Page 35 of Emerald

“So?”

“I dunno. Seems . . . a little too easy.”

“What, you want them at the center of a labyrinth, guarded by a Minotaur?”

“Remizov isn’t stupid,” Dom says. “He took the guns for a reason.”

“Because they’re worth two million dollars,” I say.

Dom nods. But he’s not convinced. And neither am I, even while I’m saying it.

I’ve been looking at Remizov as a thug, because he’s brutal in his methods, and he doesn’t follow the code of the Bratva—the very few rules that even our kind abide by.

However, that doesn’t mean he’s an idiot. He’s been extremely strategic in analyzing and attacking the weakest members of the underworld in St. Petersburg, slowly expanding his power without ever triggering a full-scale war with the more powerful families.

Until now.

He’s taken a shot at me, because he thinks the Petrovs are assailable. He thinks I’m arrogant. He thinks I’ll underestimate him.

Which I have been doing, so far.

“Alright,” I say to Efrem and Dom. “We won’t get them back tonight. We’ll watch and wait another day.”

“Sure,” Dom says, as if he’s just following my orders. But I can see the relief in his face.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

I see it’s Oleg, calling from the front gate.

“What is it?” I ask.

“A car pulled up,” he says. “We approached, but it just dropped off a package and sped away back down the road.”

“What kind of package?”

“Just a box. Two feet tall, maybe.”

“Don’t touch it. I’ll bring the dogs.”

I hang up the phone.

The dogs are trained to sniff for explosives or drugs. Though I doubt anybody dropped off a nice little care package of cocaine for me.

I go out to the kennels and get Volya, my favorite. He whines eagerly when he sees me. He’s a good dog; he loves to work. I raised him from a puppy, along with three of his brothers.

He runs to my side when I call him. He’s dancing beside me, wanting to thrust his nose into my hand, but knowing not to do it until I reach out for him. I give him a quick scratch behind the ears as a reward for his restraint.

He trots along beside me as I walk toward the entry posts, Dom following after us. Oleg and Maks have already opened the gates. They’re standing out in the snow, waiting for me. The bright halogen perimeter lights illuminate the drive. The thick white flakes of snow seem to hang suspended in the glare.

I can see the plain cardboard box, sitting out in the middle of the road. It’s not even taped shut, the top flaps tucked in on each other to keep it closed.

“Zapakh,”I order the dog.

Volya clears his nostrils with five or six quick snorts. He approaches the box, sniffing along its top and sides for the chemical vapors of TNT, water gel, RDX, urea nitrate, or hydrogen peroxide. The most likely components of the most common types of bombs.

If he scents any of the chemicals he’s been trained to search for, he won’t touch the box. He’ll just sit down sharp—the signal that he found something.

However, Volya does not sit down. Instead, he begins to whine in a plaintive, high-pitched tone. I call Volya my big baby. He’s more intelligent than his brothers, but he’s not as vicious. He’s a little more nervous, and eager to please.

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