by SR Jones
“Let’s grab a beer,” Vasily says.
I nod. “Might as well get a bite too.”
“What was that about in there?” Vasily demands of Priest.
“Don’t like homophobic and transphobic shit. I have a cousin who is transitioning, and they face a load of crap. Your comments are the kind of stuff I’m talking about.”
“I wasn’t being transphobic; I was laughing at Andrius here in a wig.”
“Yeah, which is at best misogynistic and at worst transphobic.” Priest stops walking and stares at Vasily.
I can see Vasily weighing up whether or not Priest is shitting with him, and then deciding he’s not. He also seems to weigh up whether or not to push things and really wind Priest up, and he seems to go with not.
Good decision because Priest looks deadly serious. He’s also massive and highly trained, so wanting to diffuse the situation before the pair square up and start brawling in the street, I decide to turn their attention to what matters.
Vasily is Russian through and through in his attitudes. He also shoots his mouth off at times and can be somewhat of a loose cannon, but he’s shit hot at what he does and fearless. He’s also loyal, the whole Zoey debacle not withstanding. He took lead for K, and he almost died, so I don’t want him splattered on the sidewalk now for pissing off the man giant before we have done what we came to do. After? Priest and V can do what they want.
“Listen, we have to focus, okay?” I state firmly. “No arguing amongst ourselves. Vasily didn’t mean shit; it’s a Russian thing. He won’t say anything else.”
I see Vasily’s jaw tense, and I kick him in the shin. He nods. “Yeah, no offence meant. Sorry.”
“It’s all good,” Priest says calmly.
Vasily shoots me a murderous glance, and I shrug.
“He’d fucking rip your limbs from you, kid, and you know it,” I say in Russian softly.
“No, I’d simply break his limbs,” Priest answers in perfect Russian, shocking me for the second time in the space of an hour.
“How much Russian do you speak?”
“Enough. I also speak Farsi and French.”
“A regular gentleman and a scholar, huh?” Vasily asks with a sneer.
“More of a gentleman than you’ll ever be. My mama raised me with good manners, and to treat everyone well until I have reason to do otherwise. You’re about another two sentences away from falling into the otherwise category.”
“You might be big and trained, but I’m trained too, and I’ve spent years fighting where it really matters—on the streets.”
We’re nearing an alley, and deciding I’ve had enough, I make a sharp turn and walk down it. The two men pause, and then follow me as I knew they would.
Their footsteps tell me they are gaining on me, and I wait until they’re almost on me, then I draw my gun, whip around, and aim it at Vasily’s forehead. He stops dead in his tracks as does Priest.
I don’t move my gaze from Vasily as I speak quietly.
“Now listen to me you fuckheads. I am here to take out the men who are targeting me and mine. I can put a bullet in you Vasily, and before he hits the ground, Priest, I can have one in you. You’re both trained as you keep saying, but motherfuckers, I am trained. Nothing is going to fuck this up for me. So, either stop this shit right now, or I end you both in this ally. I am not messing around.”
There’s a beat of silence and then Priest shrugs one giant shoulder, like a boulder moving in my peripheral vision.
“No more issues from me.” He’s calm as a cucumber.
“Vasily?”
He glares at me. “You’re fucking crazy.”
“No. Technically I am not crazy. I aced the psych exams. However, I do have a rather large slice of sociopath in me, apparently. Not enough to make me a true sociopath, but enough to make me highly ruthless. If you don’t think I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Violet and Eliana safe, you don’t know me.”
“I know you,” He says, his voice becoming serious. “I won’t fuck around anymore.” Vasily turns to Priest. “Seriously, I was fucking about. It’s what I do. Genuinely sorry if I pissed you off.”
“It’s fine,” Priest says and turns on his heel and walks out of the alley and down the road.
“He’s touchy, though; admit it,” Vasily says.
I don’t tell Vasily that he could wind up a Zen fucking monk on any given day. I shrug and smile at him, clap him on the back, and pretend he’s still on my good side. He hasn’t been on my good side since he took Zoey’s side. It doesn’t pay for him to know that, though.
