Page 17 of Nikolai Petrov

Rage bursts out of me as I grab my black leather bag of tools from the garage. Boxes fly as my fists lash out in fury upon my frantic path to my car.

I need to find her.

“Call Chekov.” The ringing through my car speakers is blaring, but the blood pumping through my ears drowns it out.

“Yes, boss.” His accent carries through the deep bass sound system.

“Gather a cleaning crew. I’ll get back to you with details. Let O’Connor know to keep his beat cops away from Tinley Park until I call him.” I end the connection without waiting for his reply. We’ve worked together for too many years to worry about pleasantries.

Like Ivanov. Shit. I bet he’s behind this. I wonder if she’s there already.

Speeding through the dark streets of Chicago, it’s nearly a blur as I impatiently scroll through my phone to find the GPS app so I can track the necklace I gave her.

There she is.

Leaving the car in a nondescript lot, I change clothes from my black bag with practiced ease.

You don’t get to my position without learning tricks of the trade. And I’m planning on using my full repertoire tonight.

No one touches my girl. She’s mine.

Something snaps in my gut as the realization hits.

The late night conversations. Her laugh. The way her legs wrap around me when she screams.

I want to keep her. Forever.

The dark hood of my jacket shadows my face as I hurry through a narrow alley. A quick check of my phone assures me I’m on the right path.

A card access door under a flickering bulb stands between me and her. O’Connor’s gift last year comes in handy as I slide the universal key through the reader.

With only a small push, I’m inside the derelict motel. The carpet is so stained the pattern is lost. It smells vaguely of mold and bleach. I think the lights are purposefully kept low to hide the grime that lines the walls.

Besides the low hum of the sporadically placed vending machines, the hall is silent.

The little red dot on my phone indicates a turn at the next hall.

Stealing a furtive look around the corner, there’s a large man in a dark suit standing outside the room at the end of the narrow hall. He leans against the paneled end, scrolling on his phone.

This has to be one of them.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I saunter down the hall, peering at each room number as I walk.

His eyes raise as he watches me, but his phone doesn’t move. True to his purpose, he does shift his weight to stand fully as I grow closer.

“Ah, here we are,” I profess with gusto, facing the room opposite of him. Using the universal card, I hear the click of the lock disengage and the door swings open.

It’s empty.

Luck is with me. Dropping my bag, I unsheath my knife as I watch him through the peephole.

Relax, fucker.

Within three breaths, he leans back against the wall, his legs kicked out in an easy pose.

Flinging the door open, it’s two steps before I grab his phone and jerk my hand forward. The blade slides smoothly into his windpipe below his jaw, interrupting his cry before it starts.

“That’s it, motherfucker,” I whisper as his knees give out. Blood spills down his chest and covers my hand. His eyes bulge over a soundlessly gaping mouth, gasping at air that can no longer fill his lungs. Clawing hands dig at my arm weakly as he slips closer to the floor.

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