by Denise Wells
To hear Turgenev talk, their trafficking ring is the largest on the West Coast, making me wonder if he’s who David was involved with. Either Turgenev or Sinclair. Which makes me hate this Sinclair guy with every fiber of my being. I can’t wait to meet him, size him up, then figure out how to take him down. Even though that’s not part of what Limonov has asked me to do. I’ve got my own agenda right now, fuck him.
I pour my third glass of vodka and take a large gulp relishing the burn as it goes down. These guys drink vodka like its water. Not that I mind. Continuing to dull the constant pain that has become my life is welcome at this point. Even if I ignore everything else in my past, the last month has shown I’m a failure as an FBI agent.
Just to recap, a Russian mafioso infiltrated my division and redirected my entire career track. My best friend was involved in a sex trafficking ring—kidnapping women on the regular—and I didn’t see it. My partner is in love with a hired killer who acts as a vigilante by night. He’s known about it and hasn’t said a word. And I didn’t notice or see a fucking thing. And the woman that I’m in love with has more than likely been helping her. Or at least covering for her. And once again, I missed it.
For someone whose sole focus in life is to observe and take action, I have failed catastrophically. So, when I want to avoid that reality, vodka becomes my friend. When I said these guys drink it like its water, I meant that literally. Their tolerance levels are unbelievable, albeit impressive. Granted, they all probably have at least fifty pounds on me too, and I’m not a small guy. They are all that big. Not necessarily tall, just beefy. Except for Andrei, he’s both—a giant in human form.
I tune back into the conversation in time to hear Andrei describing the woman’s supple ass. Only when he says it, it sounds more like “sup-pal-ass,” one word, three syllables.
“Are we talking about this bitch all day or getting shit done?”
“And what shit is it we must be getting done, Rico?” Andrei asks, challenging. Using the name Viktor gave when he introduced us.
“You tell me.” I throw back at him. “Otherwise, why the fuck are we meeting?”
“We wait for the boss,” one of the other men says.
“I am boss,” Andrei bellows, pounding his fist on the table.
I scoff into my glass; the sound ricocheting out like it was amplified.
Andrei draws a gun from his shoulder harness and points the barrel at my face. “You have something to say?”
I meet his hard, cold gaze with one of my own. I’d point my gun back at him, but I have a feeling he’d shoot the moment I went for it. I hold my hands up in a surrender pose. “Nah, man. I’m good,” I say, then drain my glass and opt for bottled water next instead of more vodka. If I keep drinking like this and subsequently running my mouth, someone is going to be shot.
And it’s more than likely going to be me.
13
Daria
I’m feeling better. Enough so that I don’t feel the need for pain medications or copious amounts of sleep. Though the doctor doesn’t see fit to let me go home yet. I’ve been here for two days, which is about forty-six hours too long. Mack has yet to leave my side, except to use the restroom or get himself something to eat.
Oddly, I’m not yet tired of his presence. Instead, I feel comforted that he’s here. Partly because I feel vulnerable, emotionally, and physically. I’m not used to being helpless, or at the very least unable to care for myself.
As it is now, I still can’t sit up without help. I haven’t showered in days, and as I discovered this morning, I have a hard time wiping my ass with my left hand. Something I would never have considered to be an issue until I broke my right wrist and punctured a lung. I’m a flexible girl, but somehow that twist with a reach around just isn’t happening for me. I don’t even want to think about the potential of having to ask Mack for help when I’m discharged. I’d rather hire a full-time home nurse.
Which, as I think about it, might not be a bad idea. I shelf that thought in the back of my mind for later and resume thinking about what will happen when I get out of here and how I plan to respond to Ronan’s request. The girls stopped by right after he left, so I tossed some ideas around with them before I got too tired. That was over a day ago, and now I’m more clear-headed and ready to get the hell out of here and get shit done.
Ronan wants me, well, I guess really my girls given my condition, to infiltrate his organization and take out Andrei, who he’s pretty sure is planning to try to overthrow him. At first, I didn’t understand his logic with having us do it, instead of himself or his guys. But after thinking about it for a bit, it’s starting to make more sense.
He doesn’t know who he can trust at this point. Andrei is—shit, was—his right-hand man, and if he’s turning against him, there’s no telling who else is joining him. If Ronan were to go in, even to his most trusted men, and ask them to take Andrei out, it could backfire. So, having a third party come in is the smarter move. I don’t see why he’s gone through all the trouble to kidnap Quinn to ensure my cooperation, though. I would have done it just for information on Katya’s killer. And if I can get that information before my father does too much damage here in Santa Caranina, that would be best.
If my father hasn’t found out already. Not that I would know. He’s not the type to keep me informed of what he’s doing. He’s also not the type to visit me in the hospital if I’m admitted. Weakness does not exist in the Limonov family. And injury is just that. Even something unavoidable, like what I encountered.
If you were to ask my father, he would tell you I should have parked my car elsewhere. Or put the explosives in the front seat. Or not used something combustible at all. Actually, it wouldn’t matter how I’d handled it, he would find a way to criticize every scenario. My father is the king of hindsight. He has enough top-level advisors that he rarely makes the kind of mistake I did.
