Orest Stelmach - The Boy from Reactor 4

“She’s here,” Specter said. He turned the receiver off and looked at the two-story bar attached to the car wash.

“What, no voice on that thing like navigation?” Misha said. “The bitch-whore you are looking for is… up ahead… on the left.”

A black 4Runner with Stefan and Misha’s other bodyguards pulled up beside them. A Pathfinder with Kirilo’s quartet of men followed in their wake. The men followed Specter, Misha, and Kirilo toward the front door.

“A bar at the car wash?” Misha said.

“It’s the safest place in Kyiv,” Kirilo said. “No one wants his car scratched. There’s an understanding. All grudges and beefs are left at the door.”

The first floor featured a long counter and a dozen booths and tables. Small groups of men drank, chatted, and laughed with one another. All were dressed similarly to the others in their group: black leather jackets and designer warm-up suits prevailed among most of them.

Specter asked the slinky bartender if she’d seen an American woman. The bartender reminded Kirilo of Isabella. He wondered what she was doing with her friends at this very moment. Wished he could go back in time and keep his pearls to himself so he could pretend she was good and sweet. But he couldn’t, and she wasn’t, was she?

“There’s an American woman upstairs,” the bartender said. “With a man and another woman.”

Misha and his crew charged upstairs. Kirilo rowed and lifted weights to stay in good shape and fight off aging, but the infernal caves had almost killed him. He had to pause halfway up. When he heard screams above, however, he hurried to the top.

Four broad-shouldered men with grizzled faces stood around a pool table, watching a scene in the far corner. Kirilo pushed past them.

Two pieces of a broken pool cue lay at an odd angle on the floor. A college-age girl consoled a grungy young man, with chains dangling from his jeans, on the floor. He looked like a poser, with carefully cultivated facial hair and a T-shirt with a picture of hippies holding guitars. Blood trickled down his cheeks. Another young girl, with purple streaks in her hair, stood by them, shouting in English. Specter stood between her and Misha as though keeping her from harm’s way. Stefan was rifling through both women’s purses.

“It’s not her,” Specter said, nodding at the girl with the ridiculous hair. “She’s a college exchange student.”

Kirilo gave Misha a stern look. “Didn’t you hear me? No violence in the car wash.”

Misha dismissed him with a quick glance and continued rummaging through the purses.

Kirilo glanced at the poser. He looked familiar. “Who are you?”

The poser sneered.

“I asked you a question.” Kirilo tried to place the face but couldn’t. “Who are you?”

“I’m the bastard who gave birth to Baba Yaga,” the poser said, referring to an evil witch from Ukrainian folklore. “What business is it of yours?”

Kirilo took a step toward the poser, and it hit him. He reminded Kirilo of Evan. The spoiled little turd of a fiancé of his bitch daughter. Both carefully cultivated their rat whiskers. Both wore the same shit-eating grins on their patronizing faces. Wouldn’t the world be a better place without both of them? A disco in London? It was Evan’s fault his daughter was a no-good, conniving little whore-thief who wanted to move far away from her father. It was all the poser’s fault—

Kirilo stumbled backward against his will. Someone was pulling him. Men were shouting. Stop! Stop what? His lungs heaved. Blood pounded against the skin of his face. His fists trembled. His knuckles were red.

“Hey, man,” Misha said, grinning, as the bodyguards released their grip on Kirilo’s shoulders. “No violence in the car wash.”

Kirilo righted himself.

Blood streamed from the poser’s nose. His right eye swelled. The American girl screamed in English while the Ukrainian girl cradled his head in her hands.

“One more time,” Kirilo said. “What is your name?”

When the poser opened his mouth, his teeth appeared stained with beet juice. “Radek,” he said with a nasal twang. “I’m just a singer. A singer in a band.”

“Band?” Kirilo said. “What band?”

“It’s called F in Mathematics.”

Stefan threw both purses to the ground. “Nothing.”

Misha glared at Specter. “How can this be?”

Specter turned on the GPS receiver and showed Kirilo. The light blinked at a slower pace. “The signal’s weaker here. It was stronger outside. The tracking device is outside somewhere.”

They followed Specter outside to the car wash itself. Two vehicles were being hand-washed in separate bays while another six waited behind each. Specter homed in on the tracking device until the light turned solid red. He ended up beside a beer delivery truck parked on a strip of grass on the far side of the car wash. The truck’s hood was open.

The driver chomped nervously on a cigar as Kirilo, Misha, and their entourage approached.

“Engine?” Kirilo said with a sympathetic tone.

“Timing belt,” the driver said.

Kirilo grimaced. “Sorry to hear that. We need to take a look in the back. We think you have something of ours.”

The driver didn’t waste time. He unlocked the rear and swung the doors open. Stefan jumped inside and found the tracking device behind a stack of cases of Obolon beer. They questioned the driver if he had seen anyone hovering around his truck.

“Nope. I made my delivery and broke down on the way out. Some boys helped push my truck out of the way.”

Kirilo, Misha, and Specter stepped away from the van.

“She figured out we were tracking her and threw the device in his truck,” Specter said, “figuring the beer guy would go on to his next delivery and it would take us time to stop and ask questions.”

“Smarter than throwing it out the window,” Misha said.

“More clever,” Specter said. “But in this case, too clever. Seventy-two percent of all Soviet-era cars break down every year.”

“You were right about this woman,” Kirilo said with a savage edge to Misha. “I like her. I haven’t killed anyone in eleven years, but in her case, I may have to break that streak. Just to see the look in her eyes at the last second, when she gives up hope, you know?”

Misha and Specter looked at him as though he were insane. Good. That meant they had some morals, which meant there were limits to what they would do, which meant they were vulnerable.

Misha said, “The driver left his taxi here. Why?”

“Your man on the expressway made him,” Specter said. “They know we know the car. And this is a safe place where the taxi company can come get it.”

“Which means the driver is helping her,” Kirilo said. “What do we know about him?”

They paused and looked at each other.

“Phone number,” Specter said. “Of the taxi company. On the side of the car.” Specter and Stefan ran toward the parking lot on the opposite side of the building.

“If they left the taxi here, how did they get away?” Misha said.

“They got a ride or borrowed someone’s car,” Kirilo said.

“Someone who got an F in mathematics?” Misha said.

Kirilo and Misha hurried back to the bar. When they got to the second floor, Radek and the two women were gone.

Specter burst inside as they descended back to the first floor. Stefan lagged behind, out of breath.

“Anything?” Kirilo said, lungs heaving.

Specter shook his head. “The taxi’s gone. You?”

Misha shook his head. “They’re gone.”

“It’s possible your man got the phone number off the car on the expressway when they lost him,” Specter said.

“Find him,” Kirilo said. “The taxi driver. He’ll lead us to the girl.”