by Holly Hart
"What did he mean, turn over everything you have?" He asked. "You had a look on your face, earlier. You know what he’s talking about, don't you?"
I straightened myself and nodded, drawing support from the grip Roman still had on my shoulder, but not needing it. I knew what I had to do now. I remembered who I was.
"Yes," I nodded again, like my head was stuck on a spring. "I was, am, a reporter. But I knew that earlier, I saw my stories on the Herald's website. But I didn't know why Victor put a hit out on me. I do now."
Roman leaned forward, his often-expressionless face narrowed with curiosity.
"When Rick put me in the hospital, I was researching a story on Victor Antonov. The kind of story that would have put him away for a long, long time. He was involved with a city counselor – bribed him to swing contracts his way. Made hundreds of thousands of dollars from it, and that was just the ones I could directly link. I had more. Offshore bank accounts, evidence that he killed to cover up his crimes. I guess he found out." I said, tailing off stupidly as I realized that for all my innocent belief that I'd kept things secret, Victor had outmaneuvered me.
Roman nodded impatiently. "But proof – you have it?"
I nodded, my head moving hesitantly. "Yes. Maybe. I was carrying it when Rick attacked me. If it still exists, it's in police custody."
Roman's shoulders sagged. "That makes things… More difficult."
I felt myself vibrating with an energy I'd never felt before. I had a purpose, one singular role in life. To save my child. And I was going to accomplish it, no matter who tried to get in my way.
"No," I purred. "Just more challenging. Promise me something."
Roman looked up. "What is it? Anything."
"Promise me, that when we find these guys, you put a bullet in them. All of them, except one."
"Who?"
I spat out his name. "Victor Antonov. He’s mine."
24
Roman
The streets of the Industrial District reflected my mood – grim, strewn with rubble and barely lit by a sky thunderous with black cloud. I'd been outmaneuvered. Worse, out thought, and by an enemy I had never expected to make.
Victor Antonov.
His brother Mikhail had been bad enough, but he was gone. Dead. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but Victor was the worse of the two. By far. Victor was unhinged, a mob boss hated in equal measure by his followers and those whose lives he ruled by fear. The murder rate had spiked in Alexandria since Mikhail died, not fallen. And while, for once, I had nothing to do with it – I knew who did. Victor was ripping this city apart, sacrificing an entire community on the altar of his own ego and desire for power.
People were leaving.
Shopkeepers were closing up.
His enemies were fleeing.
Ellie walked along beside me, nestled into the crease between the arm I had draped across her shoulders and my hip. She too was lost in silence, no doubt exploring much of the same guilt and depression that I was experiencing.
I broke the silence, anything to get out of the. "How you doing?"
I was surprised by Ellie's reply. Her voice was firm, unwavering, and also slightly distant – as if the majority of her brain was struggling to tackle another problem. "Tell me what happened when I was," she paused, searching for the right word. "Asleep."
"What do you mean?"
She flung her arms up, exasperated, and gestured around the city. "I mean everything – all of this. Mikhail Antonov, you can start with him. He's dead, I've figured that much out. How did it happen? Why? What happened next?"
I didn't take offense to her tone. I admired it. Her honesty, her straightforward devotion to solving the crisis that swamped us. "It's not exactly clear," I admitted. "How he died. It happened about, I guess, five months ago? Some Irish guy came to town, a fighter. People in the streets say he started sleeping with Mikhail's daughter –."
Ellie interrupted. "Maya."
I raised my eyebrow. "Yeah, that's right, how did you know?"
She mustered a weak grin, but her heart clearly wasn't in it. "Reporter, remember?"
I nodded. "Of course. Anyway, I guess they had an affair, or something. I guess that asshole Mikhail didn't like that very much, and this Irish guy, he ended up killing him, and blasting away half of his men, too." I smiled, reveling with professional pride in the pain that this mysterious man, practically a guardian angel, had meted out on the Antonov clan. I just hoped that one day I'd be able to do the same. "Since then the city's been at war. Half a dozen different groups vying for control. The Mexicans, the Italians, Victor, you name it. This Maya lady, I guess she took over what was left of her father's organization, but most of the survivors ran off."