We walk after Priest who is eating up concrete in front of us, his massive shitkickers pounding the pavement.
“You think he’s angry still?” Vasily asks.
“I don’t know what he’s thinking. He’s somewhat of an enigma.”
“Like you. You’re a lot harder to read than K.”
It pays to keep your cards and your feelings close to your chest in our world. Even with those on your own side. People flip and turn all the time. K, I trust. Damen, Alesso, and Reece. That’s it. Everyone else, I treat as if they might turn at any moment. These two included.
“Something you might consider doing more of, Vasily,” I tell him, then decide to give him some truth. “Be smarter and play it closer to your chest. Listen, you’re good at what you do. You put the fear of God into people, and you controlled Moscow. That takes balls and smarts. You fuck around, though, and wind people up. I get it. We all do it sometimes, but it’s one thing between us, when we’ve known one another a long time, and another thing entirely with someone you don’t know well. It might not go well for you if you keep pushing him.”
Vasily shoots me a glance. “I didn’t fucking push him in the first place, Andrius. I made a joke at your expense. Maybe it wasn’t the most politically correct of jokes, but that guy? He’s a timebomb if you ask me, and the calm surface shit is covering some deep fucked-upness. That’s just my view.”
I take what he’s saying on board. Priest is not someone I know, but my gut told me I could trust him. He was a damn Navy SEAL, for God’s sake. You don’t get much better. Still, caution pays. I decide that I’m calling Cole the moment we get back to the hotel and asking for some more info.
I’m about to get into the fight of my life, and it never hurts to double check as what happened to K proves.
Chapter Six
Andrius
“How’s it going?” Cole asks in his laid-back drawl.
“It’s going. How well can I trust Priest? Before you say anything, I know he comes highly recommended by you, and he’s highly trained, but is there anything I need to know? Any issues?”
“No, why? He do something to get you all squirrely?”
Not sure what he means by squirrely but able to guess I sigh. “No, not really. He and Vasily got into a bit earlier. Vasily was being…Vasily and Priest got pissed off. Vasily thinks he’s got some anger shit covered by his calm exterior, or so he said after they got riled at one another.”
“What did they argue about?”
“Vasily joked about me liking dressing up in women’s clothes, long story, and Priest took offence.”
“Yeah, he hates that shit.” Cole sighed. “His cousin went through it, and he’s protective of her.”
So the cousin stuff was true. Fuck Vasily and his big mouth.
“I’m surprised he lost his temper; not like Priest.”
“Yeah, he didn’t lose his temper. Just checking, that’s all. Wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything I ought to know about. We all know the sort of issues we can have when we come home, and he’s been home a much shorter time than the rest of us.”
There’s a long beat of silence and then a pissed sounding Cole says, “Andrius, he’s fucking solid. I wouldn’t have recommended him otherwise.”
“I’m not saying you would–”
“All due respect, and I do respect you, yes you fucking are. We wouldn’t be having this conv
o if you weren’t. You wanted our help, and we gave it. I think it’s high time we had an understanding that we know our shit, and we aren’t going to fuck this up for you. I get it. It’s personal. You want to protect your family. I understand, deeply, what it means to have someone you love threatened or, in my case, taken from you. Thing is, we came to help and for us to do that you have to trust us. Now, I know Priest is new to your team, but trust me when I say, he’s one of the best. Solid. Calm, but if he has to lay down, he will in a heartbeat. Guy’s frosty as fuck, doesn’t miss a thing, and I can’t think of anyone better to have on my six.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Thank you, and listen, I’m just nervous, and that’s not like me. I need these fuckers gone because they’re an existential threat.”
“I know. Not just to you either. To the Greeks too, if they get big enough and expand. Why do you think Damen called me and asked me to help? He’s aware. He’s on your side. You’ve got a veritable army being built here, man. We don’t know one another, but we both served our countries, and we did it in the finest capacity. There’s a bond there, man, and that bond is there with Priest too. Just trust in it.”
