Chapter 82
2492words
'You're going there?" Camila asks me, her eyes wide, but her voice is torn between fear and hope. She hates that I'm putting myself in danger. I get it. But the reward at the end of this, if I do everything right, is something she's been begging for daily.
'I have to. The Winter Palace could be where your mother is being held captive."
Madison claimed there was an older woman there. Yannick might have put Katinka to work teaching dance. I can't discount the idea that this is a trap. But what if it isn't? I don't have a reason to believe a lick of what came out of that girl's mouth, but the Winter Palace was already on my list to investigate. Mikhail rattled off a few locations when Mila interrogated him.
This was one of them.
I haven't been back there since the day I killed Pyotr.
Camila, who's now staring at me with yearning, making her eyes sparkle, brought that bastard back to the forefront of my mind. I told her that every kill stays with me, and it's the truth. But I've never had to think about Pyotr because his was the only death that was completely justified.
Having her utter his name in my bed felt like having my skin peeled off with a dull knife.
The final image imprinted in my mind of him is still vivid. His body was slumped over the bed he'd been raping Mila in. The blankets were soaked black from blood. It wasn't a pretty sight then and it isn't one now, but I don't hate it.
It's comforting to remember that monster is dead. And that I did it.
'Please be careful," she tells me, clutching me around my middle. The hug is desperate. I want it to go on forever. For too long, our relationship has been fraying. Lately, I can see the border around the puzzle, picture how to re-lay the pieces. With steady hands, I can rebuild our happiness.
We'll be okay. Out loud, I say, 'I'll be okay."
Mila catches my eye from where she stands by my front door. She's not normally so quiet. Her favorite habit is to send out snide barbs during inappropriate times like this. Lately she's been more withdrawn. More aloof. Madison's appearance and desperate actions have affected Mila deeply.
And from what I can see, far more deeply than even Mila herself expected.
I should talk to her about it. But I'm doubtful she'll want to listen.
She's never been great with heart-to-hearts.
I'm no different.
Her silent frown in my direction communicates that it's time to go. I hug Camila a moment longer before releasing her. 'When I come back, it will be with Katinka."
The Winter Palace used to be a bus depot over half a decade ago. The rounded front hints at the interior that follows the same shape, the massive, curved walls designed to allow easy access to the buses that would line up along the streets in front and back. Those walls create a perfect acoustic experience. This was part of the reason Yannick bought the building to turn it into a club in the first place.
I was with him that day. He strutted around the large rooms, his voice an intonation of pride as he waxed on about the money the place would bring into the Grachev Bratva. The music would lure in crowds. But that wasn't where the cash would come from.
'Noise up top drowns out what we're doing below," he explained with a smirk. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting to hear his voice reverberate, each echo softer than the last. 'Let them get loud!"
All the sweating, dancing people, screaming to the beat … yes.
No one would hear the poor girls. It was a perfect business, as Yannick said.
'We should have burned that place down years ago," Mila growls beside me. We're crouched across the street on the roof of a flower shop. The fire escape built into the brick gave us easy access.
Eyeing her curiously, I keep my voice even. 'Will you be able to control yourself in there?"
She juts out her chin and doesn't respond.
I watched the way she gleefully eviscerated Yannick's men. It made me think she was getting satisfaction by fulfilling her need for vengeance. I thought she'd cool down afterward, but she never did. A Band-Aid was ripped off, but instead of being a healed scar, the wound still bleeds.
And after Madison, Mila's urge to hurt the ones in charge of the brothels has returned in full force.
No, it was never gone.
Following her gaze, I survey the Winter Palace with intense scrutiny. It's nearly midnight, but unlike the other businesses in the city, the club is just waking up. The signage is a vibrant neon blue and pink. It draws young people like moths to a flame. There's a line of people waiting to pass by the guards at the front door. Even at this distance, I can make out the unmistakable beat of music inside.