"Maya did what?" Ellie asked, tearing away from me and stopping dead. Her face was screwed up with concentration. Her little puckered-up nose was the cutest thing I'd seen all day, but I figured that now wasn't the right time to mention it. "No, that doesn't fit."
"Hey!" I said with pretend annoyance that seemed to wash right over Ellie's head. "What doesn't?"
"I wish I had my notes!" She groaned, biting down on her lip and ignoring the question. "She's no gangster," Ellie said, her face shining bright with conviction. "I've seen her in her father's box at the Arena, on TV. She always looked like there were ten million places she'd rather be. Like prison, for one."
I shrugged, and a sound like a gunshot echoed distantly off the hard brick walls of the nearby factories. My mind filed it away as nothing more than a poorly maintained engine backfiring. "I dunno. I heard she's trying to set up some kind of ethical mob outfit," I laughed, though without any real feeling either way. "Good luck with that."
"Ethical –?"
I reacted more out of instinct than conscious thought. On any other day, in any other place, the sound wouldn't have startled me. Then again, on any other day I hadn't found a couple's bodies peppered with bullet wounds and lying in pools of their own congealing blood. That was the kind of image that would stick with anyone for a lifetime, and the kind that reminded me to sharpen up my senses.
I pushed Ellie behind the rusting, abandoned shell of a car, cutting her off mid-sentence. The buzzing, hacking sound of a dirt bike echoed up the street, and I pulled my handgun out from where I'd sandwiched it, between the waistband of my jeans and my back. The metal was warm to the touch.
"Stay down," I barked, not even looking at her. My only job now was to keep her safe, not happy. That I could deal with later.
I turned into the street, planting my legs firmly to help my body withstand the recoil, and prepared to fire. I blinked. If this was an attack, it wasn't well thought through. There was only one rider, dressed in black leathers and a matching helmet – visor down, moving fast but already slowing, desperately yanking at the handlebars at the sight of my loaded and aimed weapon. The Mitsubishi bike's thick tires, designed for screaming up and down the hills, kicked up a cloud of dust and debris in their wake, and made short work of the factory district's rutted roads.
A distraction?
I glanced around the street, eyes moving in a well practiced grid.
Shooters on the roofs? No.
In the windows? No.
A pincer movement? No.
"Back the hell up, buddy," I shouted, my voice seeming to crack through the air like a whip. "Before I put a bullet in you." I didn't bother to think about whether I was overreacting. If the guy was innocent, then the worst that would happen to him was a nasty fright. Moments like this were neither the time nor the place for recrimination and self-doubt. Not that I typically bothered with either emotion. Inaction kills, but action saves lives. And right now, I only cared about saving two.
The bike screeched to a halt, and for a second the scene reminded me of an old school Western – two gunslingers meeting in a desolate, empty town that's seen better days.
"Unless you've got a problem with me," I called out, my voice the only sound around. "Then I suggest you keep moving,
friend."
"Yer the Russian lad?" The man said in a cocky Irish accent that proclaimed he was entirely unafraid. "And that's yer missus?" He whistled, impressed. "Ain't no big surprise half the town's looking for the pair of you."
"You know who I am?" I said, phrasing it is a question. It wasn't. My finger caressed the trigger. I was looking for a reason, any reason, to put a bullet through the man's helmet. He was a threat to the woman I loved. That was reason enough. He was walking a very fine line.
"Whoa there, friend," he said, copying my earlier use of the word, though in a far less threatening manner. "Massey here's no threat, no threat at all. I'm here to help, you could say. Here," he said, unzipping his leather jacket and spinning on the bike's seat. "I'm not armed. No word of a lie."
"What do you want?" I growled. I wasn't used to talking much of the best of times, and the last few days had left my vocal chords hoarse and exhausted – at least by my standards.
