Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
I turn slowly, looking affronted. “You’re on crack, dude. Natalie’s got this in the bag. Missy will be lucky if she leaves with her dignity intact.”
The guard snorts a laugh. “No way. Missy broke her leg, and she cries a lot. People love that sappy shit.”
I beg to differ. “Not true. Nat’s ruthless, a back-stabbing she-devil.” A sly smile tilts my lips. “Everyone loves a villain.”
The elevator door pings, and as we step out, I discreetly press the activate button on the app on my phone. The security guard’s walkie-talkie bleats. Stopping midstep, he lifts the device to his ear and holds down the button. “Radio room, copy.”
Nothing.
“Sy? Do you read me?”
Once more, silence.
The guard sighs, “Shit.” Turning to me, he mutters, “You got to be quick. I need to get back down.”
So I make of show of juggling my phone, my satchel, and the letter. “Sure thing.”
Pressing the second button on the app, the guard’s walkie-talkie comes back to life, hissing and crackling, “Get down here, Johnson! Code red in the basement!”
With another click of a button, the walkie-talkie dies once more. Johnson, now panicked, shakes and hits the radio. “Hello? Sy, come in? Shit.” He looks up at me. “I’ve got to go down. You stay up here until I come get you.”
The guard is already running in the opposite direction when I call out, “But Survivor, man!”
The elevator starts to close as I see him shrug. Before the doors close, I shout, “Then hurry your ass up!”
And with a single press of a button, the app I had made powers down the building. With one guard stuck in the elevator and the other lost in the basement, I’m free to do as I please.
Reaching up, I pull the hoodie up over my head and make my way to the office at the end of the hall, the one where countless Russian cuss words are coming from. With only the safety lights shining, I knock on the office door. Andrei booms, “Enter,” but I’m already inside.
Andrei beats the side of his computer, as if that will somehow make it work again. While he does this, I walk over to the side of the office to retrieve the crystal decanter of vodka and two glasses.
As I set them down and open the decanter, Andrei notices I’m not security. A heavily accented, “Who are you?” comes out of his jowled mouth.
I pour in silence, placing a full glass of vodka in front of him. I reach for my phone and, a moment later, the room is illuminated by strong white light.
Ah, technology.
I lower my hood, wanting my reveal to be something of nightmares. When Andrei spots my face, he blanches a single moment. Then he tips his head back and wheezes with laughter. His eyes dance as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Dead man walking.”
Inclining my head, I pick up my glass and sip. The vodka is strong but smooth, no doubt something expensive. Andrei lifts his own glass and downs the entire thing like it’s water. Being a Russian and over the age of fifty, I’d like to think he washes his face with vodka in the morning.
Andrei sits and gestures to me. “Why would a dead man come to me?”
I stare him in the eye and then take another sip. He knows why I’m here.
He watches me closely, thinking. His smile falls then disappears completely. After a moment, he sighs. “I suppose there is no stopping you.”
“It’s just business, Andrei,” I answer, steel determination in my voice.
He sits quietly before straightening. He nods. “Make it quick.”
I reach into my satchel, pull out my stolen .36-caliber and remove the safety. I lift my arm and point the gun at his forehead, then lower it. It’s his last night of living. I know I shouldn’t bother, but I do. “How ‘bout another drink?”
Andrei Ivanov smiles at me, and there is no malice in this smile. I don’t understand it.
“Why you smiling, Andrei? In two seconds, your brains are gonna be splattered all over your whiteboard.”
His shoulder jerks. “I am sick of living half a life, Twitch. My wife left me. My kids hate me. My business partners want my money. Everything I once lived for now wishes me dead. And I have no desire to live anymore.” He stands, filling our glasses. Lifting his own, he salutes me. “Na zdorov'ye.”
To your health.
Oh, the irony.
My hand lifts with swiftness, and a second later, a bright flash accompanied by a loud bang echoes throughout the office, Andrei Ivanov falling backward on the floor in a bloody heap.
And for the first time in my life, I actually feel bad about having to kill someone.
Shaking my head, I walk over to the window and open it. Climbing out, I walk down the fire escape and type out a text.