Page 94 of Unspoken

Ivan is the first to exit, his movements swift and decided. He strides over to the establishment's back door, raises a fist, and pounds on the metal. The sound echoes through the empty alleyway like a gunshot.

Vlad and I exchange a tense glance as we climb out, flanked by Vlad's hired muscle.

When no answer from inside the bar comes, Ivan pounds on the door again.

After a long moment, the door finally cracks open, revealing a sliver of a man's face. Middle-aged. Balding head. He seems to be an employee, dressed in standard non-slippery shoes, the kind all restaurant workers are required to wear, Dickies pants, and a shirt with a bar’s logo stitched into the fabric. He says something to Ivan in Russian, his tone clearly hostile.

Ivan doesn't flinch. He leans in, his words a low, menacing growl. "Open the door. Now."

The man hesitates, his eyes darting nervously to Vlad. But Ivan doesn't give him a chance to refuse. He forces his way in, shoving the door wide open.

We step inside.

"Take us to the security room. Now," Vlad orders.

"Mr. Solovey…" The man nearly bows to Vlad when he sees him. Then he adds something in Russian.

Ivan nudges the bar worker forward. "Davai, davai," he growls.

I don’t question the tactics. I work for a mobster. I should have known that sooner or later it'd come to this. I’m expecting for the guns the hired muscle brought along to be entering the game too if things don’t go our way.

We follow the worker through the bowels of the establishment and into the poorly lit corridor. The air here is thick with the stench of beer, cheap cigarette smoke, greasy food, and dishwashing liquid. My nerves are wound tight, every sense on high alert.

I can see a bead of sweat trickling down the worker's neck. He’s scared of Vlad. Or maybe he's scared of his own boss.

What have I gotten myself into?

I force down the rising panic, focusing on the task at hand. We're here for Sasha. And we won't leave without information.

The worker stops outside the door markedSecurity. He knocks.

Vlad's patience snaps. "Open up," he commands to whomever is on the other side.

The lock clicks, the door swinging inward. We step into the small room where the walls are lined with monitors. Just not the kind Vlad has in his basement. These are cheap and old. A single guard surveys our group before stepping to the side. He probably knows better than to argue.

Vlad moves toward the console, his presence swallowing up all the air in the room. "Pull up last night's footage," he orders, his voice permitting no argument.

The guard hesitates for a moment, his gaze darting between Vlad and Ivan. Ivan's deadly glare seems to be the deciding factor, and the guard quickly turns to the console, his fingers moving over the keys, shaking a little. "Y-yes, sir. Right away," he mutters. "Any particular time?"

I move closer to the monitors too, my pulse skyrockets as the screens flicker. The grainy footage reveals the bar's interior, patrons milling about, lost in their own worlds.

"Nine," Vlad says.

The guard fast-forwards the footage to the timestamp indicated to him.

My eyes scan the images, desperately searching for any sign of Sasha. The seconds tick by, each one an eternity.

And then, there he is.

Sasha enters the frame, his movements choppy as he approaches the bar. He’s upset and doesn’t feel comfortable. I can tell this much from the way he behaves. He settles onto a stool, signaling the bartender for a drink.

I lean forward to see the screen better, my breath caught in my throat.

Vlad and Ivan draw near, their gazes intent on the image. We watch as Sasha sits alone, nursing his drink, oblivious to whatever is going on around him.

Why did he go back there?

Makes no sense.

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