff my feet in my boots, shivering with cold now that the sun has gone down. The snow has melted but Moscow is still far from warm.
Even this level of exertion wipes me out. I lean against the cinderblock, waiting for the black spots clear from my vision.
Leaving my hospital gown in a crumpled ball in the alley, I head out to the street so I can hail a cab.
A car stops at the curb, as delightfully ramshackle as all Moscow cabs seem to be.
I’ve barely opened the back door when I hear a shout. Boris Kominsky has stuck his head out the side door and caught sight of me. He comes sprinting down the street, arms pumping, monstrously fast. His fellowkachkiis right behind him.
“Ezhay, ezhay!”I shout at the cab driver.
Russians know better than to hesitate when they’re being chased. The cabbie stomps on the gas, pulling away from the curb.
To my dismay, Boris’ car is parked only a block down. He turns and runs back to it, barely waiting for his friend to climb in the passenger seat before he speeds after me.
* * *
46
ADRIK
The pickup is in Nekrasovka, not far from where Sabrina and I built our lab. We pass by the purse factory. It’s too dark to see the blackened brick of the old brewery, but I spot the silver glimmer of the bullet-shaped trailer where Sabrina loved to eat. My stomach clenches as if I were hungry, though I know I’m not.
Jasper is driving. I’m in the passenger seat, Yuri and his lieutenant behind us.
Rafail Wasyl is former Kadyrovtsy, the paramilitary operatives who protect the head of the Chechen Republic. He kept the buzz cut and the cargo pants when he left service, was well as his extensive training in kidnapping, torture, and murder.
I’m surprised he doesn’t work for his countryman Ismaal Elbrus. Maybe the rest of the Chechens hate him as much as the civilians he terrorized in his homeland.
He’s nothing more than a mercenary, though an extremely effective one. I don’t particularly like him sitting directly behind me. I keep an eye on him via the rear-view mirror.
Rafail lounges in the backseat, the window lowered despite the clouds rolling in, so he can hang his arm over the sill. A rose gold AP glints on his wrist. It looks genuine. Even with how generously Yuri pays, that’s an expensive toy.
Rafail sees me watching and gives me a smug smile.
“Glad to see the High Table only gave you a slap on the wrist, Adrik,” he says. “I’d hate to see you get in any serious trouble … especially over a woman.”
Rafail’s voice is higher and softer than you’d expect from someone so aggressively masculine.
“I wonder who slapped that new watch onyourwrist?” I inquire.
My comment is for Yuri. Telling him to open his fucking eyes.
Rafail doesn’t even blink.
“I’m well taken care of. If you didn’t run your business with your dick, you could buy one for yourself.”
Innocently, I ask, “Is that the one Serena Williams wears?”
