Page 123 of Nothing More

He leaned down to kiss her – but on the forehead. And then stepped back, until she was forced to let go. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Go back to sleep.”

“Hm. I won’t.” But she would, he thought – hoped. He tiptoed out of the room, and then stood outside the closed door a moment, until he heard a quiet snore. Then he stole silently through the dark apartment.

The doors that let out onto the terrace opened without a sound, hinges well-oiled. He eased them shut behind him, and then, for the sake of a camera he assumed was mounted somewhere out here, shoved his hands in his pockets and affected an unbothered stroll across the flagstones, until he was up by the jacuzzi, and then screened behind the shrubs. He’d found the key to the trapdoor earlier, in a kitchen drawer, neatly labeled along with duplicates of every other key. He patted his pocket, now, to check it was still there, and then heaved the door up, and went down the stairs to the fire escape below.

It was a long, long trek down the side of the building, wind buffeting him the whole way, the cold snaking its way down his collar and up his sleeves, numbing his hands. It was refreshing, in a way; brought back memories of cold nights spent lurking on balconies and rooftops, under bridges and beneath door lintels in Moscow. A fitting bit of nostalgia, given tonight’s errand.

By the time he reached the sidewalk, his cheeks were stinging, his eyes were dry, and his veins were full of the old thrill: a contained, useful sort of adrenaline rush. A sureness he hadn’t felt of late. He was out in his element, capable, ready to take action. He skirted around the side of the building, where it fronted the street, and only waited forty-five seconds after firing off a text before a car pulled up to the curb. An old Cobra, black with white pinstripes, growling like a big cat as it slid to a stop on mag wheels. The lights flashed, once, and Toly pulled open the passenger door and slid inside.

In the moment before the interior lights dimmed, he caught a glimpse of the real Misha, the one he remembered from Moscow: black clothes. Hard expression. A shoulder holster peeking out from the open halves of his leather jacket. He wore a beanie over his hair, black studs in both ears. Gone was the Pakhan from this afternoon, replaced by the street-level general he’d been for most of Toly’s life.

The sight of him like that, familiar and comforting, even after all this time, loosened the knot of tension sitting in Toly’s chest.

“Where are we going?” he asked, as Misha pulled away from the curb, and it took him a moment to realize he’d spoken in Russian.

Misha responded in kind: “The Rat Trap.”

Just like that, the tension returned.

~*~

The bar where Kat and Tenny had met poor, doomed Nikolai was skeevy. But not as skeevy, nor as dangerous, as the Rat Trap.

The entrance was through the back door of a bodega run by a tiny, kerchief-clad babushka who gave everyone who passed through the evil eye. Between two coolers full of imported soda, a door badly in need of fresh paint let into a dim, smoky bowling alley of a room, bar along one side, booths on the other. The neon was all either broken, or flickered badly enough to cause seizures. A perpetual glaze of moisture had bubbled and cracked the walls, and occasionally dripped down from the ceiling to dot the table or plink on the surface of drinks. The smell was…best ignored. If possible. No one wanted to know its source.

Misha signaled to the bartender as they passed, and led them to the very corner table, where a man in a thick puffer coat, gloves, and hat sat nursing a beer. He barely glanced up as they approached, a furtive glimmer of pale eyes, and a scarred nose before he ducked his head again.

Toly wracked his brain, but couldn’t identify him. Slid in first at Misha’s nod to do so, and the moment they were seated, a tired-faced woman with limp hair plopped beers down for them both.

A drip off the ceiling landed in Toly’s right away.

Misha spoke to the man in Russian: “What did you find?”

The man fished a folded scrap of paper from inside his jacket and slid it across the table. “He’s not living or working in the neighborhood, but he has had deliveries from Pushkin. Sedatives, mostly.”

Misha nodded, consulted the paper, and then passed it to Toly. An address he didn’t recognize, but knew resided in the finance district.

“Anything else?” Misha asked.

“No.” The man shifted, gaze skittering toward the door. The brim of his hat was so long it was hard to make his face out, even right across from him. “Are we done?”

“For now.” Misha passed over an envelope that the man snatched up, before bolting. When he was gone, Misha moved to sit across from him. “Do you recognize that?” he asked, swapping back to English, nodding at the paper Toly still held.

Toly flicked it to him, watched it catch in a spot of water on the tabletop. “Not really.”

“It’s an office building. A nice one, where day traders fold out futons when they’re watching the international markets.”

Toly popped a brow. “How do you know?”

Straight-faced and serious, Misha said, “It’s my business to know things about this city. Come on.” He started to slide out of the booth, beer untouched, but paused, gaze flicking to the door.

Toly started to turn.

“Don’t.”

So he held still, and above the whine of guitars coming through the loudspeaker, he heard the approach of several pairs of feet.

Toly forcibly relaxed all his muscles; picked up his sullied drink and sipped a little off the top, edge of the glass pressed to his lip as three young toughs drew up beside their table. Unlike Misha, they weren’t dressed for stealth or efficiency. Gold chains flashed at their necks; the cut of their jeans and coats was modern, trendy – in an ugly way. All three were of varying heights and complexions, but all had the same obnoxious undercut. The low-lidded, half-feral gazes of predators on the prowl.We can do what we like, their faux-bored expressions said. A poorly concealed, hyena excitement bubbled beneath the surface, anxious for an excuse to let loose.