The rider nudged the bike's kickstand and hopped off nimbly. "Me?" He said, flicking his visor up to reveal a tiny shock of ginger hair, and a lightly-freckled face. "A good job, a pension – you know, the usual. But what do I get? Running around town for my cousin's wife." He shrugged and sighed. "At least the pay's good."
I cleared my throat. "Okay, enough, funny guy. What are you doing here?"
The rider reached into an inner pocket on his black leather jacket. Slowly – just slowly enough not to startle me. The lad knew what he was doing.
"Like I said, just bringing you two a message." He pulled his hand from his pocket, and with it a cream colored envelope. I snatched it from his hand, still eyeing him warily. He shrugged insouciantly, turned and jumped back on his bike. "Here. I'd best be going, now." The bike's engine roared to life, and he departed in front of a hail of tire-swept stones.
I held the letter in one hand, and tracked him with my weapon until the sound of his aged bike's coughing engine stopped echoing off the nearby factory's tiled roofs. Ellie crept out from behind car.
"Don't do that again," she said, elbowing me in the ribs, but the tremble in her voice betrayed her. "The last thing I need is you getting yourself hurt."
She hugged me tight, and I felt a sense of profound gratitude that our unexpected visitor hadn't been something more sinister. Someone knew the location of my safe house – and it was a worrying development. It wasn't listed anywhere. No phone line, utilities under a different name, and the building itself was owned by a network of shell companies. I swore under my breath. I'd only just started to make it a home. Whatever that meant.
"What does it say?" Ellie asked, bright, inquisitive eyes lighting up at the sight of a clue. I didn't blame her. Anything that could help dig us out of the disaster we found ourselves in was all right in my book. I handed the envelope to her without a word.
"It's all yours."
She tore it open hungrily, pulling out the sheet of paper within and holding it just out of sight.
"Don’t play games. What does it say?"
25
Ellie
I read the hastily penned, ink-stained letter again. For perhaps the dozenth time, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from it. The paper was already beginning to crinkle and thin from my constant thumbing of it. My gut told me it was telling the truth. Roman wasn't quite so sure.
Ellie.
I sent flowers. I don't know if you got them. I'm sorry for what happened to you. I'm sorry for what a misguided member of my family is trying to do to you. I want to help, if you'll take it. I understand if you'd rather not. If I was in your shoes, I don't know what I'd do. We'll be at the spot you received this letter in one hour. You're a brave woman. I'd be honored to meet you.
Maya.
"What you doing?" I snapped, more harshly than I meant. "You can't bring that!"
Roman looked up, surprised, cradling a rifle that looked big enough to use as a battering ram. "Why not? We don't know anything about these people. I'm not putting you in harms –"
"Not putting me!" I giggled. I couldn't help it. The tension and stress of the last few hours, days, ripped through me. "Believe me, honey, we're a long past harm's way. And besides, what kind of message does you bringing that elephant gun send?"
"A strong one," Roman replied, frowning. "That's the whole point. Nobody fucks with an AR-15. Not for long, anyway."
"No. Nuh uh. Not on my watch," I said, waggling my finger. “We're trying to make friends, not scare them off." I almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. For me, ten months ago was only last month. And for me, last month I was just a small-town reporter, working on the biggest story of my life – sure, but a story that probably wouldn't make state news, let alone get national attention. Things change fast.
"You can't be serious," he complained, looking longingly at the rifle. "I didn't mean it when I said we don't know anything about these people. We do. We know one thing – they're killers."
I interrupted him. It was becoming a habit. In fact, there was no becoming about it – I was making it a habit. "The Irish guy who gave us this letter, he seem like a killer?" I asked, my voice a mosaic of false innocence. "Because he didn't seem that way to me."
