Nick Stelian was nervous. That was not normal for him.
He'd talked to his lawyer, Dana, and for the first time, he'd given her Owen's information. That way she could decide how to contact the man, what to reveal and what not to reveal.
Owen wasn't really his lawyer. That relationship had a lot of legal loopholes in it, but Dana really was. She was the one Nick met up with while Sin planned. She was the one he spoke to about taking down the Kurevs. Her questions had been to the point.
"Will people die?"
"Most likely." He knew better than to fully admit what they were up to. He'd learned a long time ago—at his grandfather's feet—to only express concern for the outcome, to only offer projections rather than plans.
"Will you be involved in that happening?" Dana knew the lingo, too. She was morally and legally obligated to report any suggestion a client was about to go commit a crime. Particularly one of the nature Nick described.
Nick knew her morals lay along the same lines as his own. They made a good team that way. And he answered accordingly. "It would be the likely outcome."
She'd left him with one piece of legal advice, "Don't get caught."
It would jeopardize his standing with Dunham, his chances at getting a sweet deal with the feds, any money he might retain. It would jeopardize his chances to walk around as a free man.
If he didn't do this though, it would jeopardize Lee's chances to walk around as a live man. He didn't mention it to Sin.
The Kurevs were first on the list. Churkin would be there with him tonight. That's what they hoped.
Sin stood in the doorway of yet another motel. They'd abandoned the first room, but aside from the fact that it wasn't the same place, it was the same place.
She was in her wig, though tonight her eyes were her own brown. She couldn't risk the contact lenses she often wore. Her purse hung over her shoulder, and she had on leather pants and boots that laced tightly to her feet. While she did look party ready, she also looked fight ready.
Nick did not.
He was in his slacks and button down shirt.
"You don't have a vest on." She meant the Kevlar she wanted him to wear.
"Neither do you."
She shook her head. "Too obvious."
"Same here." He shrugged at her. He'd tried it. At best it looked like a sudden weight gain in only his chest. The Kurevs would notice. And the two of them needed access—they needed to get into the back rooms. They needed to walk in, not fight their way in.
Fighting their way in would get them killed. The vest would not protect from that. So he only had on his usual slacks and button down shirt.
He stuck a gun in the back of his waistband, but it was a flag for the men at the door. An offering for them to take upon his entry.
"Are you ready?"
He nodded, but said, "I want Churkin."
Sin knew it. He still needed the closure for Reese.
He wanted Churkin because he thought he'd already won that game and that small consolation had been yanked out from under him.
Then he shook the thoughts and started the engine. It wasn't long before he passed the spare car parked just beyond the Kurev’s north entry. There was another spare waiting out back. Each of them had keys for each car. Getting "in" was the issue, "out" was already in place as much as it could be.
Two cars, separate arrivals. And Nick wondered how the Kurevs got anything done when they kept inviting random people inside their home, especially when they kept letting Sin in.
He checked his weapons, and took his shinier car in one direction, Sin split off down the road. With phone contact, they timed it perfectly, Nick pulling in before her.
At the door, he was checked and his gun taken from him, just as he suspected. But he walked slowly down the hallway, heading toward the sounds of yet another gathering, stalling for time.
Nick tugged at the tie, pulling it from his neck, they hadn't taken it, and he wasn't going to wear it into this little impromptu get together. They hadn't taken all of his other weapons either.
He ambled along, waiting to hear Sin behind him, so he headed further down the hall. He didn’t doubt Churkin would recognize him, so he and Sin had to enter together. As he swung past the open double doors, he heard Sin’s voice in the entry behind him.
"Really, you're going to check my purse?"
They'd find cigarettes, a lighter, hairspray, another small hairspray . . . It couldn't be helped. Nick kept his hand down by his side, showing her an open five fingers. He estimated almost fifty people in the room. He ducked into the restroom and burned a minute while he listened to them check out his sister.
"Thank you." He heard her finally heading down the hallway just as Nick was finishing washing his hands.
His nerves kicked up.
Though it didn't change his ability to function, he felt it.
He came through the door from one side, Sin from another, still fumbling in her purse as though the check had messed things up.
Nick saw Yulia Churkin look up as they entered.
For just a moment, he watched her eyes recognize him then flit to the woman next to him. They were narrowing as she looked.
