Page 64 of Vasily the Hammer

Then I realize I don’t know where the biker is. Shit.

Kostya shoots me a glare like he knows what I was thinking, but then he gestures for one of Mikhail’s men to round the table from the other side. There’s a brief shoot-out, then Mikhail’s guy skitters back with the biker in a headlock. He tries to fight back, but one of his arms is gushing blood. He gets dragged out of the building, another of Mikhail’s men in tow. He’s pulling from his jacket a pouch with a red cross on it, so I’m not worried about the biker’s imminent survival.

Three corpses, one hostage. That leaves one, plus the guy in the restroom. That door’s heavily riddled with bullets, potentially another corpse, but no confirmation yet.

Mikhail’s last guy points to that door as well as the one into the warehouse. I gesture for him and Kostya to go into the warehouse while Vlad and I handle the restroom. They nod and push through, clearing the room before Vlad and I creep up on the door.

We hear nothing at first, and I’m starting to wonder if the guy is dead, when we hear the whisper of the slide of a safety.

It’s Vlad’s turn to break in. I use my hands to count down from three, Vlad kicks straight through the compromised door, I fire a wide spray of shots.

We hear a groan, and Vlad peeks in.

There’s shouting in the warehouse. Kostya’s name is shouted, and the warehouse suddenly lights up with gunfire. Vlad flinches and discharges his gun several times. I roll my eyes at the skittish fucker, but the groaning stops in the bathroom. We open the door fully and find the guy dead, his gun drawn but his pants still around his ankles.

Things have quieted in the warehouse, so we go more slowly through the backroom, checking the bodies with a nudge of our boots. The situation can change in a blink, so making sure the dead are truly dead is important.

I don’t recognize any of them. I wouldn’t. I eradicated the IRA in Flagstaff six years ago. But even without knowing their faces, it’s clear from their dress that these are lackeys. A hit as big as the one they pulled off last night, I doubt that there isn’t some form of leadership floating around somewhere.

We creep toward the warehouse, and I’m hoping they took another hostage. It was an option.

But there’s another gunshot.

We count to ten before opening the door.

At our feet is a dead Russian.

“Fuck,” Vlad mouths as he leans down, touches the throat, shakes his head.

Fuckis right. It’s not Kostya, thank the Lord, but Mikhail is going to be pissed.

Footsteps around the corner have us both turning our guns, but it’s Kostya, bloodied, limping slightly.

“Where’s the last guy?”

“Dead,” he says, and when I curse under my breath, he adds, “I got an address on the boss though.”

“Right on, man.” Like he read my mind. “Let’s get on the line with Bernie, see if—”

Kostya waves his phone. “Just texted him. Told him we’ll bring him his wayward biker if he brings us the IRA boss.”

Chapter 21

Ana

The idea of lookingup my name online hits me when I first wake up, but I have responsibilities in the morning. Maybe no one else thinks I do, maybe none of them matter, but they’re my lifeline.

I shower, brush my hair, brush my teeth, dress in the loosest-fitting clothes in my wardrobe. I have a notepad I carry around with me now, just to keep track of my thoughts, and I make a note to ask Tony about getting my mail forwarded here in hopes there will be a bank statement and I’ll be able to get access to my money. I head into the kitchen to start a loaf of brioche to make French toast for breakfast tomorrow, and as I’m kneading, I get one of those queasy feelings in my gut about the note in my pocket, so I get rid of it and write a new note to ask Tony if he’d mind if I borrowed some money to buy myself clothes. I don’t know, somethingjust feels weird about having my mail sent here, like I don’t want Tony to have access to it.

Maybe I ordered a crate of sex toys right before I was kidnapped. Who even knows who I am anymore.

I take inventory of the fridge and the pantry, settling on blinis when I find smoked salmon in the fridge. There’s no buckwheat flour, just AP, and a heavily-accented, grandmotherly voice in my head saysWell, you American, so we ignore that today.

A ghost memory. More and more of them happen every day, literal whispers of my past. No idea who the voice belongs to, what she looks like, or where we were when she gave me that temporary reprieve, but I’m sure it happened.

Artom appears as I finish off the first batch, and as I slide a plate of the miniature pancakes topped with salmon, crème fraîche, and a pinch of dill to him, it hits me that he’s a kid and probably wants sugar cereal.

He takes one look, tilts his head up to me with gigantic eyes, and punches the air with both fists.

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