Page 2 of Violent Possession

His fake concern is more insulting than Ivan’s arrogance.

I don’t answer. Words are a waste on animals. The only language they understand is extinction.

Odessa never left my desk.

I could be in Monaco, New York, or the back of some bar in Sacramento—Odessa would still be with me, echoing in the alleys behind the bar, on the downtown streets at night, and in the casinos driving Europe’s luxury tourism sector. This shit follows me, dirties my shoes, and ruins any sense of security I might have.

The port seemed harmless: cranes, containers, the smell of salt and rust. The kind of scene any idiot would call a “solid business”. Ivan did. Vasily signed off on it.Iwasn’t there. That was the difference.

Afterward, just wrong numbers. Invoices that didn’t add up. A “reliable” contact who vanished. A logistics manager who died before he could talk, and an entire operation compromised, withthe feds on our tail right alongside the Volkovs, who took over the port for their own operations the first chance they got.

No one ever properly explained what happened. They prefer to say it was bad luck, that the police moved too fast, that there was no way to predict it.

But I look at the spreadsheet and see the holes. Something was never right about Vasily, and while I may have my disagreements with him, I know he isn’t stupid enough to confuse areliable contactwith afederal agent.

I haven’t known what goes on in his head for a long time. But before, there was no reason for me to try and force it open as long as he didn’t compromise any of our businesses.

Ivan is either too stupid to see it or he’s in on whatever Vasily is planning.

Before me, a file that won’t open. The screen flickers with broken symbols, visual garbage.

“The file is corrupted.” Anton sounds more nervous than he should. Sweat drips down his temple. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. He’s in my office, using my keyboard, breathing my air. Too many people in here is already a mistake.

“I pay you forsolutions. Work.”

He hesitates. A tiny, almost invisible reflex. I’ve learned to measure men in that interval—the second between wanting to resist and remembering they can’t. Anton has a gambling debt. And a sister at Stanford. I own both.

“...What exactly am I looking for?”

“An accounting error,” I lie.

He doesn’t believe me, but he types. It’s not his job to believe, in the first place.

“A seven-figure payment. Signed by Vasily. Recipient Kirill Denisov, deceased in an accident.”

“Show me.”

The photo appears. A patchy mustache, rat-like eyes. More convenient dead than alive. The official story, the convenient details. Vasily has never paid off an employee’s widow before, and he certainly wouldn’t start his philanthropy now. A million is the price for someone’s silence.

Anton waits for further instruction.

“Trace it.”

While he digs, I scan the list of the port’s security guards. Dead. Dead. Loyal to Ivan. Dead. With every name, a body that may or may not be where they say it is, a shadow that could be at my door tomorrow.

“Cayman Islands account,” Anton says. “Single withdrawal, three weeks ago.”

“Where?”

The map shrinks, then dives to a red pin. Sacramento, California.

Of course. Always the same place. Always the irony of falling into the same hole I’m trying to avoid.

“Erase the tracks. All of them.”

He cleans what needs to be cleaned and stands up too quickly.

“Anton.”