Skal’pel’ goes on with his monologue. My being mute now hardly makes a difference. The man always preferred to hear himself talk. Not like Ravil, who listens.
But he’s just as smart as Ravil. He strategizes just as well. He reads and understands people like Ravil does. At least, I always felt like he knew me better than I knew myself. That’s what makes him a master manipulator.
“You joined the bratva. A surprising choice although perhaps not, considering the friends you’d made in prison.”
I’m sickened by how closely he followed my life after he mutilated my body and ruined my life. I don’t know what I’d thought he would do. I hadn’t wanted to think about him. What had become of him. Where he was or what he was doing.
But I certainly never imagined he was tracking and following me. My life.
It turns my stomach.
Or maybe that’s just the aftereffects of the tranquilizer.
“I realized that my gift to you wasn’t the consolation I’d hoped it would be. You didn’t crave cash. You craved a master to serve. And you found one with your new bratva cell. Ravil Baranov, smuggler and self-made real estate mogul of downtown Chicago.”
Now I want to kill him.
It’s all I can do not to flex my hands against the zip ties. I don’t like him talking about Ravil. And I especially don’t like his assessment of me, however true it may be.
I could snap his neck. Right here, right now. He’s within my reach. But I might get shot in the back of the head before I finished the job. Would it be worth it?
The world would be safe from this maniac.
Story would be safe.
Oh fuck, Story.
Just thinking of her brings on a wave of grief so heavy it nearly drowns me.
I left her. My sweet lastochka.
And probably like Skal’pel’s payment to me, that bag of cash I bequeathed to her won’t be any kind of consolation for my death. She doesn’t seem to care much about money, anyway.
I didn’t think this through. I just blindly followed the path Skal’pel’ laid for me, just like I always have. I’d thought I was doing this for Story. Sacrificing myself, so she could live. Being the honorable, trustworthy man I’ve always considered myself to be.
But this isn’t honoring Story. And sure as hell isn’t honoring myself. This is the first time in my life I really have something worth living for, and I chose not to fight for it? Not to even try to find a solution other than the one Skal’pel’ picked for me?
Am I really going to let him continue to write the script of my life?
“I don’t know who figured out your connection with me, but when I saw a reward had been put up for your safe capture, I had to come for you.” Now he turns an indulgent gaze on me. Like I’m the wayward child he’s taking back into his fold, instead of the psychopath who thought cutting out my tongue and putting me in prison was the best way to reward me for my loyal service.
“I couldn’t let them capture you, even though you probably hold little knowledge of value in that glorious, big head of yours.” He drops back into his seat and crosses one ankle over his knee.
“I could have just sent an executioner.” He stands again to pace away from me. “It would’ve been safer for me. Far easier. Definitely simpler.” He turns and looks at me. “But the truth is, I’ve missed your service, Oleg.” He flicks a glance at the American thugs. “No one takes care of business the way you used to. Without complaint or interjections. You never did speak much, even when you had a tongue.”
He paces back. “So I came myself for you. And your obedient response to my message showed me you’re still as reliable as ever.” He passes by me and places a hand on my shoulder in the way he used to show his approval or affection. He squeezes.
One blow with both my fists would knock him out.
“Again, I couldn’t bring myself to kill you. I’d rather have you by my side again, where you belong. Serving your old master.” He’s behind me now, where I can’t see him.
Where he can’t see my face.
I make a few micromovements of discovery. My ankles aren’t bound. I’m not tied to this seat. And that’s when I remember—you can’t fire a gun on an airplane.
Those thugs would know that, too.
“Would you like to serve me again, Oleg?”
I wait for him to walk around to the front of me. He’s holding a syringe. A fatal dose of poison if I answer incorrectly? It doesn’t matter. People always underestimate how quickly I can move for my size. I lunge out of my chair and twist his head around on his neck, snapping it. I take the syringe from his hand as he falls.
My movements are slower than I’d like—the after-effects of the drug still weigh me down, but I have far too much practice in clearing a room for it to stop me.
The thugs in the back come for me, guns drawn. They won’t fire them, not unless they want us all to die.
I plunge the syringe into the first guy’s neck and dodge a blow from the second one, knocking into his belly with my elbow. I punch him again with an awkward side-swing of both arms, but I put enough power behind it to lift him off his feet and knock the wind out of him.
A blow to the face, and he goes down. The mustached man picks up a gun from one of the fallen men and points it at me, his hand trembling.
I shake my head.
“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.”
I risk it. I take two long steps to reach him, snatch the gun from his hand and strike him in the temple with it. He goes down.
I search the pockets of the thugs and find the zip ties, then fasten them around the wrists of the three guys still breathing. Killing them might be cleaner, but I can make that call later.
Now I have to get this plane turned around.
Chapter 14
Story
I don’t know how many hours it is before Ravil gets a text from an unknown number, but it comes. There’s a wild scramble of activity.
Oleg’s alive. On a plane flying back to Chicago.
I cry more tears—this time of relief. And then there’s more waiting.
As I wait, my grief morphs into anxiety. A gnawing, itching anxiety. The kind that’s plagued me my whole life. I consider it to be my gut instinct telling me when something’s not right.
When it’s time to bail.
And the longer the minutes stretch until Oleg is back, the stronger the feeling grows.
I get bundled into the back of Oleg’s Denali with Nikolai and Dima in front, and we leave, along with two other vehicles, for some private airstrip I’ve never heard of.
It’s snowing. Thick, wet flakes that hit the windshield and melt the minute they touch it. Nikolai drives. Dima brings a laptop along and is searching things as we drive, making short comments to his brother in Russian, then pausing to throw an apologetic smile over his shoulder at me.
The nervous buzzing grows louder, so I can’t think about anything. I can’t remember if I’ve eaten anything today. I don’t think I have. My lips are dry, my throat is parched.
Vaguely, I realize I have to perform tonight at Rue’s. It seems like last night’s performance was a lifetime ago.
When we get there, Nikolai turns around and says, “I’m going to need you to wait in the Denali, okay? Please don’t come out, or you’ll be an accessory to anything you see out there. Understand?”