Last Hit (Hitman #1)(38)
Author: Jessica Clare

"Lev Dmitrievna Magvenodov," I quietly call out as he exits the building. The look of post-coitus relaxation is immediately replaced with wariness. This man is no idiot. A person lying in wait for him outside his lover’s apartment has no good news.

I wait in the shadows in case Magvenodov should decide to shoot and run. But he does neither. Instead, he walks straight toward me and my unease at what I am going to ask him grows in proportion to his bravado. "Kak vas zovut?" he calls out.

"I am Nikolai Andrushko." I answer his question about my name.

"Vy poteryali?"

"Nyet, I am not lost." I pause and make a split decision. I swing the camera behind me and tuck the microcard in my pocket. It is enough that I am here. If he has any intelligence, he will know my leverage. If he is too dumb to recognize the danger, he would be worthless. "I come to seek your assistance."

I step out so that some of the light from the building washes over me, and I hold my arms from my side. With my body, I signal that I am no immediate threat.

"And what will I get in return?" Magvenodov asks.

"What is it that you seek?"

Magvenodov looks at the window of his lover’s apartment. "I should say the photographs you have taken, but I curiously do not care. Perhaps I am relieved at no longer having to hide."

This isn’t quite the response I was hoping for, so I wait. Brave and smart, but not as patient as me.

Magvenodov heaves a sigh. "What is it that you want? Money? Access?"

"None of those. I want you to meet with Sergei Petrovich. In public. Tomorrow morning. Ten."

"A mobster? What are you trying to get me into?"

"I have a," I curl my tongue around the word and release it because it feels right, "a loved one in the grasp of the Bratva. After tomorrow, Sergei Petrovich will no longer exist, and the Bratva will owe you a favor. Anything."

"You are in a position to make these promises?" Magvenodov pulls out a cigarette pack and pops two smokes up. He offers me one. I gesture for him to hand me the lighter so that I can help him light the cigarette. As he hands it over, I think he’s not so smart then. He hands me a weapon and bows his head in front of me. But then, not everyone was raised by Alexsandr.

"Yes." I take deep drags on the cigarette, inhaling the nicotine as if it were oxygen. Magvenodov smokes more slowly, almost leisurely, as if he were enjoying an after-dinner coffee. My patience is waning now. I want to be ready to move to the next step. The distraction.

Magvenodov nods slowly, as if thinking something agreeable to himself. "Yes, I will do this."

"Good. Tomorrow at Baltschug at ten." I instruct. "If you do not come, it will go poorly for you."

The warning is unnecessary because Magvenodov simply rolls his eyes. "Do not treat me like I am a child. You want something from me, and I am delivering." He thumps his chest lightly. "And Baltschug? So we can stare at the Kremlin while we eat? So passé."

"You need only occupy his time for ten, twenty minutes at the most. Offer him nothing. Just the whiff of opportunity will render Sergei Petrovich weak at the knees. A disturbance will happen at the restaurant. Act concerned, but ensure no one interferes."

Magvenodov nods, but I make him repeat the instructions. "Offer him nothing. Do not interfere."

I give a curt jerk of my chin in acknowledgment. Magvenodov begins to turn away, but I grasp his wrist and pull up his hand to shake my gloved one. "Tomorrow then. You should think about London or Switzerland. Maybe even America. Easier to breathe there."

And then I walk away, disappearing into the shadows. I’m on to the next play. Behind me, I’ve left the only bargaining chip I have, but my spirit feels lighter. The microcard with the incriminating photographs belongs to Magvenodov now.

Chapter Fourteen

NIKOLAI

The suite at Metropol Hotel is carefully outfitted. I roll up the Aubusson carpet that covers the nearly century-old parquet floors. The Bolshevik officials resided in these suites after the Revolution. It makes sense for Sergei to meet his fate here.

I have a kit ready that includes plastic sheeting, a gun bought on the street after my meeting with Magvenodov, and cyanide pills. A black duffel, large enough for a body, is stuffed inside my case. A quick look around the room assures me everything is in order. We are just missing two pieces: Daisy and Sergei.

Because I would never be able to get into the Petrovich compound by myself, I am tasked with retrieving Sergei. I must leave Daisy to Daniel and Vasily. For over an hour I argued with the two of them, but Daniel was resolute that there was no chance of me getting into the compound. Sick at heart but resigned, I left to seek out Magvenodov.

Now I am alone in the palatial hotel suite, but I appreciate none of it. I do not want to sleep because I know Daisy is out there, in danger. Anything could happen tonight, and the unknowing is like thousands of knives piercing my flesh. I use every trick I’ve ever learned to get my body into a restful state. Tomorrow I must be sharp and ready. Eventually, I drift off.

A few hours later, I awaken. The night still lingers but the rest has been enough. It must be, because I know I will get no more. I drive toward the Petrovich compound and sit in the rented sedan watching the traffic move by. The scenes from the video replay in my head and the screams I imagined Daisy must have made when she feared they would take her finger make me want to bend the car in half. Instead I must wait.