“Thanks,” I tell him sincerely. Then to lighten the convo, I add, “Got to go, I have a wig to put on.”
“Dude, need photographic evidence; that’s all I’m saying.”
I laugh and hang up. Yeah, no way.
I head into the bathroom and grab a quick shower, then I take the clothes I purchased earlier and lay them out. I’m going to look like such a goon when I’m done. I pull on the jogging bottoms. They’re black with a white stripe down the outside of each leg. I add a t-shirt. A bomber jacket. The running shoes, which are hideous if you ask me. Then I top it all off with a few gold rings and a heavy gold bracelet.
Heading to the nightstand on the fancy hotel dresser, I pick up the wig. I pull it on and stare in shock at myself as I arrange it. It’s totally changed my face, making it look longer. Christ, I’m ugly as sin with long hair. Needing to make it worse, I dip my fingers into a pot of gel and make the front of the hair look all wet and lank.
I stand back and stare at myself. No way will those Starz fuckers will recognize me like this. Washing my hands to rinse off the sticky gel, I palm my wallet and put my SIG in my ankle holster, fastening it under the loose sweatpants.
Adding a spritz of cologne, because why not, I exit my room and go bang on Vasily’s door.
A blond hot mess greets me when the door swings back. His hair isn’t white; it’s dirty yellow.
“What the ever loving fuck is that on your head?” I demand.
“Hurts like a fucker, Andrius. I swear I have third degree burns.”
Priest’s door opens, and he exits his room across the hallway. I turn to him, and he simply stares for about a minute and then he cracks up. He’s laughing so hard he holds onto the side of his door.
I haven’t seen him show any overt displays of emotion since he’s been here, and this helpless laughter is actually reassuringly human.
“We look that good, huh?”
“Fuck me,” he gasps. “Your hair.” He points to Vasily and bends at the waist, slapping his knee.
“Yeah, laugh it up. I have scabs that will probably never heal.” Vasily rubs his hand over his head wincing.
“You know women do this shit all the time, you pussy.” I punch his arm.
“They are indeed hard. They give birth too,” Vasily says. “Now I know how they can do it. They’ve killed their pain receptors with hair dye.”
“It’s because of the bleach.” Priest wipes his eyes as he finally stands upright. He glances at me, and he’s off again. Laughing so hard he can’t get the door shut properly.
He’s wearing ripped distressed jeans, a top with roses and skulls all over it, with something sparkly in the mix, and a baseball cap on back to front with his hair hanging down behind it. He looks stupid, but clearly, we must look worse.
“Andrius,” he says as he finally gets his door closed. “Never, I mean ever, grow your hair.”
“Done.” The wig is itchy and hot, and I have to remind myself not to keep messing with it, or I’ll go in there with lopsided hair.
“Come on; let’s do this,” Vasily grumbles.
“Hey, genius, how you gonna get your hair back to it’s natural color?” Priest asks Vasily as we walk down the hallway.
Vasily stops dead in his tracks and turns to me with narrowed, livid eyes. “Yes, Andrius, how am I going to get my hair back to its natural color?”
“We’ll get you a hairdresser to the house back home.”
“Great; more pain, I bet.”
We hit the cold concrete outside the hotel and head the ten minutes south to the club where, according to Damen’s intel, Jan spends most Friday nights.
It’s packed when we get there, and the music pumping out of it is German rap. Fuck my life; this is going to be a shitty night.
We enter after being patted down, and thank God, I didn’t bring my normal holster and instead used the ankle one.
Not that I’m planning on shooting anyone; except maybe the DJ if they keep playing this shit.
We order drinks, and I get a beer, wanting to stay fresh. Priest gets a juice, and Vasily a vodka on ice.
We take seats at a table and watch as the night unfolds.
“German women are hot,” Vasily states after his second vodka as a group of young blonde girls walk by us in barely there dresses.
“Looking for some company?” I ask him.
I don’t know him well enough to know whether he’s the type to be faithful or not. If not, it’s none of my business, and what happens in Berlin stays in Berlin.