It's freezing out—I'm bundled up in a thick, long black jacket and gloves. There are women in the line wearing practically nothing. Skirts that graze their hips, heels that you could use as stepping stools, all to show off their bodies.
They have no idea that there are women in that building who wish they could cover their skin. I grit my teeth until my skull throbs.
Why am I worrying about Mila? I'm just as likely to lose control at this rate.
I scan the line closely, trying to pick out anyone who isn't here to just drink and dance. But on the surface, every man looks the same. They're all oblivious to the nature of the secret brothel just beneath their feet.
Or they might all have weapons.
Gripping my gun under my jacket, I let a puff of white air float from my nostrils. It vanishes on the breeze. 'Are the boeviki in position?"
'Yes," Mila replies. 'Kostya has them organized into groups. When you're ready, they'll move to the street level, then go around the back to break in."
I nod sharply. The goal is to slip into the club without being recognized. Once in there, we'll search for both Katinka and Yannick. They could be on the main floor. But more likely than not, they're underground.
I'm about to turn away when I spot something. 'There. See them?"
'The cameras?" Mila slips out her small pistol. 'I can shoot them, or?—"
I fire off a shot before she finishes talking. The lens on the security camera that sticks off the far-right corner of the building shatters. The sound is muted by the club's music. Mila clicks her tongue in annoyance before taking out the second camera.
'Show off," she mumbles.
'It's not a contest," I say with a half-smirk.
'Better not be. If it was, I'd win."
'Not with knives, you wouldn't."
She spins her gun around her hand in a smooth motion. 'Which is why I didn't bring any."
Shaking my head with a light chuckle, I stretch my legs to keep my knees warm. Crouching as long as we have has made me stiff. I'm getting too old for this shit. Sticking close together we descend to the street. There's good cover here, lots of dumpsters and cars parked by clubgoers that will probably end up towed by morning.
'Tell Kostya we're ready," I say to Mila once we're tucked behind some awful-smelling garbage. I check my gun even though I know it's loaded. But it never hurts to be sure. My blood is racing through my veins at such speeds I feel like I'm on fire.
Mila taps her phone, then peers over the dumpster. 'We should go down that side street and circle through the alley. Otherwise, we risk being spotted."
Darting into the shadows, we rush silently across the pebbled pavement near the club. None of the people in line glance our way. We're not as interesting as their phones or the interior of the club they continuously crane their necks to see before the bouncers shove them back.
Still, there are enough pairs of eyes that I'm worried we'll get noticed in the open air.
How do we get from here to the side street? I wonder, judging the distance, the level of shadow coverage.
'Hey, man!" a young guy in a red leather jacket shouts at the bouncer as he puffs his chest out, seemingly annoyed by how he's being denied entry. 'Do you know who I am?"
The guard grumbles something. I can't make it out. Then he pushes the jacket-wearing guy so hard he tumbles back into the crowd. There's a swell of voices.
Perfect. I point at Mila; she reads my silent signal. Taking advantage of the distraction, I rush down a back road with her close behind.
On a skinny street between two alley walls, we make a sharp turn. The section behind the Winter Palace is lit only by a pair of orange lights strapped to a huge set of rolling shutter doors. The music can be heard through the thick walls. Around us are construction-filled patches of dirt, projects that the city abandoned. We're not going to be seen by any civilians here.
Peering up at the bricks coated in graffiti, I count multiple barred windows. The giant shuttered doors are locked to the ground with padlocks. I'd hoped there'd be a back entrance guarded by someone in charge of deliveries, but there's nothing.
I'm gauging the best way to break in when I hear boots. 'Tell them to move fucking quieter," I hiss at Mila. My men should know better.
'Asher!"
Wrenching around from the urgency in her voice, I see what she does. From the left, where we came from, are several of my soldiers. Most of the group has met at our rendezvous. But the other figures rushing our way aren't faces I know.
But I recognize the uniforms.
Cops.
'Move!" I shout, reaching for my weapon.
