Page 80 of Vasily the Nail

I might be freaking out, but Artyom is distracted and Sergey is just as used to it as everyone else it. It’s what I do. Artyom says, “Those fucking morons,” under his breath and then pulls out of the parking lot, making his way back toward the outer edge of the territory, on to the Mexican strip club.

“Wanna explain what’s going on?” I ask, looking back at Sergey. Technically, the kiddo’s not even allowed in the club. He’s underage. I don’t know if the Mexicans care about that, but I’m not here to start a war over something stupid.

“Just making a quick stop. Hector says they got a package from the Irish, and he’s nervous about it.”

That gets my pulse racing. “Is it a bomb?” With another glance back at Sergey, I mumble under my breath, “We got a rookie. We’re gonna die. It’s a bomb.”

“It’s not a bomb,” Artyom snaps back before the kid can get too nervous. “Fuck, they opened it already. It’s just a bunch of paperwork. Deeds and shit. But there’s a note he thinks is written in Russian. That’s got him tweaking.”

That’s gotmetweaking. What the hell are the deeds for? Why would they pass the deeds off to the Mexicans instead of a group friendlier with them, and why would they include a note in Russian? “I don’t like this,” I mutter, acid burning my throat.

“You don’t like anything. This could be the best fucking news we’ve ever gotten. Good riddance to the IRA, I say.”

I catch a glimpse of Sergey in the back seat. He’s nervous. No surprises there. We’re speaking in Russian now, and he’s shaky on the language. His mom’s American. It’s not spoken much athome, just between his dad and his brother, usually in hushed tones to deliberately hide it. This is Sergey’s first step toward membership in the brigade, but the road in front of him is long and lethal. No one here gets out alive, not really.

Except me.

I just gotta survive the night, and I’m gone. I don’t know what my life with Ana will be, but we’re going to live it. Together.

“This is probably nothing,” I say to the kid. “You get used to the weird shit. But we got a big task for you, okay?”

He swallows. He’s pale and dark-haired and pimply, got that lanky build of a kid who suddenly sprouted up out of nowhere, the bones rocketing up before the flesh could catch up to them. His Adam’s apple is sharply cut from the shadow of his neck, making the motion almost cartoonish. He probably isn’t anything worse than skittish, but that Adam’s apple makes him look terrified.

“You just gotta watch for anything strange in the parking lot, okay? You know the jackets the IRA boys wear? You watch for those, and you watch for the Blazing Hell crew. You see any of them, you shoot us a message.”

I wave my phone at him, but his hand goes to the pocket where his piece is, not his phone.

“You’re not going to need that. You just let us know if they’re coming. They’re a bunch of pussies, they’re gonna show up in numbers. You see anything, you text us and you duck down in that seat, you got me? These doors are bulletproof. If things go tits up, I don’t want you standing behind them in the way offriendly fire. You text me and Artyom both— in fact, let me set this up.”

I make a group chat for just the three of us and send a message so it’s at the top of the screen. Makes it look like a big deal, like this job is really important.

“There. You send that message, and if you hear gunshots inside, you text your brother and Kostya. Let them know where we are. Sound good?”

Sergey nods rapidly, gives us a stern look like he’s taking this job seriously, but I see the relief in the way his chest sinks back down. This car is safe. Hell, it’s bullet-proof. Pretty much the safest place to be. If disaster happens, he’ll have done his job but survived.

Disaster isn’t going to happen. This isn’t a place where people cause problems. But if it puts him at ease— and also keeps him out of the place he’s not allowed to be in— I think my lie was worth it.

Artyom and I head in together. No one stops us this time. No one questions if we belong here or calls anyone to make sure we have permission to enter. They practically roll out the red carpet for Artyom.

It’s a quieter night in the club than last time I was here, but it’s Friday. There should be a little of everything here. Blue collar guys on a night out. College kids. Bachelor parties. Truckers, too, and now I’m realizing that’s part of what had me nervous in the parking lot was the lack of trucks. They have a huge back lot here, and as much as I can’t see them most times, I can hear them. I can smell them.

Just a single stripper on stage and a couple servers lingering at the bar, no more than a dozen clients.

It’s too fucking quiet.

I step in front of Artyom, a natural reaction to the feeling running up and down my spine. This is wrong. When the same lady who led me upstairs appears again to usher us to Hector, it takes all I have not to grab my gun and start the exact nightmare I warned Sergey of but thought there was no way it was ever going to happen.

She doesn’t lead us upstairs, not tonight. Tonight, she leads us to a booth near the stage, where Hector sits and two of his cronies stand on either side, as though to prevent entry into just that booth. No real protection, but in this world, a lot of the protection is just a perception, a reliance on rules even in the criminal world, that keeps everything up and running and everyone alive even when all that’s really needed is a single bullet from a hundred yards away to end Hector.

I need to get out of here.

I need to get out of Flagstaff.

I’m not going to fucking die in Flagstaff.

We aren’t offered seats. I wouldn’t have expected one for myself, but I’m irritated that they don’t offer one to Artyom. He doesn’t seem bothered, so I let it slide this time.

If this is nothing, if I have one foot out of Flagstaff anyway, I’m not going to risk that foot for something as stupid as a booth for four that Artyom hasn’t been invited to. Instead, I position myself behind Artyom and watch warily as Hector slides the package across the table to us.

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