Russo Saga Collection

by Nicolina Martin

  Nathan

  It’s a forty-minute drive to the apartment on the other side of town. The car is luxurious and squeaky clean. The motor sounds are barely noticeable. It’s a comfortable ride. The driver speaks perfect English, but is quiet unless spoken to, exactly as I demanded. He’s in his fifties, wears a black suit, white shirt, a black tie and polished black shoes. And a chauffeur’s cap. I appreciate the effort. He drives like the pro they promised he would be, which is very much needed because he is also going to be driving us while we work, at any hour, in a nondescript van that can be seen without raising any suspicions.

  Next to me lies a black leather pouch. l feel the shape of the contents before I pull open the zipper and peek down at the small object. Pulling it out, I angle it so the light from the window illuminates it. The dark gray metal is cool in my palm. Beretta Bobcat 22. I put it in a pocket in my suit jacket. It’s so small that it isn’t noticeable. It’s for my own personal use if things go awry, and nothing I’ll use for the job itself.

  I put the pouch in my bag and lean forward. “How long before we get there?”

  “Fifteen more minutes, sir.”

  The streets are crowded. They are bustling with people, animals, and all kinds of vehicles. Barely any sounds penetrate the bulletproof, tinted windows. It’s a bit of a shame, I don’t mind local culture. I push the button and let the window roll halfway down, overwhelmed by the noise from music, shouting, cars honking. Then there are the smells: delicious scents of food, stench of exhausts from old cars, dust, garbage. I observe the world I’m about to enter for a few moments longer, then I roll the window back up and close my eyes.

  When we pull up outside a building, my driver hops out, takes a few quick strides around the car and opens the door for me.

  “Let me take your bag, sir.”

  “I’m good,” I say. I don’t let people touch my things. “The keys?”

  “They’re with the doorman.”

  He walks ahead of me and holds the door open. I pass him into a cool lobby. The floor is beige marble, the walls white except for one that is artfully painted with a scene from a street, much like the ones we just passed. My driver speaks to the doorman as I take in my surroundings. There’s a door almost hidden behind the stairwell that catches my interest.

  “Where does that lead?”

  Both men turn to look behind them.

  “To an alley behind the house, Señor,” says the doorman.

  “Locked?”

  He nods. “Yes, Señor.”

  “I need a key.”

  He opens his mouth as if to object, but then thinks better of it. “I’ll arrange it. Is it okay if I have it to you within the hour?”

  “It will do.” I take out my wallet, pick out a hefty sum of the local currency and hand it to him. It’s most likely somewhere near what he earns in a year. “I’m not here if anyone asks for me. You’ve never seen me. You and your family will be safe, everything will be taken care of, and if I’m happy with your performance at the end of my stay there will be more where that came from.”

  The man shifts, clearly uncomfortable. I keep my gaze locked with his until I’m sure he gets the severity of the situation.

  “What about—” he licks his lips, “after you have left.”

  “What about it?”

  “If someone… would be unhappy with me.”

  Ah. “There’ll be no ‘unhappy’ people left.”

  “Oh, okay.” With trembling hands, he gives me the key. “Do—do you need anything else, Señor?”

  “The fridge is stocked?”

  He nods.

  “Towels? All necessities? I don’t need to have to go out and buy anything?”

  “It’s—it’s all there as specified. But if you miss anything, I’m always here, or you can call.”

  I nod. Then I look at the elevator and back at him. He jerks and takes a few strides across the lobby, pressing the up button for me. I look at my driver. “An hour. Get me what I need.” He doesn’t ask anything, just nods and turns to the doors, leaving.

  I walk to the elevator. “What’s your name?” I ask the doorman.

  “Serge,” he says, beads of sweat pearling on his upper lip. He shifts from foot to foot, clearly still nervous.

  I slap a hand on his shoulder. “Serge, relax. When this is over you can take your family on a nice, long vacation.” I flip the key in my hand. Room number thirteen. I smile to myself. I’m not superstitious, I won’t have bad luck. I am the bad luck.

