Killing for Her

by Alexis Abbott

  I hate having to do things this way, but it is a necessity. And failure is not an option, not for what I have in mind. It will all be worthwhile once I can put my plans into motion.

  I unlock the heavy padlocks on the container, and the crate creaks loudly as I wrench open the latches that allow me to pull the heavy, half-rusted doors open. Light floods the interior of the cave-like shipping container, revealing the inside of it.

  The stony faces of nearly twenty young men stare back at me, squinting their eyes in the dim daylight as they get the first breath of fresh air they have tasted in nearly a week. They look sweaty and sleep deprived, some of them thinner than I would like, but all of them muscular and tall.

  Most are no older than twenty, but a few look closer to my age. There are cheap blankets strewn all over the floor of the container that the men have been sleeping on and using for warmth, and one of them is still wrapped up tighter than a babushka. The foul smell coming from the crate tells me there’s a chamber pot somewhere in there, and I can see the scraps from their rations pushed into a rough pile in the corner of the crate.

  These conditions could not be less ideal, but I have seen far worse in my day. I make eye contact with each and every man present before I crack a smile.

  “Comrades,” I say in Russian, their native tongue as well as mine, “Welcome to America.”

  Grins split on the faces of some of the men, who embrace each other or clap hands together, and I gesture for them to follow me out of the container.

  “Get some fresh air, stretch your legs a little,” I say. “You’ve earned it.” I watch each and every one of them file out, and I size them up as they go. But the last man out doesn’t seem interested in moving with the crowd. Instead, he steps right up to me, a big smile on his scraggly, bearded face. I peer at him for a moment, and then he speaks.

  “Nikolai, it hasn’t been that long, has it?”

  At the sound of his voice, recognition hits me, and my eyes widen.

  “...Maxym?” I say, hardly able to believe I would ever say that name again. But to my surprise, my old friend starts laughing, and we embrace each other in a strong, solid hug, so shocking that even I can’t help but laugh. “Good god, Maxym, what are the chances?”

  “You old bastard,” he growls, clapping me on the shoulder as we break apart. “You don’t think your name has been going around back home in Russia? When I got wind of what you were doing, I pulled some strings to jump on this ride to America. Beats fighting for petty jobs in Moscow before another ride to prison, don’t you think?”

  “You’re still as clever as ever,” I say. “Good. You’re going to need it. All of you,” I add, addressing the rest of the group of people. “We have a lot of work ahead of us, but first thing is first—we need to get you relocated. It will be a tight fit in the van, but we’re only making one trip. I’ll get you all to the safe house, where you can get settled and recover from the journey. For now, take a few moments. You’re safe here. Stretch a little.”

  While the men gather their scarce belongings and chatter amongst themselves, Maxym steps aside with me, arms crossed as we survey the group together.

  “More than I expected,” I remark. “Many more. That’s good.”

  “All eager for work,” Maxym says, nodding. “Your recruiters in Russia have served you well.”

  “Tell me a little about these men,” I say. “What kind of stock am I dealing with?”

  “All prisoners, as you ordered,” Maxym says, grinning, “Including yours truly.”

  I crack a smile. “What did they finally get you for, hm?”

  “I got overzealous,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “One of my cousins is at the bottom of the Volga River because he botched a car theft from some rich fuck who was making money off drug running. So I killed the snotty bastard and got caught. No regrets.”

  “That’s the Maxym I know,” I say, chuckling. “And these men, similar stories?”

  “Ha! I’m soft compared to most of these bastards,” he says. “Most of these are soldiers of other bratva who got thrown under the bus by their bosses. All have done hard time, usually put away for gang violence. There’s not a single man here who doesn’t have blood on his hands, and they had nowhere else to turn once they were rotting behind bars. Your offer couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “Very good.”

  “Has the plan changed at all?” he asks. “The longer we linger, the harder it will be to keep the element of surprise on our side.”