I wait so long I fear Sergei is not going to meet Magvenodov, that he is pissed off by the short notice, which amounts to not much more than a royal summoning. When I see the three-car cavalcade leave in the morning, I sigh with relief. Sergei may be angry, but he is too eager to lick the boots of the oligarchy.

The drive into Moscow proper will take Sergei thirty minutes. I speed up and pass the three vehicles. About five miles ahead of them, I cause a collision between a semi-trailer truck and a livestock hauler.

The semi tips over, and the two drivers are out of their vehicles screaming at each other. Debris from the interior of the trailer litters the highway. Cars swerve in and out; their drivers try to avoid witnessing this misfortune lest it follow them home. The confusion allows me to easily pull over to the side in my stolen vehicle, and I race back toward Sergei’s motorcade.

My heart pounds fiercely as I run along the tree-lined highway, and I am grateful there is still some foliage to provide me cover. Even though the traffic is still moving, it has slowed. I know my window of opportunity will be small. The drivers will move their vehicles or others, like Sergei, will simply drive in the ditch or on the shoulder to move forward. He’ll not want to be late for a meeting with Lev Magvenodov.

I’m grateful for my regular workout regime as the burn of the run begins to spread from my lungs outward. The chill air makes it hard to breathe, but I force myself to run faster and faster until I see the motorcade in front of me. The sight spurs me forward. I run past the vehicles and slip into traffic, knowing that the dash cams will pick me up. I pull my skull cap lower and raise the collar of my overcoat to conceal my features as best I can.

I run to the vehicle just behind the last SUV in the motorcade, which has allowed itself to be separated by two cars from Sergei’s Maybach. This inattentiveness will serve me well. I pull out a heavy metal disc and throw it toward the front of the SUV, striking the hood. The driver predictably slams on his breaks and looks forward. With a quick inhalation, I sprint forward and grasp the driver’s side door and wrench it open. Quickly I aim for the passenger side but there is no one there. It is only the driver. I catalog that detail but give it no further thought. It is just one of many signs of the sickness in the Petrovich Bratva. Sergei’s laziness and lack of attention to detail will be his downfall.

"You’re going to climb into the passenger seat or get your brains blown off," I tell the random Petrovich soldier in Russian as I get in.

He raises his hands from the wheel and nods. I cannot push the dead man out of the vehicle. Everyone in Russia has a dash cam, and I don’t need this posted on the internet later.

The Petrovich soldier does what I tell him, and I climb into the driver’s seat and pull the car forward. He looks awkward sitting hunched against the passenger seat, my gun in his face.

"How old are you?" I ask.

"Twenty-five," he answers. Older than I am, but he still has an air of naiveté about him as if he can’t believe he has found himself in this situation.

"Do you know who I am?"

He shakes his head. The line of cars moves forward slowly, but we are undeterred by death here in Russia. No one is gawking at the accident, for these types of roadside injury are all too common.

"I am Nikolai Andrushko." I hear his quick inhalation of breath. "So you’ve heard of me?"

"Da. Alexsandr talks, I mean, talked of you some." The young man squeaks. He is so young and untried that I feel exhausted by the idea of having to terminate him.

"The girl that Sergei brought to the compound. She belongs to me."

Silence then. I think the baby soldier is afraid to speak, and when he does, his fear is evident in the high-pitched tone of his voice. "Yours?"

"Did you touch her? Did you look at her? Did you laugh at her terror?" I spit out. This is unfair, but I have no one else to vent to.

"N-n-no," he stutters. "I didn’t see her. I only know that there was someone brought in who was important and who no one was to talk to."

We are nearing the city proper, and I debate what I will do with this kid. I cannot have him interfering with my business, but I am loathe to kill him. He is so green he doesn’t even know to use his cyanide capsule.

At a stop light, I reach over and thump him over the head with the Glock. He slumps down, unconscious. I reach over and pull off his coat and hat. Unless the driver in the front knows this kid closely, I will pass. The function of the Petrovich motorcade is to simply provide protection for the interior vehicle. The bodyguards in the interior car will enter the restaurant with Sergei while the motorcade drivers stay outside.

Thankfully Sergei does not deviate from this typical procedure, and he enters the restaurant without glancing toward the rear SUV. Leaving the vehicle idling, I hop out and walk to the lead SUV. Popping the lock, I slide into the rear seat, strike the driver unconscious and then turn to the passenger. He is another unknown.

"Sergei is using recruits for cover?" I shake my head. The Petrovich Bratva is going to hell. Sergei’s uncle would’ve never used unseasoned soldiers for this task. Every one of the individuals in the vehicles would have been known to him by their first name. They would’ve worked for him for at least ten years. It was an honor for a Petrovich foot soldier to guard the head of the Bratva. The lack of a known Petrovich in either of these vehicles is a telling sign of the insidious sickness inside the Bratva, and it makes Vasily’s actions all the more understandable.

Like Alexsandr, Vasily’s loyalty is to the Bratva itself, not to Sergei. That he is facilitating Sergei’s demise is an action consistent with saving the organization—it is not then considered insurrection.

I breathe a little easier. Vasily is a man of his word. Daisy would be delivered safely to me, and in order to uphold my bargain, I must dispose of Sergei without this being tied to Vasily.