  “I’ll take it from here,” I say. “Floor?”

  “Third, Señor.”

  I grab my bag, step into the elevator and press the button. The cage is clean. I appreciate it, but the ride is slow, and I make a mental note to use the stairs instead. It’ll be more efficient.

  There are five doors in the corridor. No windows. Perfect. Number thirteen is at the far end. My steps don’t make a sound on the carpeted floor. To most people that would be lovely, but I don’t like it at all. The door squeaks a little when I swing it open, though. That’s better. I don’t like the thought of people sneaking up on me. It’s cramped, but it’s got what I need. The sun shines blindingly through large windows and I tug the curtains closed, turning the room into a dusky world instead. Better. I take a quick lap through the bedroom and the kitchen. Light wood. White walls. A modern shower. No freezer. A standard fridge. I open it and, as promised, it’s fully stocked.

  My stomach growls, but I zip open my bag, pick up my laptop and put it on the table before I check the time. Thirty minutes until my driver is back with what I need. I unpack my clothes, wolf down an orange, put a USB stick into my computer and connect it.

  When the time’s up, I make a quick detour to the lobby and get the dossiers as promised, as well as the key to the backdoor. I know the content of two of them. That’s my own research. In the others there are pictures with names and addresses attached to each.

  I pick up the phone, connected to a satellite transmission, untraceable, untappable. It’s already got the necessary numbers programmed. I scroll through them. Five contacts. My first is to Philipe, the Colombian who has worked with the bodyguards before they were assigned this contract, and who is arranging tonight’s sit-through.

  “Yes.”

  “Russo.”

  He gives me the name of a street and a number. “Five,” he adds. Five targets. I glance at my watch. I’ve got four hours. It’ll probably be an all-nighter and I need sleep.

  “Got what I need?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “See you then.”

  I disconnect and tap on another contact. Eric Reed. I type a quick message.

  ‘Arrived. Got the files. 5. Call Philipe for details.’

  My head is spinning. I drop the phone on the table and close the envelopes, putting my own two in a pile of their own. I won’t need to go through those. The other three I place next to each other. The one with the schedule, layouts and addresses to our main target to the far left, the one with pick-up points, pictures of the five bodyguards, their addresses, and everyone and everything they even remotely care about, in the middle, and to the right, the one with all the info on our main target. He’s a dirty little local drug lord. But that’s not the cause of his inevitable demise. He’s taken money from the wrong people and hasn’t paid it back. He probably thinks he’s powerful enough, and untouchable. No one is. Death catches up with us all. We just don’t know the time and place. In this case, there are five people in the world who know how and when his death will happen. And he will too, soon enough. We just need him to tell us where to find the money he stole first.

  I close my eyes and sway. I’m so fucking tired. I have three and a half hours until rendezvous, meaning three hours until I’m picked up. I can sleep at least two, and still have time to shower and shave.

  The bed linen is white and cool and looks like heaven. I undress and when I pull off my briefs, dropping them to the floor, the smell of sex drifts up
and I immediately think of Sydney. I’ve managed to keep her out of my mind as I’ve been working, but now, about to rest, the memory of her soft body and doe-like eyes washes over me like a tidal wave. It takes a second for my cock to get hard. Oh for fuck’s sake. I imagine her here, on my bed, naked, obedient, her pale thighs spread, and suddenly I’m not tired anymore. I stroke my cock, take one look at the bed and then leave for the bathroom. My release comes almost immediately, caught in a towel I discard on the floor. I’m sweaty and bothered. Not good.

  When the alarm rings I’ve probably gotten half an hour of sleep.

  This is a fucking catastrophe.

  In the car on the way to the meeting point, I clear my mind of any distractions. I go through the material again, memorize details, sort out what I won’t need, making neat mental piles of what I do need and when I’ll need it. Tonight, we’ll plan. Daytime, nothing happens. Tomorrow night, the mayhem will begin.

