Page 187 of Nothing More

“They found it, then,” Devin said, when she wouldn’t.

“Yeah.” Tenny’s face, surprisingly, swung toward sympathetic. He turned to her. “They know we’re onto them.”

Raven stared at him, thought of a half-dozen questions to ask, then turned around and leaned out over the rail again. “They double-crossed him,” she murmured. “Misha tricked him.”

Tenny said, “Well,yeah.”

She was dimly aware of Devin saying, “Go on. Give us a minute.”

She stared at the water. Breathed in. Breathed out.

In a careful voice, Devin said, “They were fooling him all along. He never stood a chance.”

She nodded, but couldn’t speak.

Devin shifted, so he stood beside her, and she didn’t duck away when he gripped her shoulder. “We’ll find him,” he said, sure of it.

She thought:Maybe.

~*~

Toly woke by degrees. He floated for a time, his old self, bratva Obshchak, on a job. He was charged with killing someone who enjoyed killing and dismembering others. The Butcher. When he was done, Misha would be there, ready to take responsibility of the body.

But that wasn’t right, was it? He wasn’t a part of the bratva anymore, and the Butcher was a ghost from the past, no longer thought of.

He opened his eyes, surprised they were closed, shocked he’d been asleep. Things became clear slowly…and then, suddenly, all at once.

He recalled the trunk of the Cobra, and the handcuffs. Misha marching him along, and the cannery, and the dark, and–

He sucked in a sharp breath that hurt his lungs, and launched him into a wave of dizziness.

He recalled Greg Ingles – Grigory Rosovsky – and his nasty smile. Remembered that the man had pretended to be interested in Raven, had gone tree shopping with her, and wanted to commit murder.

It took a great effort to lift his head, and when he did, he saw that he was no longer in the main warehouse space of the cannery. That he was in a close room, bordered by smudged walls, and filing cabinets, lit from above by harsh fluorescent bulbs, and that he was attached to whatever chair he was sitting in.

He closed his eyes, caught his breath, and then opened them again, trying to take his surroundings in slowly.

A tug proved that his hands were for sure bound – duct tape, if he had to take a guess. And he seemed to be in an office of sorts. One above the factory floor of the cannery, he suspected. Which, given he hadn’t told anyone where he was going, might as well have been the ends of the earth.

Something gripped his hair tight – he fought not to wince – and cranked his head back. Something hot and wet struck his cheek: spit. When he’d blinked his vision mostly clear, he saw Greg Ingles – the Butcher’s son – Grigory Rosovsky – above him, all his teeth bared in a smile that was more of a grimace.

“Wakey, wakey,” he said, accent present.

Toly swallowed, and then swallowed again, throat dry and sticking. “Congratulations,” he croaked, “on fooling nobody.”

Pain cracked through his face, and his head whipped to the side. It took him a moment to realize it was because he’d been struck.

“You will treat me with respect,” Rosovsky said, “or I’ll make it hurt so much worse.”

Toly slowly righted himself, and took a few deep breaths. Spat blood on the floor – though he was too tired to make it that far; it splattered across his thigh instead. He heaved another breath in, and said, “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

Rosovsky tsked, face creasing with disgust. He turned loose of Toly’s hair – the sudden loss of pressure at his scalp left his neck jerking, and his circulation tingling with a new kind of pain – and paced away, as far as he could go in the small space. He hit the filing cabinet, turned, and leaned back against it, arms folded, head wagging back and forth dramatically.

Toly looked at the man now, muscle swelling the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, the insouciant, panther stroll of his walk, the harshness of his gaze, and couldn’t believed he’d failed to recognize him weeks ago, at that first meeting in Raven’s office. He’d waltzed in, all smiles and handshakes and Ivy League charm, and not only had Raven fallen for it, but Toly had as well. He was so fucking stupid. He could attribute it to Rosovsky being an excellent actor, one who’d honed his craft as he’d honed his knife skills…but the truth was that time away from the bratva had left Toly soft and safe-feeling. He’d lost his edge, and now would meet his end at the edge of a wicked blade – many of them, most likely.

“Ah, Toly,” Rosovsky clucked. “So young. So naïve.”

God. Dying was going to suck. Listening to this asshole go through a Villain Monologue routine would be worse.

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