Page 11 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

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Dima

I’m not even a mile away when I notice a black SUV on my tail. I call Gennady.

“Miss me already?” he jokes as soon as he answers.

I rub my temples. It never stops with him. Thinks he’s a fucking comedian.

“I’m going to ditch the car. I’m guessing Zotov may have hacked into the tracker. Someone is tailing me.”

“There’s a tracker on my car? Damn it,” he grumbles, accepting the loss. “Alright, that’s fine. Probably for the best, actually. You wouldn’t get far in it anyway.”

“I’m not running,” I correct icily.

Gennady starts in on another speech about how this is a just “tactical redeployment” or some other bullshit made-up phrase like that, but I just hang up on him mid-sentence.

I have no patience for that shit. I’m going to leave the city for a few days, regroup, and come back to wreak bloody vengeance on everyone who’s wronged me.

An ambulance and a few more police cars scream down the road back towards where I came from. I use the opportunity to turn down a side street and desert Gennady’s car along the curb in front of a laundromat.

From there, I take off on foot.

I don’t have much on me. Just a wad of cash, my wallet, and my gun. But it will be enough. When I get wherever the hell I’m going, I can buy what I need.

But to get out of the city in the first place, I need a car. That means I’ll have to steal one.

I zigzag through side streets and alleys, trying to make as unobvious a path as possible through the city. I hear the rush of highway traffic and I know I’m close. If I have to steal a car, I want to be as close to the highway as possible. It’ll be easier to get away from there.

I stride past a line of industrial buildings, a porn shop, and a lumber supply store. I come to a stop on the intersection of the frontage road. Distantly, I still hear sirens tending to the explosion, but traffic is moving fine again.

Good. Now, I just need to find a ride.

Aaand…there.Fuck yes.

Two blocks down is a car parked along the curb, emergency lights flashing. I imagine a ray of heavenly light shooting down from the sky, illuminating it like the gift it is.

Not that I believe in fate or any bullshit like that. The heavens have never sent me a goddamn thing.

Nothing but pain, that is.

I unholster the gun from my hip and jog down the road. I haven’t jacked a car since I was a teenager, but it’s not exactly a skill one needs to hone. You point the gun in the civilian’s face and tell them to get fucking lost. Simple.

The car would’ve been a nice find ten years earlier. Now, though, the rear bumper is rusted, the back tire is a spare, and the top is covered in hail damage.

Which makes it an oddly perfect choice. No one who knows me would ever suspect I’d drive something like this around.

Through the back windshield, I don’t see anyone inside, but the car is obviously running. I crouch down and approach on the driver’s side.

That’s when I hear a groan.

More of a scream, actually. The muffled cry of someone in obvious pain.

I know the sound well enough, thanks to my line of work. Usually, it means someone undergoing interrogation is losing fingers to a pair of bloodstained garden shears. But I’m pretty sure that’s not the case here.

I glance around, confused, and then keep pressing forward. Until I hear it again.

This time, I realize it’s coming from inside the car. The cry is muffled because the windows are rolled up.

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