Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

“Except about tattoos.”

“Yes. Except tattoos.” He set the money on her nightstand, next to an overflowing ashtray. “You will be driven. The Town Car.”

“You’re the best.” Tugging the headphones back on, she returned to her nails. It was three in the morning and a school night, but when he thought about what he was doing at seventeen, he closed his mouth and exited.

Dima, Yuri, and Valerik were playing cards at the kitchen table. Misha sat alone at the counter, cleaning his gun and wearing the faint grin of a contented boy. They rose when Pavlo entered. He strode across to Misha.

“Do not look at Nastya again,” he said quietly.

Misha nodded.

Pavlo moistened his lips. “I do not trust Nate Overbay. Watch him closely. And his daughter. At any sign…”

Yuri said, “What if he cannot deliver?”

“Any other plan will have a cost in lives and resources. We can afford to give him five days before we consider these.”

“Why do we not just take the daughter now and start mailing him pieces of her?” Misha asked.

Yuri snickered. Misha swiveled his dead stare over at him, and the smirk dropped from the big man’s face.

“This is not the old country,” Pavlo explained patiently. “It does not work that way here. We must be more … subtle.”

“I see no need,” Misha said. “If you would free me to handle matters in the fashion I am accustomed-”

Pavlo leaned forward, setting a hand on Misha’s shoulder, his stare making clear that the conversation had just ended.

Misha bit off his words, assembled his pistol with a deft twirl of the hands, and headed out.

Pavlo looked at Yuri. “I brought Misha because he is fearless. This is good but can also be bad. You are important. You understand how to play here.”

Yuri’s mouth moved around bunched lips, no doubt swallowing his objections.

Pavlo tilted his head toward the door. Yuri rose and followed. Valerik and Dima returned to their cards.

Pavlo walked upstairs. Fifty-seven steps. That empty second floor, room enough to breathe, to stretch. He walked the edges again, his shoulder rubbing the glass, counting and recounting his steps. Finally he lay on his mattress and stared through the skylight at the coal-black heavens, contemplating all that was at stake and what he was willing to do to protect it.

Nate pried his wallet from his stiff jeans and paid the taxi driver with a credit card still cool from the ice block. Some UCLA frat boys ran by, hazing a pledge who was jogging with a bra on his head, all clamor and idiotic fun. The Westwood apartment, priced for students, had been the most that Nate could afford when he’d moved out, so a certain measure of shenanigans came with the territory. A block from campus again, but as a grown man. One step forward, nineteen steps back.

The cab pulled away, and he shouldered against a tree cracking the sidewalk and dialed. Of course, Pete answered.

“I wanted to check on Cielle. Make sure she’s-”

“It’s late, man. Really late.”

“Sorry,” Nate said. “Is Janie there?”

“She’s asleep.”

“Look, will you just go down the hall and check that Cielle’s okay?”

“Just because you’re sick doesn’t mean you can pull this shit, Nate.”

“Is my daughter fucking okay, Pete? Or do you want me to drive over to find out?”

Up until now Nate had never shown Pete an inch of anger, and the abrupt silence signaled the man’s surprise. The phone hit something, hard, and then Nate heard footsteps thump away. After a few moments had passed, Pete said, “She’s fine,” and the dial tone hummed in Nate’s ear.

He shot an exhale at the sky and limped upstairs, muscles aching.

In the shadows to the side of his door, a man waited, slumped against the wall. Bile rose in Nate’s throat, and he froze midway up, hand clutching the rail. The head swiveled to him, an alertness piercing the darkness. They considered each other. Nate swallowed, a dry click, unlocked his legs, and continued up. As he crested the top step, the form came off the wall to meet him, stepping into the light.

Abara. Damn it- Abara.

The agent’s curious expression turned into a concerned squint. “The hell happened to you?”

“What are you doing here?”

“You called me. Remember? Something you remembered from the heist?”

Right. He’d called Abara to come discover his own dead body. Back when life was simpler. “I–I … went for a walk. Fell into a puddle.”

“A puddle? Where?”

Nate fought his key into the lock. “On the street.”

“A waist-high puddle? On the street?”

“I fell.” Nate’s fingers felt loose and lifeless, and the keys slipped, clacking to the concrete. He crouched, but it took some concentration to get his hand to close around them. Maybe it was just the cold, not the illness.

Abara crossed his arms. “Here’s where you probably want to stop digging. And tell me why, exactly, you called. And what the hell is going on.”

The agent’s confidence eroded Nate’s resolve. Up against the Ukrainian mob, his daughter’s life threatened, tasked with robbing a bank-there was no way he could navigate through this on his own. He had to get help from the authorities.

He turned to face Abara in the outdoor corridor. “Okay. Look, when I got home tonight-”

Abara shifted, and over his shoulder, beyond the brief throw of guardrail, a curve of street came visible down below. About a hundred yards away, a streetlight dropped a yellow funnel onto the sidewalk, encircling a man who stood motionless.

Misha.

He stood in the brazen open, his hands in his pockets, a statue. The night seemed to fragment, and Nate had to remind himself to keep drawing breath as he pieced it back together, shard by shard.

Abara, impatient: “You got home and what ?”

Below, Misha moved his arms, letting them hang at his sides. Something glinted at his left fist, pointing down at the concrete.

Nate forced his eyes back to Abara. “I … called you because I was scared. I just made up an excuse to get you over here.”

Abara ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, his eyes skeptical. “Don’t waste my time.”

Nate nodded. His gaze pulled right again, to the middle distance. Misha vanished behind a passing car, reappeared. The man was standing in the middle of the sidewalk gripping a gun, and no one seemed to notice.

“Okay. Sorry. You can go, then.” Nate pointed to the stairs, a nice broad gesture so Misha could see that he’d refused to cooperate with the agent. Turning, he fumbled the key into the lock, his fingers half responsive.

“The bank manager who was killed,” Abara said.

“Flores Esposita,” Nate said.

“Her funeral’s tomorrow. Forest Lawn, eleven A.M. Family asked if you could be there. You know, you being the guy who saved the day and all.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Yeah,” Abara said, walking away, “you seem to have a lot on your plate.”

Nate went inside, closed and locked the door, leaned against it, trying to catch his breath. Gripping his wrist, he flexed his fingers, balled them. More tingling. The living-room window beckoned. With dread, he crossed to it, the street drawing into view by degrees.

Misha remained, watching. Waiting for Nate.

Misha lifted the gun, aimed at the window, at Nate. A flush rolled beneath the skin of Nate’s face like a breaking wave. Misha cocked his head. Tugged the barrel up an inch like a kid playing soldier. Even at this distance, Nate saw his lips move.

Pow.

Misha returned the gun to his pocket and stepped away from the streetlight, vanishing into the darkness.