  After every fucking mission, I retreat and plan for my retirement. Then something new comes up, my people contact me, and I’m pulled back in. Sometimes I think I’m two people. One who never let himself be recruited to organized crime back when he was twelve, who never put that first bullet in our father’s murderer. One who said no, who stood up to his mom and found a way out of the family. And then the other one, the adrenaline junkie with no conscience.

  The junkie has awoken again. I feel the thrill. Time to get down to business.

  Chapter 8

  Sydney

  “Is this seat taken?”

  I jerk awake. I didn’t know I had fallen asleep. I look up and find a man standing next to me. “Oh, no. It isn’t.” I smile and pick up the book that has fallen off me, shaking the sand out from between the pages.

  He sits down after spreading a colorful towel on the chair. Not a hotel towel, I notice. I glance at him. He’s tall, has wide shoulders and a thick carpet of blond hair on a tanned chest, matching the unruly locks on his head. He’s between forty and fifty, ruggedly handsome and looks like he’s seen the world, tried all its pleasures, been high on all its drugs, been with all its women, and fought all their men.

  He nods at my book. “Hot?”

  I flip it over and look at its back before I meet his curious green eyes again. “I didn’t get very far. A long day of traveling—” Memories from the flight assault me and I shiver despite the heat. “—and the sun got the better of me. I think I got to where the heroine sees the handsome man of her dreams for the first time.” I laugh. “It isn’t really my kind of book, though.”

  “That’s what they all say. Everyone says they read the classics, but they only ever carry hot romance novels. ‘By coincidence’.” He winks.

  I roll my eyes, but smile. “This is a coincidence. I promise.”

  “Of course it is. Is this your first visit here?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “I used to live here. Worked as a guide for a travel company. But now I just come here to relax.”

  “Really? And you come back for vacation. That’s a good sign.”

  “Oh yes. I hope I’m not intruding, I happened to see that you didn’t have company and… Ah, no, that came out completely wrong. Can I buy you a drink?”

  I laugh. “Sure.”

  “What can I get you? I’m James, by the way. But I go by Jim.” He extends a hand to me.

  I shake it. “Sydney. White wine would be fantastic.”

  “Oh no, no. How boring. Let me surprise you. You need to try something local. They’ve got great Rum drinks. You know, getting a little tipsy on the beach, with no obligations, other than to get a tan, cool yourself off in the ocean, chat up a stranger… there’s nothing better.”

  “I’ll… just start with a drink.”

  When he leaves, I’m quite conflicted. Sure, some company could be nice. There are nothing but couples here, with or without kids. Most of them a lot older than I am. But I’ve definitely had my quota of flirting filled on this journey.

  “So, Sydney, what brings you to this exact spot in the whole wide world?” I flinch when he suddenly is behind me and an arm extends over my shoulder. He hands me a glass and I gulp down several swallows before I answer. The drink is fresh and light. It’s perfect actually.

  “This is fantastic.”

  “Cheers, Sydney,” he says and clinks his glass against mine, winking.

  “Salud. Well, I’m here on vacation, obviously… I didn’t want to travel too far, but at the same time see something completely different than back home.”

  “So southern USA then?”

  Something in me tells me to lie. “No,” I say lightly, “Detroit.”

  “Really? You don’t sound it. I’d have gone with Florida.”

  My heart pounds. “Oh no. But that’s funny, I hear that a lot. My parents were from different parts of the country, so I guess it meshed into something unique. Where are you from, then?” I ask, deflecting his inquisition, a bit uneasy. Was this how Nathan felt when I kept trying to pull some more personal details out of him?

  “Chicago,” he says. “But I’ve lived all over the world.”

  Sounds like my instincts were right. See, Nathan? They are good. I wish he was here instead of Jim, I wish I could have teased him with it. We raise our glasses again and drink. “So where else have you lived?” I ask.

  “Too many places to count, but I’ve stuck mainly to South American countries, and Latin America. A few stints in Australia. I’m a total beach bum.” He nods at my almost empty glass. “Do you want one more of those?”

