Page 23 of Blood Oath Christmas
The cannery crouches by the river with just a sliver of moonlight to give it an eerie glow. Viktor and I get there a good hour before Bohdan pulls into the parking lot and parks his rented van behind a row of busted pallets, kills the engine, and gets out as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. For a man who makes a living killing others, he doesn’t seem to have any self-preservation traits. I almost wince when he shrugs into that bright orange safety vest.
Once he’s inside, we follow at a distance. It’s dark and smells of iron and river rot. Rats skitter across the floor, but the biggest one, Bohdan, starts whistling as he walks.
Lights hum in the ceiling and leave pockets of shadows on the floor. I move down the narrow service corridor with Viktor at my side. A thin strip of light leaks from under the door where Bohdan disappeared behind. I stop, listen, and hear a space heater tick, then the small click of a bottle cap against wood. Sounds like the idiot is opening a bottle of beer, or something stronger. Viktor nods once.
I try the handle and it turns easily. We silently step into a square concrete room furnished with a cot, a crate for a table, and a folding chair. Bohdan sits in the chair with his fluorescent vest on. His gun is on the crate beside an open beer.
Something must alert him to our presence because he stiffens, then spins around, his eyes going wide when he sees us. A second later, he reaches for his gun.
I cross the floor in three steps and my hand comes down on the pistol first. I slide it away and put my forearm into his chest to keep him seated. He smells like oil and cheap vodka.
“Bohdan,” I say. “Make this easy on yourself. Just answer yes or no. Did you take a contract from Vadim Antonov to kill a woman?”
He swallows hard, but I can practically see the thoughts racing through his mind. Like the other guy, Bohdan is trying to figure out what to say so that he doesn’t get killed. The thing is, he doesn’t realize the answer won’t save him. His fate is already determined.
He shifts like he’s going to stand. I push him back down and take a half step to the side.
“Yes or no,” I demand again, my voice low and firm.
“It’s just business,” the man finally says.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I draw my gun, press the muzzle low into his sternum, and fire once. The sound is flat against the concrete. He goes slack in the chair and slides to the floor.
Viktor checks the hall, then the corners. “Two down,” he says.
We move back through the service corridor the way we came. The building keeps humming, and the river wind finds the gaps in the windows. We leave the cannery the same way we entered—quiet, quick, and with nothing left behind that matters.
Now to the third and final hitman. The depot sits in the old part of town where most buildings are made of brick. The rear alley is wide, half-lit, empty except for four men and a milk crate that serves as a table. Dice bounce in a bowl as the men watch anxiously. I’m not familiar with this game but it’s obvious the guys have money on the outcome. Karpov is the one in the cheap leather jacket. He looks up, sees us, and the dice go still.
“Move along.” He talks around a toothpick hanging out the side of his mouth. “All you’ll get is trouble here.”
Viktor moves his jacket off to the side to show his gun then looks at the other three men and jerks his head. They get the not-so-subtle hint and rush away from the table, leaving Karpov alone.
The toothpick in Karpov’s mouth twitches a bit as he suddenly realizes he’s not the predator he thought he was.
“You took a contract from Antonov to kill a woman,” I say, stepping closer to him. Karpov glances at Viktor, or more precisely, at the gun on his hip. “Big mistake.”
“Why does it matter to you?”
I raise an eyebrow at him and he flinches—slightly, but enough for me to see. “That’s my business. Your business is to understand that should you try to complete this job, you won’t live long enough to take another breath.”
Even in the dark night, I can see his face pale.
“Do you know what Sochelnik is?”
He nods. “Christmas Eve.”
“Good. Tonight is your lucky night. Tonight, I let you live so that you can pass this message on. Are you listening?”
He nods again and removes the toothpick from his mouth.
“Repeat this message—exactly.” I pause to make sure he understands before giving him the message. It’s an old-world message, one that not only Antonov will understand, but any hitman worth their name will too. “Under the icon-lamp, on Sochelnik, we fast until the first star. No steel is drawn, and no blood is spilled at a fasting table. The Andreev girl is under my house and my cross. Any person who takes Antonov’s money and comes within sight of my pines will leave with a funeral candle between his teeth. I am Konstantin Mikhailov, head of the Mikhailov family, and this is my promise.”
When he just stares at me, I say, “Got it?”
He nods. “I got it.”
“Good. If I see you again, I will be the last thing you see on this Earth.”
