Austin Camacho - Russian Roulette

“You attacked Krada for killing your parents, but you never mentioned your husband, Dani Gana.”

Silence.

“That same weird little gun Jamal killed your mother with was used to kill your husband. You knew Jamal shot Dani, didn’t you? You knew before I did.”

“Yes.” Viktoriya said. It was cold confession, but now that the door was open he could draw more out with less effort.

“How did you know?”

“Because Dani told me,” she said. “The doorbell rang and he answered it and when he opened the door, Jamal shot him. He told me when I found him in the living room. Before I called for help.”

“How did he even know where to find you?” Hannibal asked. He heard short rapid breaths, the kind that precede sobbing.

“It was my fault,” she said, almost too low to hear. “I always called Jamal when I was scared or in trouble. I didn’t know that he would…”

Hannibal fell silent as something tiny drifted past his nose. It was followed by a second speck, then a third, and then a steady falling flock of them. White flakes were landing on the back of his gloved hands and disappearing as soon as they touched him, only to be replaced by others.

“I don’t believe it. It’s snowing,” he said, although he knew it was unnecessary.

“Things happen,” Viktoriya said.

“Yeah, I know,” Hannibal replied. “It’s just that I prayed it wouldn’t rain tonight. Guess I should have been more specific.”

He heard her stifling a laugh and for some reason that made him angry. He let a few minutes pass while he watched the world grow a tiny bit brighter and examined his new information to see where it might lead. After a while he turned his head so that he could at least speak in her general direction.

“You loved Krada, didn’t you?”

A long sigh. “Yes.”

“So what was the plan, Viktoriya? You could have had his baby, but instead you went to another man. Didn’t you want to marry Krada?”

“I loved him, but I could not see myself living on a college professor’s salary.” Her voice was matter of fact, as if she was discussing stock options or the price of gasoline.

“Did you ever care for Aleksandr?”

She snorted in the darkness. “He was the solution to my problem, that’s all.”

“Your problem?” Hannibal asked. “You mean the money.”

“The mob paid him huge sums to do their dirty work. I planned to marry him. Then, after a couple of years I could divorce him, take half his money, and then live with Jamal in the manner I had become accustomed to.”

Sitting on the ground, the smell of decay in the swamp was harder to avoid. “Why didn’t you?”

“The fool was accused of killing my father,” she said after another snort. “Everybody thought it was him, hired by a rival. Dani and Uncle Boris made sure everyone thought it was him. And I couldn’t marry a man who killed my father, could I?”

“I see,” Hannibal said. “So you just had to change your target. Dani was plan B.” Hannibal thought he heard an animal approaching on the trail.

“Yes,” she said. “Plan B. Different man, but the intent was the same. Do you hate me now?”

“Hate you?” Hannibal asked. “I hardly know you. But I got to admit, I can admire your focus. You knew what you wanted and you went after it.”

“You mean Jamal.”

“I mean the life you wanted to lead,” Hannibal said. It sounded as if the animal on the trail was getting closer. “I’ll bet you understood what Dani was doing for Boris Tolstaya. Yeah, and you convinced him to steal that money. The whole idea of him going to Africa instead of you, then coming back under another name, that was all you, wasn’t it? All that so you and he could live happily ever after. Except you planned to dump him and make off with the cash, and your happily ever after was going to be with Krada. Too bad you didn’t share your plan with the professor, because he sure screwed things up for you. Now he’s probably dead. And Dani knew it would be easier if he and his fortune traveled separately, so now his mother’s got the money.”

If she had an answer for all that, Hannibal never found out. A flashlight beam lanced across the ground a dozen feet away, pulling an involuntary gasp from her throat instead. Hannibal sat very still. The police would be shouting for them. That meant that the wolves had arrived before the rescuers first after all.

“We know you are there,” a man called. The voice carried a strong Eastern European accent and seemed familiar. “This need not be messy. Show yourselves. We take your weapons, tie you, and leave you here to be found in the morning. We take the girl for questioning. Nobody dies.”

Hannibal wanted to respond to that disembodied voice, to say that he knew the kind of questioning his people did, that he could spend the night hidden in those woods without their help, and that anyone trying to take his gun would pay dearly. But he knew the wise course was to stay silent.

Snow was just beginning to stick to the frigid ground around him, and in the distance he thought he saw a ghostly form, or maybe two, on the trail. And then he heard the calm, assured voice of Aleksandr Ivanovich.

“You can leave now.”

His voice seemed to come from everywhere, and Hannibal could hear the smile behind the words. He was ready.

“You know better,” the other man said. Hannibal waved to Viktoriya to stay still. Then he slowly rolled forward to his knees and began inching toward the trail.

“Vladimir?” Ivanovich asked, his voice drifting through the trees like that of an angel.

“Yes, Aleksandr.”

“How many?” Ivanovich asked.

During a pause, Hannibal moved again. The damp ground sucked at his gloves as he crawled forward. He wondered if other men were moving just as carefully around in the muck near him, trying to get better position.

“Seven,” Vladimir said.

“You underestimate the black one,” Ivanovich said. “And you insult me.”

“Is the girl worth so much?” Vladimir asked. Hannibal could now just make out a form, standing near the crossroads. Both his hands were full of pistol. At least two stood behind the front form. Hannibal was not sure which form was talking. Nor could he figure out the source of Ivanovich’s voice when he answered the question with a question.

“Must we kill each other, old friend?”

Hannibal rolled to his right side. Now he lay only a few feet from the trail, looking up at the front figure in the darkness.

“I cannot simply walk away,” Vladimir said.

“I cannot simply surrender the woman,” Ivanovich replied.

“Well then,” Vladimir said. “Here we are.”

Hannibal heard a deep sadness in both voices. He had heard it before, sitting next to Yakov Sidorov in the Russia House. Grudging acceptance. This is the way things are. Ivanovich knew his path, and he knew what lay at its end. And now Hannibal knew too.

Silence fell with the snowflakes. For a few seconds the night held its breath. And then one cloud shouldered another aside and a moonbeam laid a soft glow on the forest. Tree branches like bent, gnarled fingers reached for the figures on the path.

A concussive burst of sound set off Hannibal’s startle reflex as a pair of flame jets burst from the tree at the crossroads. Two bodies sprang off the path and into the marsh as if yanked by wires.

Hannibal pressed his back against the ground as a roar of gunfire answered the first two shots. Five or maybe ten guns lit up the night as their bullets chewed the top half of the tree to kindling. Shell casings bounced along the ground all around him. In the muzzle flashes Hannibal could see no joy in those stern faces, no excitement. This was business. And this was survival.