It also helps that he’s rarely in the field himself. So, it would be difficult for him to ever be injured on the job. And if his men are injured, well, that’s on them, not him. Just like my short sightings are on me. Limonov’s do not reward weakness. A visit to the hospital is just that.
The only exception is terminal instances, be it illness or age. Beyond that, the blame is on you. Injury is like a germ that can be caught and passed. No one wants it. The best way not to get it is to avoid it. Hence, my father will not be coming to the hospital to see me.
And I’m okay with that. I don’t need to hear all his reasons for how I could have done things differently. How what happened is my fault. How weakness is abhorred. And once he tired of that, he would move on to Mack. He’s not Russian. He’s law enforcement. FBI on top of it. Able to bring the entire family down. How dare I put the lineage in danger with such reckless actions.
I can hear his voice in my head now. “Daria, why must you perform the sex for love? It is for release. And babies. No more. No less.” Not that he believed that when my mother was alive, I’m sure of it. But her death brought with it a cynicism so devout in my father, it would take her resurrection and immortality to reverse it.
Mack snores lightly from the chair next to my bed. He fell asleep a few hours ago, finally, and I don’t have the heart to wake him back up. I’m pretty sure he’d been awake almost forty-eight hours at that point, and he definitely needs the rest. But I’m itching to go over my plan for Andrei with someone.
Because I have one.
And it’s a good one.
I could call the girls in to discuss, but that would definitely wake Mack, and I really want him to sleep. The same goes for video or phone conferencing. Plus, I don’t like to discuss particulars of activities deemed illegal over any kind of device with the ability to record. Or that travels over sound waves. I don’t trust that everything isn’t recorded.
That’s how we handle it in Russia. Americans think they have a reason to fear “Big Brother,” but they have seen nothing when it comes to the dominance and control Russia has
over its citizens. They monitor everything. And by everything, I mean just that. Phone conversations, emails, written correspondence, work schedules, school schedules, trips to the store, what you buy. Every single movement a person makes is recorded and tallied.
If they can’t use it against you when advantageous, then it’s cataloged to predict human reactions and behavior. Because the better that the Kremlin understands its citizens, the better it can anticipate them. And if the Kremlin can anticipate, it can manipulate.
As far as Putin is concerned, that’s all any of us are good for. To manipulate for his greater good. Men as soldiers. Women as housebound slaves. Or whores. Because if you aren’t good at cooking, cleaning, or making babies, then you’d better be pretty and on your back.
The exception being women like myself and the others in my family. The Limonov women get special dispensation dating back to my great grandmother. But only for as long as we prove ourselves and our worth outside of what the Kremlin deems valuable. Once that ends, it all ends.
Women are the lesser sex. It’s just the way it is.
This is another reason coming to America was such a culture shock for Katya and me. When women raised in a democracy complain about their lack of right or choice, I welcome them to join me in a totalitarian society. At least then, they can experience what a true luxury they have already.
Speaking of women, it’s how I’ll get to Andrei. Because he’s a complete sucker for them. Like he’s stupid about it. When I put two my girls on him, it won’t take much to isolate and overpower him. He will follow them like the dog in heat that he is.
The problem will be in taking him away from wherever he’s at. Andrei doesn’t go anywhere anymore without at least six guys with him spread amongst three SUVs. And he’s constantly switching which SUV he rides in. As though his life is so important, it’s in constant danger. And maybe it is. Not of value, but in jeopardy at all times.
That’s what happens when you make plans to take down your oldest, most generous and loyal of friends/employers: you suspect everyone around you of foul play. You believe what you are. So, the more duplicitous Andrei is, the more suspicious he becomes.
His behavior is so textbook it’s almost laughable. Along with his routine. Because if you watch Andrei for any length of time, you realize what a creature of habit he is. Right down to which SUV in the line of three he will travel in.
For someone who thinks he’s so puzzling, his transparency could not be clearer. Case in point, Andrei visits his club with such frequency, if you weren’t paying attention, you’d think he never leaves. But he does. Every night just before closing. And always with at least one of his girls in tow. And more than likely one in each SUV.
He’ll start the trip in the third truck, stopping midway through to transfer to the first. At night he rarely travels in the middle vehicle. As though he thinks that would be the obvious target, so he avoids it. During the day, it’s a different story.
And if any of his men have any sense, they would caution him against such folly. Though it’s possible they already have, and Andrei being the savant he is, has ignored their advice, probably even punished them for it, and proceeded with his own far less thought out plan.
But it’s that same predictability that will be his downfall. Because I don’t care which one of my girls it is, Andrei will fall sucker to every one of them.
And when he does, we strike.
14
Mack
I’m in that half-awake zone where I still have dreams, but I’m also partially aware of what’s going on around me. Like I know that Daria is awake and watching me. I even know that she’s restless and wants to get up or do something but refrains for fear of waking me.