  “I can buy this round,” I say, and start to get up.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart. Let me be the gentleman that I am. Same?”

  “I shouldn’t. I’ll lose control if I drink more.”

  “You’re on vacation. Losing control is what you’re here for. Later, I can maybe make you perform on stage with me? Over by the pool area.”

  I laugh. “That’s a firm no. But sure, I’ll have the same. It was really nice, I’ll have to remember it. What’s it called?”

  “It’s a Santo Libre, and a second glass will make you feel like it’s a great idea to dance and sing and get generally silly tonight. I promise.” He winks and disappears.

  After a few sips of the new drink he’s handed me, my body starts to feel heavy. I’m dizzier than I’d expect after only one drink. “These are strong ones,” I mumble as my head falls back against the back of the chair.

  He keeps talking about tourist attractions. “—you follow the eight-hundred-foot trail, eighty-two feet below the surface. There are more than four hundred Indian paintings on the walls. Then we walk along the Chavón River, ending in Altos de Chavón. From there we’ll take the bus back here and indulge ourselves with some dinner. Not at the hotel of course, but some nice restaurant in town.”

  I barely follow. “It sounds fantastic,” I say, trying to stay coherent. The sun is so warm. My head is buzzing.

  He leans over and puts a hand on my knee. I should object, but I’m so tired. “Let me take you, Sydney. You’ll love it. I’d love to show you the beauty of this island.” A hand on my cheek. “Oh my, are you tired? Come here, I’ll help you back to your room.” He steadies me, collects my things and half drags, half carries me with him. “Room number?”

  “Ahm… one o… two.” I can barely form the words. I feel cold marble against the soles of my feet, then a soft carpet. The hot breeze has been replaced by chilly air conditioning. How did I get so drunk?

  “Key card?” A door is opened and closed, and I fall onto something soft, curling up on it, drifting. Something strokes my cheek. I hear things being moved, rustling noises. I can’t open my eyes, but I know I have to. My heart rate picks up and my chest tightens. This isn’t right. On weak arms I start pushing myself off the bed. I see Jim as a blur by the window, bent over something. My legs wobble and
I misstep when I start moving toward what should be the door to the corridor. The world tilts and the door seems farther and farther away.

  “Ah-ah.” Strong arms suddenly circling my waist make me gasp. I’m being lifted. No! My head falls back against his chest. I kick weakly. The bed comes rushing toward me as he throws me back on it. “Bad girl. Stay.”

  He turns his back to me again and I drag myself off the bed, falling to the floor. My mouth is dry like paper. I want to scream, but I can’t. I’m so heavy, every limb feels like it’s filled with lead. On hands and knees, I crawl toward the door again. I must… Help…

  “You are nothing if not persistent,” he growls as he grabs my hair and pulls my head up. I cry out and try to push him off me. “Don’t you have anything fucking useful in here? An American chick, looking like a million bucks.”

  He crouches before me. I sway and try to focus on his eyes, the green eyes that don’t look friendly at all anymore. His other hand grips my throat, his hot sweaty palm making my skin crawl, then his gaze lowers to my chest.

  “I’m beginning to think there’s only one asset in this room.”

  “No,” I whimper. It barely comes out as a whisper, but inside I scream for my life. Raw fear claws at my heart, every sense enhanced, and yet my limbs are slack and useless.

  His hand slides lower, then there is a loud bang, upset voices, commotion. Jim’s hands disappear and, with nothing holding me upright, I fall forward, faceplanting on the carpet. There is cursing, something crashes on the floor next to me. More voices, thuds and a grunt. Then it goes quiet until someone speaks in my ear, but I can’t make sense of it. I’m being moved and I feel a draft, and something soft covering me.

  A woman dressed in a nurse’s outfit sits next to me and when she sees I’m awake she stands and bends over me.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I open my mouth. It’s desert dry and I make clicking noises when I try to speak. “I’ve been better,” I finally manage. “Where am I?”

  “You have been taken to Clinica doctor Soto in La Romana, Señora.”