Mila has hers out already; she sets off a bullet, and when the cop she aimed at spins to the street with a yelp, she dodges into the shadows. The darkness isn't reliable though—the gunfire lights up the world. There's nowhere to hide.
I frantically crouch in an indented section of brick along the building's edge. It's where people stand if it rains while waiting for their bus to arrive. It won't keep me safe for long, but I need to catch my breath and collect my thoughts. Why are the police here? There are so many of them! It's almost like ...
A bullet shatters against the brick by my face. Flecks of the wall slice my skin like shrapnel. 'Mila!" I roar, pointing my gun around the corner, firing blindly. 'It's an ambush!"
She doesn't reply. Over the barrage of bullets, I pick out the agonized scream of a man. The wretched sound cuts off early. Someone has died.
Peeking out, I quickly scan the situation. Twelve fucking cops, maybe more. It's hard to be sure with the flashing red and blue lights blinding me. Of my men, I count seven still on their feet. Where the hell is Mila?
Lifting my gun, I level the barrel. Down the sight, I take aim at the bobbing head of an officer who keeps firing his pistol while squatting behind a partially open car door. He jerks when my bullet penetrates his skull, sending his hat flipping to the ground. Another shot, and he joins the hat.
But it's not enough. My men are dying. Mila and I will join them at this rate.
Fuck! Camila, I have to make this up to you somehow.
'There he is!"
The cops have noticed me. Flashlight beams illuminate my chunk of brick wall, turning it from protection into a death trap. I can't dodge here. Against one opponent, it would be a challenge; with so many, I'm fucked.
A bullet sinks into my left leg; the hot poker sensation saps my strength, dropping me to my knees. Touching my hand to the wound, it comes away bright red. I hold my gun up and out. It slips from my bloody hands; I recover, gripping it tighter.
If I'm going down, it won't be quietly.
'I'm sorry," I whisper.
It's a message meant for the woman who'll never hear it.
There's more shouting. The long shadows of cops with guns float closer, like fingers in the dark. They're practically on top of me now. I shut my eyes, starting to smile and make peace. It's the only reason that I'm not blinded temporarily when the closest cop car suddenly explodes in a blaze of red flames.
The roar of the fire competes with the shrieks of the people closest to the explosion. Everyone is shouting, and I open my eyes to see most of the cops are scattered across the ground. More than a few aren't moving. Embers zip through the night air like snowflakes made of fire. One lands on my cheek, but I don't feel the burn through the other pain.
'Asher!" Mila limps toward me with the flames at her back. There's blood on her chest, coming from a hole in her upper right shoulder. Her arm hangs loose. She's not alone. Kostya is holding her up, his face half-hidden by the shadows caused by the blaze that backlights them.
His severe expression holds firm when he sees the blood soaking my pants. 'Can you run, Asher Volkov?" he asks.
'Not fast, but yes." Grunting from the burst of pain that moving brings, I stumble forward. The car crackles, smoke pluming into the night sky. Men on both sides are stirring. In the distance, I catch the telltale shriek of fire engines. 'Which way?"
Kostya leads us through the street, around the chaos. No one notices us. We pass multiple bodies in states of life and death. I recognize some of the faces. If not for Kostya, Mila and I would be joining them. I've been betrayed by many of the men I trusted.
Yet Kostya, someone who I always suspected hated my guts after how I humiliated him by breaking his fingers, wasn't one of them.
If he'd planned to, this was the perfect time for it. I'd be dead, and he'd be getting rewarded by Yannick.
Instead, he's demonstrated his loyalty to me in the best possible way.
'You blew the car up, didn't you?" I pant.
'Yes," he replies. 'I didn't see another option."
'If you hadn't, I'd be?—"
'Don't waste your energy, my pakhan." Kostya stares straight ahead. I copy him, seeking solace in looking away from the blackened wreckage and corpses. Our mission was a failure.
But I'm going home to Camila.
