Page 52 of Emerald

The warehouse is a fireball, which turns into a column of billowing black smoke. The guns are surely destroyed, and Remizov’s men too.

Efrem looks at the two guards, tied up against the wheels of Dom’s car.

“Didn’t care to warn your buddies?” he says in disgust.

“I didn’t know that was going to happen!” one of the men cries, staring at the flaming warehouse in shock. “Remizov just told us to stay outside.”

I can see that he’s thinking we might just as easily have sent him in to retrieve the guns instead.

“We’d better go,” Dom says to me.

A blaze like that will draw the police and fire trucks.

“What about them?” Efrem says, nodding to the guards.

“Leave them for the cops,” I say.

I can see that Efrem thinks they deserve worse than that.

But we’ve made it through the day without killing anyone so far. I’d like to keep it that way. I’m afraid there will be more than enough bloodshed to go around before this thing with Remizov is done.

* * *

15

Sloane

My car is still parked where I left it, the key tucked up under the wheel well. It manages to start, despite the fact that it’s an old beater that’s been sitting out in the snow for several days.

I always drive shitty old cars because they don’t attract attention, and nobody bothers to steal them. But you do sacrifice some reliability.

The rusty Vesta coughs and sputters in a disgruntled way before it starts up. The vents spit air into my face that somehow seems even colder than the air outside, tinged with the unpleasant tang of diesel fumes.

Soon enough I’m back on the road, heading home to my safe house.

I ought to stay in a hotel for a few nights as I usually do between jobs, but I’m so extraordinarily filthy from the chimney that I’m not sure anyone would rent me a room. Besides, I’m just so, so tired. I want to be home again.

And yet, when I’ve stowed my car in the underground garage, and walked the four flights of stairs up to my flat, I push open the door and feel . . . underwhelmed.

My apartment seems dingy and dull after the beauty and history of Ivan’s monastery. It’s sterile. And quiet. And just . . . empty. There’s no one here but me. No one is going to be walking through the door, crossing his arms over his broad chest and watching me with his dark eyes . . . No one’s going to be joining me in my bed.

Which is fine. This is what I’m used to. This is what I’ve always preferred.

It never felt lonely before.

I strip off Ivan’s clothes, which are not in any state to be returned to him, having gotten sooty from the chimney, torn and slushy from my slide down the roof, and then speckled with twigs and leaves from my tramp through the woods back to my car.

I’m planning to have a very long shower. But when I try to turn on the water, the shower head sputters and groans, spitting orange-tinged water, and then an irregular spray of glacial coldness.

Goddamn it. I could be standing in Ivan’s steam shower right now, sudsing myself with his fancy shampoo.

I try the bathtub instead. It’s an old claw-foot tub, separate from the shower. So heavy that it’s cracked the tiles underneath its feet. I’d prefer a shower over a bath when I’m this dirty, but at least the tub is receiving warm water.

I stuff the plug in the drain and let the tub slowly fill. In the meantime, I pad out to the kitchen and put a kettle on to boil. I want tea, toast, and whatever else I’ve got in the kitchen to eat.

Ravenous, I wolf down two slices of bread while I’m waiting for another two to toast. The kettle is taking forever to boil. Impatiently, I put a teabag in my mug and check if I have any milk in the fridge.

No. No milk, and no butter for my toast.

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