Page 8 of Gamma

He takes his phone from his hip pocket. His wallet. Removes his watch, a gift from me, a vintage Tissot with a message engraved on the back:forever yours, for all of time—CAR.

I put the watch on my own wrist, the supple, age-worn leather band on its tightest setting still loose around my wrist; the metal backing, still warm from his skin, bumps against the back of my hand. His phone and wallet go into my purse. He backs away from me—if he doesn’t simply go, he’ll keep finding excuses to hold me, to kiss me. My lips burn from his mouth, tingle with the desire to feel his kiss on them still.

To make it easier for him, I open the door of the vehicle and get in, breaking our line of sight by closing the door behind me. The tinted, mirrored window occludes me from his view, even as I can see him, still. He stands a moment, and then I watch him gather himself. His shoulders go up and back, his chin lifts. He shakes his hands as if to shake the nerves away, and I see his eyes go cold, then icy. Then murderous.

He turns, strides away.

I watch until he slips out of view behind a turn in the alley.

I choke back a sob, stiffen my spine. If he can do this, I can too.

* * *

3

Karahalios Reborn

My steps are slow. Measured. Hands in pockets. Shoulders back.

Give nothing away. I feel eyes. See flashes of movement in shattered windows.

I am hyperaware of the kernel of rice under my skin, under my hairline in the back of my head.

The building which is my destination rises ahead of me. I feel Corinna behind me. Her strength is my strength—I draw from it. Focus on the memory of her arms, her lips.

In my suit coat pocket is the photograph of Yelena, the edges square against the sleek drape of the expensive material on my frame. The reminder of why I do this.

If not for her, they would all be dead already, cost and consequence be damned.

But there is Yelena, a little girl I have never met, alone and confused and frightened. There are her parents, innocent pawns caught up in this shit of mine.

I eliminated all of my enemies, or so I thought.

Pyotr? Spaulding? I think Spaulding. Pyotr is ham-handed, too much an aficionado of prostitutes to bother trafficking in little girls. Pyotr likes cigars and vodka and naked women. Spaulding, on the other hand? He gets off on pain and fear, this much I know from personal observation. I could not prove anything, could not pin anything on him directly. I didn’t need any new enemies, either, so I left him alone. Clearly, I miscalculated. This scheme has his imprint on it. It smells of him.

If it had been Pyotr, I would have found Pyotr in my living room, smoking a cigar and waiting to look at my eyes as he shot me—he’s not one to waste time with theatrics. He just kills you and moves on.

I appreciate that about him.

This is Spaulding. And he will regret this.

I return my focus to my surroundings. The watchers are not hidden, anymore. A man paces on a rooftop to my left, a rifle aiming in my general direction. Another leans against a corner, rifle dangling from a shoulder, watching me lazily. A third stands in the doorway, seemingly unarmed.

I approach him. “I’m here. Where is she?”

His grin is unkind. “Not so simple, hey?” He gestures at me, and two men pat me down, finding me clear. “You come.” He enters the warehouse.

“Where is she?” I demand, not moving.

“Not here. You think she is here? You think we are so stupid as you, hey?” He’s tall, with hunched, bunched shoulders, a thick black beard, heavy eyebrows and cruel dark eyes. “First, you come.”

“Where?”

He pulls a gun and puts it under my chin, the barrel cold and hard. “No more questions. Or you die. And you die, she dies. Pretty easy, hey?”

“Me for her. That was the trade.”

He grins. “Trade? Who tells you this is a trade?”