Roman toyed with the rifle's action as he spoke, and his reply was punctuated by the metallic clacking of a round being ejected from the chamber. He wrapped his fist around it and squeezed. "No, but –"
"Listen," I said, softening my voice. "This is our only hope. We can't go up against Victor all on our own, not with me by your side," I smiled wanly. "I'm a lot of things, but a soldier isn't one of them. And you were right, earlier. If we die, then our baby doesn't have a chance." As I spoke, I considered the craziness of what I was saying. Only a day ago, the idea of casually remarking about the fact that I had the baby would've seemed insane. Now it was par for the course, just another stop on this roller coaster ride. I couldn't wait to get off, and to just cradle him in my arms…
"I don't like it," Roman grumbled, his expression pained. He loaded a black magazine full of long, amber bullets as he spoke. Something to do with his hands, I guessed. "We go out there, who says we don't get gunned down?"
I spread my hands. "No one. They knew where we were, where we were going to be earlier. They didn't kill us then. Sometimes you just got to trust that someone's looking out for you." I cocked my head to one side and fought to keep his gaze. "Like I did with you…"
That sentence had far more effect than I had expected, even intended. Roman lowered both the rifle and the magazine to the dining table, and they barely made a sound as they lay flat, the rifle rocking slightly from side to side. He met my gaze frankly, without trying to hide, breaking from a lifetime of dissembling, of molding his face to hide his emotions.
This time, his eyes were a window into his soul. And what I saw, hurt me. He was aching, bleeding inside. He needed a hand to hold just as bad as I did. No matter how strong he was on the outside, no matter how comfortable with violence and practiced with weaponry, no man is an island.
I walked to him and held him silently, squeezing his sides with as much strength as I was able to muster. I laced my hands together, stretching my arms as far as they would go around his massive, muscular chest, and laid my head on it, my cheek resting just under his shoulder. He smelt of hard work, of masculinity, of sweat and the faintest hint of soap. I sucked a deep breath in through my nostrils, held it for a second, and let it out slowly. The tension gripping my body seemed to dissipate with it, and whether it was Roman's presence or the breathing, I didn't know.
"I'm not good at this," Roman admitted, finally bringing his arms down to envelop my body into a deep, squeezing hug. It pushed the air right out of my lungs, but I didn't care. I could have stayed there forever. It felt safe, a refuge from the violent uncertainty my life had been plunged into. "Not being in control, the one with the answers. Hell, until you came along –"
I interrupted, a cheeky smile toying with the corner of my mouth. "Don't make it sound like you didn't play a pret
ty big part in making that happen…"
Roman smiled sadly, but my attempt at lightening his mood seemed to have worked. "Okay, okay – you're right. But I'm serious, Ellie. I know it sounds corny, but I've always been a lone wolf, I guess. No one relying on me except myself. No one caring about me, not even myself. And then you came along, and changed all that. But what I keep asking myself is, can you just click your fingers and change your life, just like that? Will I ever be able to escape," his voice cracked. "The things I've done…"
I took another deep breath in before I spoke, savoring his deep, sweet, spicy scent. I lifted my head off his chest and looked up, searching for his eyes.
He met my gaze immediately, didn't hide. "I don't know," I answered honestly. I don't know what you've done, maybe you'll tell me one day, maybe you won't. I don't mind. But I know one thing, Roman," I said, extending my hand and prodding him in the chest with my index finger. "All you've ever done for me has been good. Okay," I grinned. "That whole kidnapping thing was a bit of a misunderstanding, but apart from that…"
He didn't smile, I pressed on.
"Apart from that, everything you've done for me has been the right thing. Everything you've done for me has saved me, given me a chance to get out of this mess. If it wasn't for my job, wasn't the fact that I was chasing after Victor Antonov long before I ever met you, then our child wouldn't be in danger. You'd never have been sent to kill me, and we wouldn't have to make this decision, whether to risk everything on a throw of the dice."
I took a deep breath.
"This is my fault." I saw him breathe then, preparing to protest, but I pressed my hand flat on his chest before he could speak. "No, it is. I didn't mean it, and I never knew this would happen, but it has, so it is. But I need you to know, want you to know, that when you're by my side I feel like we can get out of this. We can force a path out, together."