  “I have everything under control,” I say. “In fact, we may be acting sooner than I expected. There has been a new development that interests me.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ll talk in the van,” I say, “I’ve kept you all waiting long enough.”

  We hastily make our way back to the van I brought with me, and the big vehicle groans and sinks under the weight of all the men piling into it like sardines. The smell is spectacular, but I fortunately have a large safe house ready for them across the city where they can eat and clean themselves up.

  “You picked a fine day to make this happen,” Maxym comments as the rain starts to get heavier, and the waves crash against the docks one after another. “Sunny America, just as advertised, eh comrade?”

  “Waiting for the storm was the best chance of going undetected,” I say as I move around to the driver’s door and climb in. Maxym gets in the passenger’s side, and we pull off. “After all this time, I’m not willing to let something like an overzealous border patrol agent ruin all our plans.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Maxym says, leaning back in his seat and taking a deep breath, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll be honest, we had bets going on whether or not you’d still be alive by the time we arrived.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say with a dark chuckle.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we weren’t met with a storm of bullets when those doors opened,” he says. “But few men ever dare think about going up against the men you’re dealing with, much less put a plan into action.”

  “My brother,” I say, “If you’re surprised, then you don’t know me at all.”

  “I feel like I don’t, after all these years,” he laughs, ribbing me, and I can’t help but smile. “Did you ever think that when I picked that fight with you in the schoolyard all those years ago, we’d end up as comrades?”

  “Never,” I admit. “I thought I’d kill you for stealing those cigarettes from me before we dropped out.”

  “I did you a favor,” he says with a hearty chuckle. “That habit would have killed you, and the teacher would have whipped your ass for having gotten a hold of smokes at your age.”

  “You sound like my sister now,” I shoot back.

  “I could tell you what your sister sounded like last night,” he jokes, and I punch him in the shoulder as both of us laugh. Maxym and I have known each other since we were children, and this kind of back and forth has always been how we greet each other. It all started with a fight when we were barely ten years old, but we grew on each other.

  We decided long ago that conflict is how we became friends, so we might as well keep it up.

  But time has a way of moving people around. When I immigrated to the United States, Maxym stayed behind, and we lost touch with each other. I assumed I would never see him again, like so many other people I left behind in Russia, but fate has other plans for us, it seems.

  “Most of this bunch come from Siberia,” Maxym says, gesturing to the back of the van. “I had just been transferred there when word went around through your recruiter.”

  “Word didn’t spread too loudly, I hope,” I say.

  “No, he was careful,” he clarifies. “None but the disenchanted. The dregs who don’t have the kind of support other bratva soldiers get behind bars. Our bosses cast us off to rot, so everyone in this van has a chip on his shoulder and wants somewhere to let it out.”

  “Good,�
�� I say. “They’ll get their fill of that and then some, when it’s time.”

  “What about this new development, then?” he asks.

  I frown as I turn onto the highway, making my way across the city through traffic, keeping as low a profile as a van full of people can.

  “There is a girl. Nestor’s daughter,” I say in a lower tone, not wanting people besides Maxym to hear me.

  Maxym raises an eyebrow. “And who is she to you?”

  “That’s not important,” I lie. “It’s who she is between Nestor and Liev Ovechkin that matters. She’s going to be pawned off as a political marriage to him. And it’s happening very soon. She just got flown in yesterday.”

  “Bullshit,” Maxym says, eyes wide. “You’re positive?”

  I give a cold nod. “I’m rarely wrong, comrade. I don’t have to tell you why this is a problem, do I?”

  “Not at all,” Maxym says, groaning. “So what, you deal with this girl, and-”

  “Not like that,” I say, cutting him off. “She’s just as much of a victim in all this as...everyone else,” I say, leaving off what is in my mind.

