Page 31

A cold chill settles very quietly in my chest.

“Garick.” Belov smiles around his cigarette. “And Yaroslav's daughter. How nice. We were just explaining to the boy here that Rusakov paid for thirty days of dock space. A contract's a contract.”

“Your contract was with Volkov,” Arina says from behind my shoulder. “Volkov doesn't work for my family anymore.”

Belov's eyes slide over to her. He takes his time. Looks her up and down in a way that makes every muscle in my body go tight.

“Rusakov doesn't negotiate with little girls,” he says. “He negotiates with men. Yaroslav was a man. Now Yaroslav's dead, and what's left are five pretty daughters and a guard dog.” His gaze comes back to me. “Everyone knows what happens to a house with no man in it, Lazovski. It gets robbed.”

So that's what this is.

A test. Rusakov wants to know whether the Maximov name died in that grave with Yaroslav. Whether he can walk in and start taking pieces with nobody to stop him.

He's about to find out.

“Let Andrei go,” I say.

“Or what?”

Volkov steps forward.

I've been watching him since we walked into the floodlights. His face. His right hand, hanging by his coat. The way his eyes keep going past me to Arina, full of the kind of humiliation that festers in a man until he has to do something about it.

He goes for the gun in his waistband.

He's slow. He's fifty-eight years old and thick around the middle, and he's spent fifteen years sitting behind a desk counting other people's money.

I'm not slow.

My gun is out before his hand has closed around the grip. One shot. It takes him through the right hand, and the pistol skitters across the wet concrete. Volkov clutches his hand, screaming.

The three men behind Belov reach for their weapons.

Timur, Kolya and Misha already have theirs pointed at their heads.

Nobody moves after that.

I walk forward. Past Volkov, who's curled around his ruined hand, sobbing. Straight to the man holding Andrei by the collar.

“Let him go.”

He lets him go.

Andrei slumps forward. I catch him by the shoulder before he hits the ground and push him gently back toward Misha, who drags him clear.

Then I turn to Belov.

He's stopped smiling. The cigarette's still between his lips, but his gloved hand has gone toward his coat.

“Don't,” I say.

He doesn't listen.

I catch his wrist before it reaches his pocket. Twist. Something cracks. He makes a sound like a kicked dog, and I use his own momentum to slam him face first into the grille of the nearest truck. The headlight shatters. His cigarette goes flying in a spray of sparks.

I hold him there with my forearm across the back of his neck.

“You're going to take a message to Rusakov,” I say. My voice is perfectly calm. I'm always calm when I do this. It's the only time I'm completely sure of anything.