Page 69 of Stolen Empire
"That's it." He pulls an envelope from his jacket, holding it out.
"The address is written on the front. You go now. You hand the envelope to whoever answers, then you leave and call me and tell me who it was. Easy money."
I take the envelope, turning it over in my hands.
The address is scrawled in black ink.
A gym in Khamovniki not far from here.
"What if I don't want to risk it?"
He shrugs.
"Then you keep bleeding money for Vetrov. Your choice."
I tuck the envelope into my jacket.
"I'll do it."
"Good."
He takes another drag from his cigarette.
"Call this number when it's done."
He hands me a card with a phone number written on it.
"Don't fuck this up."
"Christ, buddy, I won't," I snarl as he scowls at me.
He nods, then turns and walks back into the club.
I stay in the alley for a moment, letting the cold air clear my head.
Then I start walking toward the street, where Gavriil is waiting three blocks away in a black sedan.
He's not fond of my "task" but he knows this is for Dimitri, so he doesn't protest.
The gym is tucked between a butcher shop and a repair garage, its windows fogged with condensation.
I knock on the door at exactly ten o'clock.
A voice inside beckons me, and with a glance back at Gavriil, who's seated in the car, I push the door open and enter.
The old gym is smelly, like dirty socks and sweat, and an older man sits behind the front desk, his eyes on a newspaper.
He looks up when I enter.
"Help you?" he asks.
I hold out the envelope.
"Delivery."
He takes it without a word, setting it on the desk, and I memorize his face—broad, weathered, a scar running down his left cheek—and walk out of the gym.
There's no way this is the only thing the Radich crew wants from me.
