Page 11 of Emerald

I send a quick message to Zima:

Job done. Payment received. Minus your cut, of course.

I don’t expect him to respond. He’s a night owl, hardly ever awake before 5:00 p.m. At first, I thought that meant he lived on the other side of the world, but after some digging, I realized he’s right here in the city with me, just living some sort of vampiric schedule. No wife or kids to keep him in the land of the living.

To my surprise, I see a reply coming through almost immediately. It takes a minute to run through the decoding software, and then I read:

I have another job for you.

I stare at the message in surprise, then quickly type back:

I just got home. No thanks.

I fish in my pocket, feeling for the flash drive I stole out of Yozhin’s suit pocket. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, not having access to a proper computer at the hotel.

I pull out the drive, examining the flat black rectangle.

There’s no mark on the metal casing, no indication of where it came from or what it contains.

I hear the chime of another message coming through from Zima. It says:

You’re going to want to take a look at this one. It’s a big payday.

I hesitate, twisting the flash drive between my thumb and index finger.

I don’t like doing back-to-back jobs. Exhaustion makes you sloppy. And I like to let the dust settle. The closer the hits, the more likely that someone might draw connections between them. You start leaving patterns, trails of breadcrumbs for someone to follow . . .

How big?I type.

$500K.

Huh. That is big. Five times my usual fee.

Which means the target is going to be a bitch to execute.

Who is it?I ask.

A pause, and then Zima says,Sending the file over now.

I wait for it to load, tapping the flash drive gently against my desk.

Because of all the layers of code Zima and I use, all the remote servers the information has to bounce back and forth between, it takes forever to download anything.

But finally, the progress bar fills and the documents begin to pop up on my screen.

Before I get a schedule or map or even a name, I see a large black and white photograph. Though it looks as if it were taken from a distance, using a telephoto lens, the man is staring directly at the camera. He’s more than staring at it—he’s glaring as if he wants to tear it to pieces.

His eyes are dark, set beneath thick black brows with a slight peak to their shape, giving him a permanently scowling expression. He has a long, straight, aristocratic nose and a broad jaw. His thick black hair comes almost to the collar of his suit. Unusual for a Russian, he has a slight olive cast to his skin, or at least that’s how it appears in the picture—it’s hard to tell since it isn’t in color. The stubble along his jaw and above his upper lip straddles the line between a five o’clock shadow and an actual beard.

There’s something very intimidating about this man. Confidence and power radiate from his expression, and something else . . .

Anger. Even rage.

I’m not surprised in the slightest when the rest of the file loads and I see the name and title:

Ivan Petrov, head of the Petrov Bratva.

I’ve killed one or two Bratva before, but never the head of a family.

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