Page 33 of Violent Possession
Your boss. Malakov. The guy who used me as bait and then stitched me back together. A man of his word. Funny. Does this guy really believe Alexei saves the skins of the weak?
“I don’t know. You tell me,” I retort, not moving a muscle, just letting my eyes wander to the corners of the apartment. The floor has stains that don’t match a recent renovation. No visible cameras in the outlets, but I know Alexei is more sophisticated than that; if he were watching and didn’t want to be discovered (unlike in my hotel room), it would be through devices that not even the building owner could find.
But, well, he didn’t forbid me from asking anything.
“You’ve been working for these people long?”
“Notforthem,withthem,” he corrects me, with a hint of arrogance. “It was apartnership. Things just... got out of control.”
Of course they did. Every partnership with a Malakov is a rope around your neck waiting for a tug.
“Uh-huh… and what else did he tell you? Malakov.”
“He told me I needed to disappear,” Kirill says. “That I shouldn’t have to pay for the stupidity of others.”
Malakov said the guy was a loose end. He didn’t say he was an imbecile.
Disappear. If someone told me I needed to disappear, I’d see the threat.
“He seems like a man of his word,” I say, more to myself than to him.
Kirill laughs, short and breathless. “He saved my life. Alexei Malakov is the only reason I’m still breathing. Of course he’s a man of his word.”
He speaks of Alexei as if he were describing a saint. A saint who hired me to come here and, probably, slit his throat from ear to ear.
Maybe it’s a test. Alexei wants to know if I follow orders without thinking or if I have a will of my own. Or maybe he just likes to watch the circus burn, and he picked me just to watch from the sidelines, while paranoia does everything violence can’t do alone. I don’t like being manipulated. Even less by someone like Alexei, who has a gift for always seeming two steps ahead.
Still, I’m thinking. I want to know if it’s really worth killing this idiot.
“So, shall we?” Kirill points to the suitcase again. “The sooner we leave, the better.”
I shrug. I don’t move. I haven’t made my decision yet. “We have time.”
The discomfort lasts for three seconds. Four. Kirill starts to sweat, first on his upper lip, then on his forehead. He’s not used to not being in control, and even less to being ignored.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of henchman you are, but your boss gave meassurances,” he says. “I have a deal. And you are here to uphold it.”
What a pain in the ass. I’m no one’s henchman.
“And what assurances did he give you?” I ask, moving closer to the door and leaning against the wall, blocking the exit. Kirill notices.
“He... said he would take care of everything. That I would besafe,” he stammers. The arrogance is gone, leaving only a poorly stitched thread of hope.
“Safe,” I repeat, without emotion. I take a sip of beer. “Funny. I haven’t felt very safe lately.”
The fear finally appears in his eyes. His pupils dilate, his breathing shortens. Now he gets it. Now he understands what’s happening.
“Leaving a lot behind?” I ask. “Got a family?”
His face shuts down. “Ah. No.”
“You sure? You sounded uncertain. What about that ring on your finger?”
His lip trembles. “...She has her own family.” Sensing he said the wrong thing, he tries to fix it, “Sometimes you have to be pragmatic, you understand? For thegreater good. Some loose ends you have to cut yourself.”
He uses the same expression as Alexei.Loose end. Except he’s talking about his own wife.
Kirill really believes it. The mental gymnastics to turn cowardice into nobility. It’s an art form.
