Page 32 of Violent Possession
I think about Alexei’s office. The way he looked at me while the doctor stitched me up, as if he already owned everythinghe was seeing. There was a hunger in that gaze, a predatory curiosity about what my body was capable of. He was reading me, sizing me up.
It’s a fucked-up way for someone to look at you, but it’s honest. I prefer a sincere predator to a pig faking kindness.
My phone, a burner one of Alexei’s men handed me, vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and read the message on the screen. No sender, of course.
Arden Oaks Condominiums. Building C, Apt 307.
The balcony light will be on.
Work your magic, and remember: no mess.
Work your magic.He used the same phrase on purpose. He sent this himself, not some third party or a suit on an errand.
I get up from the bed in the cheap hotel I holed up in after leaving the office of a Malakov himself. No cameras here. A vote of confidence, maybe.
I check the blade of the knife strapped to my ankle. It’s not a thin blade, but it’s a combat knife, well-balanced, with the grip already molded to my hand. I spent the night sharpening it in a ritual of anxiety. Partly because I knew shit was coming, partly because it’s impossible to sleep knowing Alexei Malakov is waiting for you to trip up.
Arden Oaks. Building C is tucked into the most forgotten core of the neighborhood. It’s not the kind of building that appears in real estate ads; you only find it because Alexei Malakov exposed it in a text message. Sweaty concrete, hallways that must reek of mold and old cooking oil, and windows that no one opens. The police drive right by. No neighbor gets involved. They could hide a body for weeks and would only find it by the smell.
I’ve never set foot inside, but I don’t need to. I already know enough just from the point on the map.
Outside, after taking a cab to a street corner, I see it: there’s only one balcony with a light on, and it’s apartment 307. Exactly as Alexei instructed. In control of the whole fucking thing.
Everything is too easy. The cameras have no angle on the hallways, the receptionist doesn’t even look at me, and no one else sees me. Even the door to 307 is unlocked—of course it is. Malakov isn’t the type to leave loose ends like a stuck lock.
The air inside the apartment smells like nothing: a place where no one lives, only hides.
Kirill—the alleged target—is sitting in a faux-leather armchair that has seen better days, a nearly untouched glass of whiskey in his hand. I don’t disguise my entrance.
But when he sees me, he stands up, and the relief on his face is so explicit it startles me.
“Thank God,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “I thought he had forgotten about me. You took your time.”
He. He who,Alexei? And who am I to you, you piece of shit?
I say nothing. I just close the door behind me, and he doesn’t seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm.
What the hell is this, Alexei? Did you send me to deal with an enthusiast of suicide by proxy?
“So, what’s the plan? Where are we going?” he asks, already moving toward a two-seater sofa. There’s a suitcase on it.
So… he thinks I’m what, adriver?
I ignore the question. I need a drink.
I walk to the kitchenette, a Formica counter and two cabinets. I open the fridge. Empty, except for a bottle of water and a six-pack of cheap beer. I grab one.
I open the bottle on the corner of the counter. Kirill flinches at the sound.
“Hey, be careful,” he says, as if the counter were a family heirloom. “This is a rental.”
I ignore him. I take a long, bitter swallow. The beer is bad.
I lean against the counter, cross my arms, and finally look at him. The target. The loose end. He looks like the biggest battle of his life was against the IRS.
“So,” I begin. “You’re the loose end.”
Kirill forces a laugh, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “That’s a rather crude way to refer to a logistics expert who had a...business disagreement.” He looks at the suitcase, then at me. “Your boss assured me everything would be handled. He’s a man of his word, isn’t he?”