  Maxym doesn’t say anything, but he nods understandingly. He is one of the few people in the world who likely knows why I do what I do. He knows why I have spent so many years piling lies upon lies, playing the Korolevas and the Ovechkins in equal parts, straddling the fence like a shadow. And he knows that I am justified in everything I am doing.

  He knows that I’m going to make them pay for what they did to my parents.

  “Be careful, comrade,” Maxym says in a low tone, looking at the road ahead of us. “Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgment.”

  “My emotions are what keep me going against my better judgment, it’s too late for that,” I say grimly. “You remember that pact we made when we were teenagers, don’t you?”

  Maxym smiles, and he gives a slow, understanding nod. “No regrets. Only action.”

  “No regrets,” I repeat. “Only action.”

  Anastasia

  I have set foot in a lot of over-the-top manors and palatial estates, but this… is one for the books.

  I’m sitting in the back seat of the black limousine that collected me from my ritzy hotel room on the Upper East Side, watching as the scenery outside my windows changes from nice to ritzy to uber-rich as we leave the thick of the big city and head out across Long Island. The driver is taking me to visit my fiancé, the indomitable Liev Ovechkin, at his gaudy mansion.

  Apparently he lives and works out of the estate, so he’s agreed to see me in between business meetings this evening. That doesn’t surprise me much, since Daddy tends to operate the same way. He’s never not working. Even when he’s lounging around on some white-sand beach with a margarita in his hand, he’s got a cell phone in his other hand, chattering away in rapid Russian.

  I can’t remember the last time we went on a vacation together that didn’t consist mostly of Daddy making promises to do fun activities with me like surfing or rock-climbing, only to cancel at the last second and send one of his assistants to go with me instead.

  There are lots of reasons I suppose I could be resentful toward my father, but I always tried to let it go. After all, it’s his hard work and devotion to whatever mysterious work he does that allows to live the lavish lifestyle we enjoy in the first place. So if I have to put up with sharing my dad’s attention with an endless stream of investors and consultants, then so be it.

  Every vacation home is also an office, and every pleasure cruise doubles as a business expense.

  But this most recent transgression... I don’t know how I’m going to let this go. My entire life, taken from my control. Thrown to the highest bidder. I had no say in my childhood, but that’s normal. To find that I have no control over my future is a harder pill to swallow.

  I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. I am getting married. And not to some handsome, romantic, charming guy my own age. No. Daddy is marrying me off to one of his oldest friends, and I do mean oldest in every sense of the word.

  The car rolls to a stop in front of a gigantic, fifteen-foot-high wrought iron gate, half-shrouded by palm trees and thick underbrush. I raise an eyebrow.

  “Palm trees? In New York?” I scoff. “Really? Who does he think he’s kidding?”

  The driver glances at me in the rear view mirror and I can see just the faintest, quickest flicker of a smile cross his face. I know he wants to agree with me, but he won’t. I don’t blame him, either. It’s true what I told Tatyana: my dad has eyes and ears everywhere. He might just brush off my sass, but for an employee? Well, let’s just say he’s fired better employees for less.

  The driver steps out of the limo and walks up to a big black box to the left of the gate. He pops it open and holds down a rectangular button with two of his fingers. I roll down the window to listen as the box emits a high-pitched beep. Then an electronic-sounding voice speaks.

  “Enter gate code or call for assistance,” says a robotic female voice. I wrinkle my nose. I have always had a weird aversion to fake, electronic female prompters. Something about it makes me think of some dystopian sci-fi future in which every gross, handsy man has a lady-shaped robot to do his bidding.

  The driver presses the button again and clears his throat to announce, “I’m here with Anastasia Koroleva to meet with her future husband, Mr. Ovechkin.”

  I shudder involuntarily at his words. Future husband. Just another cruel reminder of why I’m here in New York instead of heading off to some college or university in Europe like I had hoped for.

