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The laughter dies, replaced by a few murmurs.
“Man, I love that move,” I mumble with my mouth full and turn to Drake. “Can we discuss drug business now?”
The president stares at me with his lips pressed into a thin line. “You piece of shit.”
“What?” I light a cigarette and take a big drag. “Pasha was into the underground fight scene when he was young. I told you he could take on any of your men.”
The low rumble of voices ceases, and utter silence remains.
“You came to my place to make a fool of me, Belov?” he bites out. “Was that your plan?”
“No, Drake. My plan was to see how serious you are about doing business. And based on what just happened, you seem more interested in brawling than collaborating.” I extinguish the cigarette and wrap my hand around a half-full glass of whiskey on the table. “It really pisses me off when people waste my time.”
I throw the liquor onto his chest, ignite the Zippo I’m still holding, and throw it at him.
Drake roars, jumps up from the chair, and thrashes around while flames eat at his clothes and skin. I drop to the floor, roll toward the end of the bar on my right and crouch. The sound of yelling and women’s screams fills the room. Two of the bikers run toward the president, carrying jackets, ready to extinguishthe flames. The rest are already grabbing for their weapons. I pull the gun from the holster on my ankle, straighten, and shoot three of the bikers, then duck back down. When I stand up again, I dispose of two more.
The group of women are hiding under the table in the corner, screaming. There is no sign of Pavel. His watch and jacket are no longer at the table. I leave my cover, shoot the last two men trying to extinguish the flames, then walk across the room, shooting each of the fallen bikers in the center of their foreheads. Never presume someone is dead until he’s sporting a hole in his head. That’s my motto. It even rhymes.
When I leave the bar I find Pavel leaning on the hood of his black sedan, with his hands in his pockets.
“That was rude,” I say and grab my helmet.
“What it was is your fuckup. So, you should have been the one to handle it.”
“Nope. It was thinking ahead. They would have turned on us at some point. Drake was already reaching for his gun when I roasted him.”
“I’m sure Roman will value your foresightedness,” Pavel says while getting into his car.
“Of course, he will.”
Based on the amount of death threats Roman sends my way when I call him an hour later, he doesn’t. My brother is unbelievingly ungrateful.
Chapter 8
I leave my room, or better said, cell. Mimi follows me as I head downstairs to see if there’s something to eat in the kitchen.
After six days in Sergei’s house, and two more failed escape attempts, I conclude that I will have to wait until I’m outside to try again. With alarms and remote locks on every window and door, and Mimi following me around nonstop, I have deemed the place escape-proof. Felix must have guessed my line of thinking because he told me yesterday morning that I’m allowed to walk around the house by myself. Probably because Cerberus is constantly at my heels.
Sergei hasn’t been around much. From what I gleaned when he was talking on the phone, the Bratva had some problems with the Italians, and he needed to fill in for men who were hurt in some warehouse fire. I couldn’t grasp all of the details. Regardless, I kind of miss seeing him. Could I be developing Stockholm syndrome?
Downstairs, I turn toward the kitchen, with Mimi trotting behind me, but a sound from the living room makes me stop and turn my head. All lights except the lamp near the front door are off, so it takes me a few seconds before I notice Sergei. He’s standing by the sofa with his back turned to me, looking at something on the wall opposite him.
“Hey, jailer,” I say and head toward him.
He doesn’t reply, just keeps staring ahead and lifts his right arm. A second later I hear a thump. I follow his gaze, and it takes me a few moments to focus on a narrow wooden board with a horizontal white stripe. It’s similar to the one mounted on thewall in the room where I’m sleeping. The light is dim, but I make out several knives lodged in the board in a perfectly straight line along the stripe. Sergei lifts his arm again, holding another small knife, and sends it flying. It hits the board right next to its predecessors, extending the formation.
My eyes widen. “Wow. That’s . . . impressive.”
“Thank you,” Sergei says in a detached voice that makes me look up at him.
He is standing completely still. Too still. Just like he was the night he was worried about his friend who got shot. I can’t see his eyes in the low light, but if I could, I’m fairly certain they would be unfocused like then, too.
“Sergei? Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t sound okay.