But it doesn’t stop me from keeping my eyes shut and drifting back into my dreams, given the opportunity. Not that my dreams are altogether pleasant. I go back and forth between Herculean efforts leading to success to utter and complete failure leading to the death of life as I know it. All of it surrounding the FBI and my involvement in it combined with Daria’s lifestyle and whether I can adequately protect her from law enforcement.
Not that I regret my decision to leave my job.
What I’m choosing to coin as a leave of absence. At least as far as I’ll tell Daria. Of course, I have yet to tell her anything about it. As far as she’ll know, it’s a leave of absence. With the option to return whenever I’d like. I know I won’t return. This is the point of NO when it comes to that.
It shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone at the bureau. At least not the chief. He already knows that partnering me with Andrews would not go over well. Not to mention Reed’s abrupt departure. All combined with the fact that it was never really my jam to begin with. Was I good at it? Fuck yes. Did I want to move up within the organization? Fuck no. So, is there anywhere to go at that point? Also, fuck no.
Which mostly means that I’m just Groundhog Day-ing it, time and time again. And that’s not what I had in mind for my life—the same shit on a different day. But after so long in the military, it’s hard to get used to that. And truth be told, I don’t really want to. I’m not designed to be a desk jockey anyway. I need air and sun and sky in my day. Not a bureaucratic ceiling so high no one can see over it.
Despite knowing me as well as he does, the chief still feigned surprise when I told him. I say feigned because he’s a smart man. And a man with any modicum of intelligence should not have been surprised by my decision. And I haven’t told Daria yet because I don’t want to freak her out.
Even though she tolerated my constant vigil at the hospital and didn’t balk at any of my talk of the future, she would still freak the fuck out over my leaving my career to take care of her. She will not be thinking of herself as an invalid or anything short of fully capable. But she could have died. While her injuries are no longer life-threatening, they could have been and almost were. So, for her to make light of them is not okay to me.
And her safety and well-being are hands down the most important thing to me. Which is why leaving a career I wasn’t head over heels for anyway, doesn’t really impact me. I have stopped to consider if it should impact me, but at the same time, I don’t care. Isn’t this what carpe diem is all about? Seize the day, have no regrets, you only live once, all that shit.
And I can’t deny the sense of peace that filled my soul when I made my decision and told the chief. And really, isn’t that how you always know you’ve made the right choice?
I’m still pretending to sleep for a moment or two longer. I feel good right now. I don’t have to admit to Daria that I’m about to commandeer her life; I get to avoid acknowledging that she’s still in a hospital bed with a cast and bandages and never-ending bruise. And my girl gets to watch me and hopefully get used to the fact that I’m not going anywhere. And she needs that time to wrap her head around a life with me. Not because it’s me, but because she is the epitome of an independent loner.
Letting someone into her life means she needs them. And to her, needing is weak. I don’t take this relationship, her choice to be with me, lightly at all, and my whole purpose from here forward is to prove myself worthy of her and her heart.
I’m not going to lie, there’s a part of me that is tickled over helping Daria and the girls with this whole fucking ridiculous bullshit of a plan Ronin has asked of them. I haven’t been able to get my hands dirty without a crisis of conscience since I joined the bureau. So, to return to an attitude of no holds barred is welcome.
I can assist the girls with this, and in the future, with whoever they plan to take down. At the risk of sounding sexist, I think they could use a man on their little team. Not that they would ever agree with me, on principle alone. But, let’s face it, I am stronger than they are. I am more imposing. And I believe I can inflict just as much harm. These girls are all completely badass. Daria ensures it when she trains them. So even though they know ways to take a guy my size down, I can still prepare for it given the opportunity. And if I can pr
epare for it, so can anyone else.
Though, the other day, when the girls were here, I jokingly told Roxie to bring it. And she offered to meet me in the ring. I told her anytime, anywhere. And I meant it. Except that now that I think about it without my ego getting involved, I wonder if it was a smart choice. What if I’m wrong and she beats the crap out of me? If I’m going to join these girls, I need to know what they are capable of. No holding back.
“I can tell you are awake.” Daria’s voice is groggy even though she’s been awake for a while. “Your eyes keep moving under your lids, and your brain is smoking with all the thoughts churning and burning inside.”
I smile before raising my lids to focus on her. “Hey, you got that analogy right.”
She jerks her head to the side in a gesture that acknowledges and dismisses my comment at the same time.
“Good morning, beautiful.” I raise up and lean over to kiss her lightly on the forehead, breathing her in before returning to my chair. Even under the medicinal smells of rubber and antiseptic, mixed with the sweat, grime, and smoke, she still smells like her. It’s not a strong scent, but it’s there, which reassures me somehow. As though I needed to know that Daria was there underneath all the cuts and bruises, bandages and gauze.
“Did you sleep okay?” We both ask at the same time and then laugh. I gesture for her to answer first.
“As well as can be expected. You?”
“Same,” I tell her. We settle into a silence that is part comfortable and part tense. I’m sure most of the tension is on my part since I know I need to be honest with her about my job. But then she opens her mouth to speak, and I realize it wasn’t just me at all.