  Until last week, I dreamed about growing up to become an international diplomat. Do a job that matters. A career that helps other people, not just me. I have traveled so much and picked up bits and pieces of so many foreign cultures and languages during the years. I was looking forward to finally putting some of that experience to good use. Pay back all the luxuries and privileges I have been gifted by virtue of my birth.

  But not anymore. As it turns out, my father has a different idea in mind for me. To live a much less impactful or important life. To play housewife to some rich old toad.

  My fate has been sealed, and it’s not a pretty one to look at.

  There’s a pause, and then a more human-sounding voice replies, “Come on in.”

  The black box beeps again, and the imposing gate slowly swings open. The driver closes the box and slides back behind the wheel, pulling through. The car tires crunch over gravel as we make our way up the long, ostentatious driveway to the front of the Ovechkin manor.

  I have known Liev since I was a little girl, and I grew up referring to him as Uncle Liev from time to time. He has always been a sort of hovering presence in my life, sometimes accompanying Daddy and me on our trips around the world. One time when I was thirteen, Uncle Liev showed up to my tap dance recital at my boarding school in London. Daddy wasn’t able to make it because of a prior work engagement, so he sent trusty old Liev in his place. At the time, I was only a little put out by the shoddy replacement, but Liev got back in my good graces by taking me out for ice cream after the curtains closed.

  Perhaps that is why our betrothal bothers me so deeply. I don’t think of Mr. Ovechkin as an equal, as someone who could ever be a partner or, god forbid, a lover. He’s more like a substitute father figure. An old man with deep pockets and a smug smile who could buy me nice things but would never dare touch me in a non-chaste manner.

  Although, I remind myself grimly as the limo rolls to a halt, I guess I will have to get used to the idea of that. I can’t bear to think about it right now, though. I have to put on a brave face. It’s what Daddy would ask me to do, and I’m nothing if not a daddy’s girl in the end.

  The driver turns off the engine and steps out to open my passenger-side door and offer me his hand. I hesitate, taking a moment to breathe deeply and still my racing heart. It doesn’t really work, though. There is really no good way to prepare for something like this.

  The driv
er says softly, “You can handle this.”

  I look up at him, surprised. He gives me a gentle smile and a nod. “Come on.”

  I reluctantly take his hand and he helps me out, shutting the door behind me. I follow him up the marble front steps of the manor to the gigantic, carved mahogany entrance. There are two marble lions flanking the door like the world’s most ineffectual guard dogs, and I have to roll my eyes again at how over-the-top and stupid it is.

  I have seen enough villas and mansions by now to have developed a pretty damn discerning eye, and I can tell this place was built by the kind of man who has way too much time, money, and ego on his hands. More chutzpah and insecurity than he knows what to do with. It strikes me as odd that in all the years I’ve known Liev, I have never been to his house. But then again, I haven’t spent a whole lot of time at our own home in Sands Point, either. We have a gorgeous, massive, historic mansion on four acres there. But I haven’t spent more than maybe a month or two in that house at any given time in years.

  The driver knocks at the front door, and immediately I hear the rustling of busy feet coming down the hallway to answer it. I bite my lip, my hands fidgeting behind my back as I wait. My stomach threatens to revolt, but I haven’t eaten anything all day. My nerves are frayed, no matter how much I try to pretend.

  Moments later, a butler dressed in a full traditional black suit regalia answers the door. He looks wan at first, but when he realizes who I am, his eyes widen.

  “Miss Koroleva, what a pleasure to meet you,” he says in a crisp British accent as he bows to me. Oh my god. Of course, Liev has a real-live British butler complete with a bushy mustache and slicked-back salt and pepper hair. I’m actually a little surprised he doesn’t have a monocle, to boot.

  I nod and smile nervously, wanting to rush past all the usual boring niceties. I’m not in the mood to play high-society princess right now. In fact, the sooner I can get this meeting over with, the better. But still, I have never been the kind of girl to be rude to the staff, so I reply in a deceptively bright and chipper tone, “Nice to meet you, too. What’s your name?”