Page 36 of Emerald

But I’ve never heard him make that sound before.

I nod at Maks.

“Check it out,” I say.

Maks walks forward, his hair a halo of white blond under the light. I see his hand trail unconsciously to the gun at his waist, as if he might want to shoot whatever’s in the box.

He lifts the flap. Then he stumbles backward, cursing.

Without thinking, I’ve already strode over to join him.

“Boss—“ Maks says, but I’m already looking inside.

I see Karol’s head staring up at me. Eyes open. Face horribly bruised and beaten.

My stomach rolls so hard that I can barely swallow back the vomit. I am immediately aflame with bright, burning, unquenchable rage.

Dom is standing next to me. He’s seen it, too.

“Ivan,” he says, laying a restraining arm on my shoulder.

I shake him off.

“Gather the men,” I say, through gritted teeth. “We’re going to kill that motherfucker.”

I expect Remizov to have gone to ground—I expect him to be hiding like a rat in a sewer, after having sent that provocation to my fucking doorstep.

But my men haven’t even finished suiting up and bringing the cars around, before Efrem tells me that Remizov isn’t hiding at all. One of our informants says that he’s sitting in the Lux club right now, cool as can be, having a drink.

I’m shaking with rage. I want to firebomb the club, turn it into Vesuvius with Remizov inside.

But there’s probably two hundred innocent people in there.

Even in my absolute fury, I don’t relish the idea of murdering waitresses and bartenders and clubgoers along with Remizov and his men.

They are his unwitting human shields. But that won’t stop me from marching in there and dragging him out by his greasy black hair.

We drive to the club in three cars. I post Jasha, Oleg, Maks, and Efrem outside, so Remizov can’t slip out the back. Jasha and Oleg point their guns at the bouncers, to prevent them from warning anyone inside. Dom, Andrei, and Vadim follow me inside.

I have my Glock in my hand. I plan to walk up to Remizov and put a bullet between his eyes. I know he’ll have his own men inside, but if it comes to a shoot-out, so be it. I’ll put my men up against his any day.

The club is dark and throbbing with loud, repetitive music. It aggravates the rage-fueled headache beating inside my skull. The air is thick with smoke and the scent of spilled drinks. I head straight for the VIP booths at the back of the club.

I see Remizov sitting there, bold as brass. His pale eyes glitter as he looks up at me, watching me approach. His face is stiff and sickly white, like a wax mask. His thin mouth is twisted up in a smile that doesn’t crease any other part of his face.

My finger tightens against the trigger of the gun. I’m about to raise the barrel, to point it at his face.

But then I see the other men in the booth, seated on either side of Remizov.

Krupin, the Minister of the Kalininsky District.

Utkin, the Commissioner of Police.

And Drozdov, the Governor of St. Petersburg.

I stop in my tracks. I know I must look supremely stupid, standing there with my mouth hanging open.

Remizov’s smile widens.

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