Page 8 of Unspoken

"Ah, right." Ricky’s facial expression changes from stone-cold to semi-recognition. "Almost forgot about you with all the shit going on." He chuckles and his entire angry bear in a Tom Ford persona suddenly cracks and he’s just a regular guy. Like me.

"So, Logan McKenna," he asks without preamble or introducing himself, "why'd you ditch the blues and go for the suits?"

"Pays better," I shoot back, voice as tight as a tripwire. "Why are you asking anyway? Everyone knows why I left the force. Bust went south. It was best to go."

"Bet it's rough without the benefits, huh?"

I nod once, my reply curt. "It is what it is."

These guys don’t mess around. They do the background check on you and collect references before you show up. And Ricky’s well aware of my story. Hell, half the Vegas is aware I was a dirty cop.

"Frankie says you're solid. A real grave dude who don't play. And I usually trust Frankie’s judgment. But the boss man still wants to eyeball you."

"Fine by me."

Ricky deftly plucks a pink sticky note from the anarchy of paperwork on his desk. The pen in his hand is worn and frayed—its glory days far behind it.

Ricky scribbles something on that note, then comes up to me and slaps the paper into my hand.

As I look down, an address reveals itself on that tiny square in my palm.

"He's expecting you," Ricky says with a daily-wearied voice. "Today is great. Before he’s out of town."

"Thanks." The paper feels heavy in my hand, like the first move in a chess game I wasn't aware of playing. "Anything I need to know?" I ask just in case. These people who I work for now are a strange lot. They have whims far beyond the reach of the average person.

Ricky responds with a noncommittal gesture. "You're as good as hired—your references held up." His shrug suggests more indifference than reassurance. "So... keep the foot out of your mouth, yeah?"

"Understood."

"Best of luck."

"Appreciated."

With the conversation dust settled, I turn around and step out of the office, where the bouncer who brought me is still waiting to escort me back out.

I have to double-check the address on the note a few times as I drive to my destination and once more when I’m in front of the gate. I’m not certain what I expected when Ricky gave me the instructions, but it’s not finding myself in front of a fortress masquerading as a home in an upscale neighborhood on the fringe of the city.

The property looms ahead, like a tribute to ill-gotten gains, all sharp angles hidden behind an abundance of plants. There are at least a dozen external security cameras catching me with their unblinking eyes as I roll up to the gate. I press the callbutton and announce myself, my heart beating faster than I’d like it to. A long pause ensues and I drum my fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, hoping this is not some kind of prank Ricky decided to play.

But no, it’s not.

The heavy wrought-iron gate finally slides open and I steer my Land Rover forward. Inside the yard, a man in a pair of dress pants and a white T-shirt waves me down and points out a spot where I can park my vehicle. All this is done without a single word uttered.

I kill the engine and fix my tie before climbing out of the vehicle. Looking sharp is a must when you’re applying for a new gig.

I can feel the presence of guards even before I see them—silhouettes draped in discretion, hidden across the perimeter. Somehow I imagine myself as another weapon in this private army as I walk up the driveway, muscles tensed for any sign of trouble. Because trouble follows these people everywhere, even in their own homes. I’ve witnessed it during my time on the force.

At the entrance to the house, another man dressed in a suit meets me. His nod is terse, a silent command that accepts no argument. I follow him through a labyrinth of corridors, noting the way he moves. There’s readiness beneath his polished exterior. I’m guessing he’s former military. Frankly, I’d be surprised if he’s not.

The room we enter is a tapestry of old-world wealth—rich carpets underfoot, heavy drapes that speak of dust and mysteries, and walls adorned with more fabric, patterns clashing in quiet rebellion against the sterility outside. In the center, a low coffee table is flanked by plush couches.

Two men are waiting—one clearly Vlad. He’s standing by the table, hands locked behind his back. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit—don’t they like jeans in this household? The man’s face is a picture of inarguably Slavic features. Sharp angular edges and prominent cheekbones. Straight nose. Chin cleanly shaved. Short, dark brown hair stylishly parted to the side. Eyes serious, deeply set. He exudes a raw, untamed power that has nothing to do with his physicality and everything to do with the way he carries himself.

The second man—no, boy—is probably in his early twenties. He’s lounging on the couch, preoccupied with his phone, seemingly oblivious to my presence. He’s wearing loose black cargo pants with pockets, a pair of white Converse, and a Radiohead T-shirt. The kid's face is set in a scowl that could sour milk.

"Spasibo, Ivan," says the older one, and the man who guided me nods, his exit quick and silent.

"Mr. McKenna," the older man’s attention shifts to my person and he greets me. "Thanks for coming by." His light Russian accent wraps around my name like a pair of steel hands ready to squeeze the life out of me. It's definitely Vlad, unmistakable in his controlled demeanor.

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