Page 4 of The Pakhan’s Heir

Should have brought Rikki with me.

Another couple of seconds and I see a streak of jet black appear from behind the gates. Then my sister appears, her long, black hair picking up on a breeze somewhere in front of her as she breezes past a young couple hugging their hellos right in front of her. She’s wearing a dark blue peacoat and tight leather pants. The moment she sees me, the icy blue eyes that we both share light up and she smiles my way.

Good. Great. I glance over my shoulder again to see that the two men have slowed down their pace. They’re looking away, but I can tell they’ve seen me. Shit.

Yeva rushes up to me, dragging her suitcase. She wraps her arms around my neck in a warm, welcome hug. I give her a one-armed hug, keeping an eye out.

“Big brother,” she says in Russian. “I have missed you.”

She pulls away and I acknowledge her, also in Russian. “I’ve missed you as well. How was your flight?”

Her smile falters slightly. “Good. I see Father and Rikki are absent.”

“They had work,” I say, glancing back to our company. They’ve split up. One of them is still in my sight, but I don’t see the other. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

I wrap an arm around her waist and guide her forward. She stiffens at my touch. “Uh-oh,” she says. “What’s up, Sasha? We got trouble?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I tell her. In English, I say, “You’re planning on staying with Father, aren’t you?”

“You say that like he gave me a choice,” she says with a little laugh. “I’m supposed to be in Ibiza right now, you know.”

I do know. Father made it clear that he wanted Yeva home for spring break with how things were going with the Irkutsks lately. A few nights back, he met up with Slavik, but I’ve yet to find out how that meeting went or what was discussed. Whatever it was, it most certainly wasn’t a peace treaty of any kind, judging from the two men following us.

“It’s better that you’re at home,” I say to her. “It’s safer.”

She huffs. “I can take care of myself. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“Uh-huh.” We’re coming to a large hallway intersection. There are throngs of people going back and forth, stopping to look up at the monitors with the departures and arrivals listed or to drag along their children or large suitcases. It’s practically a traffic jam of people.

And it’s perfect. Underneath the din around me, I hear their footsteps. I lean over to Yeva and say, “You should probably hit the head before we get going. Manhattan traffic is shit this time of day and we are not pulling over just for you to take a piss.”

“Right,” she says without argument. She may not know exactly what’s going on right now, but she gets my meaning. Hide out for a few minutes while I handle this problem. She glances around and spots the sign for the bathroom sticking out on the wall right at the corner.

She starts to turn the corner and I follow, dipping in the doorway as she slips inside the women’s bathroom. I pull out the knife in my pocket and wait. A second later, one of them crosses in front of me. I grab him by the arm and yank. Taken by surprise, he stumbles toward me. Before he can do anything, I stick the knife high into his chest, between the ribs, stabbing him three times as he gasps for air that’s rapidly bleeding out of him.

I push him away from me and wipe my knife off on the back of my pants. He stumbles away, sliding down onto a bench nearby. I wait a little longer, and sure enough, the other one comes running past me, having seen his partner go down.

I follow him, jogging to keep up. Just as he reaches his partner, I drive the knife into his back, feigning like I bumped into him. His knees buckle and I hold him up.

“Hey, watch it,” I say as I twist the knife. “You almost fell over there.”

He gags and his left arm twists uselessly. Like his partner, I slide the knife between his rips. I break the handle off with a quick pull and bend of my wrist, then drop him on the bench next to his buddy.

“Tell Slavik better luck next time,” I tell him as I walk back to the bathroom. By the time I get there, Yeva is walking out.

“Everything okay?” she asks in Russian.

Someone yells behind me. “Hey. Hey! Somebody help! I need help over here!”

Better get moving. “Everything’s great. Let’s go.”

The rest of this evening has been a nice change of pace. Father had dinner ready for Yeva when we got home. Between her getting settled and the four of us sitting down to eat, I briefly told my father about the attackers at the airport. He took it in, then told me to wash my hands and get ready for dinner.

Outside of that, this has been nice. Sitting here in the dining room under the amber candlelight, listening to Yeva talk about her adventures going to school in London and watching my father begrudgingly listening to her PG-13 version of her days as a humble student at one of the most prestigious universities in Europe.

“Oh, no,” she laughs. She’s looking over at Dad who’s sitting at the end of the table, rubbing his beard and looking down at his plate, a slight smile on his face. “Don’t tell me you’re mad. I swear I didn’t have a single drink.”

“No one believes that, you know,” Rikki says from his spot to the left of my father. He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and his large elbows rest on the table. Lately, he’s been wearing his long, auburn hair back into a ponytail, which coupled with his beard, makes him look more golem like than usual. Yeva tosses her spoon across the table at him.