“Nah. Zoey would have my balls if she ever found out, and she’s had a fucking rough time, you know? I don’t want to betray her trust,” he says with a shrug. “The old me? Yeah, I’d have fucked around, figured, what’s the harm, right? Not likely to get caught. Now, though? I don’t want to.”
He sips at his drink and turns to me, shouting in my ear to be heard over the music. “What about you? It’s been a while. You ever want to dip it somewhere new?”
I shake my head. “No.”
It’s all I say. I don’t tell him that it would feel like sacrilege to be with another woman. It doesn’t pay to show that kind of weakness. Instead, I shrug. “Same as you. I don’t want to betray a woman who has been through hell.”
He nods, and we say no more.
Priest is watching one of the women, and I nudge him. “You’re not attached. Once we’re done here, if these fuckers ever show, feel free to have some fun.”
He turns to me. “I don’t fuck around.”
“What?” Vasily says, as if the notion doesn’t compute. “You’re single right?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t drink?”
Priest shakes his head.
“Smoke a little hashish, my friend?”
Another shake.
“Any vices?”
“I smoke the odd cigar.” Priest shrugs. “I like to keep my mind clear. I meditate. Been doing it for a long time. Work out.”
Clearly, the man is massive.
“Listen to loud rock. Drive my bike too fast.”
“They should call you saint,” Vasily grumbles.
“Don’t understand why my life of clean living upsets you,” Priest laughs.
“It doesn’t. It’s just … different.”
I take a sip of my beer, sweeping my gaze around the club, and smack Vasily on the arm. He glances at me, and I nod toward the door with a jerk of my chin.
Six men enter, surrounded by what looks like around twenty women. The women are all in tiny, shimmery dresses and five-inch heels. The group is laughing, and the men have that swagger that tells the club this is their territory, and you better not cross them.
The guy at the front looks like the Albanian Damen said might be the next to step up, Gezim. He’s wearing a suit, eyes sweeping the club, on al
ert. I dip my head and sip at my beer when his head turns our way. Glancing up, I note his hand pat his side. He’s checking his piece. He turns his full body our way for a moment, as he looks behind him to one of the women, and I clock the star on his neck. Yep, definitely Gezim.
I have a photograph of Jan. He’s muscular, in a steroid enhanced kind of a way, with a buzz cut, a lot of ink, and dripping in gold. I figure he’s the guy dead center. He’s joking and laughing, but his eyes are constantly on the move. As my gaze travels down his body, I note the shape of a gun at his hip, and catalogue the way his fingers are drumming against his thigh in a repeat pattern. It’s a sign of either needing a fix or nerves. Either way, he’s strung out.
Tomorrow night, he’ll be here again, and drinking heavily if his usual routine is anything to go by. Friday night, he puts in an appearance but doesn’t stay for hours. Saturday night, the entourage arrive early and stay late. They’ll have women back at the hotel, which is an issue; collateral damage wise.
They take a seat at a large table, and the women settle around them, courtiers to the kings. Gezim has one practically on his knee, and while he’s stroking her arm, he doesn’t seem particularly into her. I wonder if his woman in Croatia means something deep to him. If she does, she could be useful.
I take out my phone and fire a text off to Damen, asking him to dig deeper.
Then I sit back and observe.
The men drink a lot. If they go at it like this tomorrow night, they won’t be able to hit a stationary target with a bullseye on it; never mind us, moving and in the dark.
“They like to drink,” Priest observes.
“Yep, a lot.”
“Good for us.”
Two of the women peel off from the group and sashay across the dance floor. “Fuck, if we’d brought Zoey, she could have talked to them in the ladies and got some info,” I mutter.
The women come close to our table to get to the women’s bathroom at the back of the club, and one of them glances our way, her gaze alighting on Priest. He doesn’t look away, which would have been my play, seeing as we don’t want to advertise our presence. Instead, he grins at them. One of them giggles and smiles back. She glances behind her, sees the men at the other table aren’t watching, and comes up to us. She speaks in Polish, and Priest wrinkles his forehead.