Page 89 of Blood & Snow
No doubt in my mind he's the courier my intelligence identified.
"Good eye," I tell her in a low tone.
My hand stays lodged in the small of her back as she grows rigid, and I guide her onward, as I send a quick text to Igor.
We maintain distance, moving through the stalls while keeping him in sight.
He buys nothing, speaks to no one, but his behavior shows that he knows someone could be watching.
Every few minutes he changes position, using vendor displays to break sight lines.
After twenty minutes, he makes his move, racing toward the market's eastern edge, away from the main crowds.
I decide my only option is to give chase and Nadya keeps up despite her shorter stride.
The courier turns into a narrow alley between two buildings.
Snow covers the ground in a thin layer, crunching under our footsteps as we follow.
The sounds of the market fade behind us, replaced by the drip of melting ice from fire escapes above.
I signal for Nadya to stay back, but she follows anyway.
Her breathing has changed, shorter and more controlled.
She knows what's coming now, even if she doesn't want to acknowledge it, and I like that she's not backing down from this.
It's not every day a man in my world finds a woman who can be his match.
He stops halfway down the alley and turns, finally noticing he's being followed.
His eyes widen when he sees me approaching, recognition flashing across his features.
Fear follows quickly, the kind that makes men do stupid things.
"Oh my God," he whispers to himself, then louder, "Oh my God!"
But there's nowhere to go.
The alley ends in a brick wall, and I'm blocking his path back to the street.
He clutches the satchel tighter and backs against the wall, breath coming in visible puffs.
"Please," he says in Russian, then switches to broken English.
"I have family."
They always mention family.
As if having people who love you provides protection from the choices you make.
I've heard it a million times so I'm not even slightly moved by it.
I pull the knife from my coat—eight inches of carbon steel with a grip wrapped in leather.
The blade sings against the sheath, and he shakes his head violently, pleading more broken words in Russian.
"The satchel," I say.