Sin produced the small hairspray bottle then yanked it apart, throwing it at Churkin and Kaspar's feet. Though both jumped, too slow to avoid the world going white and wild for a moment.
It was all he and Sin needed and they worked while the others fought off the disorienting effects of the flash bang.
He heard screaming and suspected that Churkin and Kaspar would come around the fastest. It didn't matter though. Sin was reaching for the other little can of hairspray.
Still blinded, their ears would be ringing. They wouldn't hear it hit or see the smoke sizzling out in a stream that was quickly dissipating into the air.
Nick reached into his jacket and ripped out the lining he'd pulled then tacked down earlier that day. Sin was already yanking at the fabric on the side of her purse. Each pulled out a thin, clear mask with a rubber, sealing rim around the edges and under the eyes to prevent fogging. A small filter on the front let them breathe, both of them getting it onto their faces just as the CS gas hit their side of the room.
The air was cloudy with the stuff, but through the faint haze they could see people coughing and rubbing their faces. Many dropped down on all fours as though that would help. Nick felt it too as it started to seep into his pores.
But that had been expected. This was a police issued canister he'd brought with him. The same stuff he and Sin had trained on in White Oak. They already knew how it would feel, though Nick could admit that the memory never quite added up to reality. The shit burned. His armpits were the worst as the stuff attacked glands, but he pushed aside the pain, taking his advantage. He went after the people around Yulia Churkin.
The room was brightly lit. So with his clear shield on his face—which wasn't as good as a real gas mask—he was able to make out Sin signal him as she tossed him some cosmetic canister from her purse.
Nick knew what it was.
Yanking the lid, he pulled the trigger, streaming OC spray into the faces of the nearby partiers. Oleoresin Capsaicin was a purse standard, but this was military grade. Nick wasn’t surprised that people went from crying and rubbing at their faces to curled on their hands and knees, clearly feeling a burn akin to razor blades in their throats. A few were even trying to scream, though they couldn't really make sounds. Pepper spray was bad when you saw it coming. And though the effects were only temporary, having it hit you when you were already blind had to be scary.
Nick didn't care. They shouldn't have been here. Everyone knew what Kurev really was, and those who didn't deserved it for being stupid.
The OC was starting to hint at Nick's skin, but again he'd been ready.
As he headed forward he searched the people who were down. Which one was Churkin?
Nick scanned the space, looking for the woman who didn't quite pass as Ann Evalyn. Nothing popped out at him. He was scanning the people coughing and yelling on the floor a second time when one of them stood up.
She stood tall, staring at him. Her brown eyes watered at the gas, but that was the only thing masking the hatred radiating from her. Of course she hated him, he'd shot her in the head. And he intended to do it again, only with better results this time.
Reaching into his pocket to finger the tie he'd stashed there, Nick took stock.
The way she blinked, the OC gas was having little effect on her. Police training warned him that a few people were nearly immune to the stuff. It would just figure Churkin was one of them. The other possibility was that she'd trained with it, just as he and Sin had. Maybe she knew how to handle the pain, understood that it would fade and she should breathe shallowly. But the subtle shifts in her stance looked like the CS gas was getting into her skin.
Good.
It was easy to see why she'd been mistaken for Sin once upon a time. Her hair and eye color were the same; she stood like a fighter, just like Sin, and she was dressed to literally kill if necessary. In the short skirt and tightly laced boots, she could have been Sin through the haze in his eyes. But he knew better.
They looked alike because the two were cousins. In fact, Churkin was his cousin, too.
That was all it took.
The convoluted web of relationships that Kolya Kurev had spun during his life lived on long after his death. Nick didn't care that she was his cousin. He hated her. She'd killed the one good thing he'd found, the one person who made him think he could be more than just the head of the Vasilescu crime family, more than just a backward cop living two lives.
He pulled the tie out, the silk slipping through his fingers. He didn't have Sin's moves; he relied on guns, Tasers, pepper spray, and cuffs. None of which he had now. And Churkin did have Sin's moves.
Not turning his head, Nick listened for sounds of his sister behind him. From what he could see from the corner of his eye, she was grabbing shoulders and turning people over looking for Kurevs. But movement in front of him brought him back to his own fight.
Yulia Churkin stepped over the writhing body on the ground in front of her, her eyes wet but clear. Through his mask he could see the anger on her face and for the first time he wondered if Stanislav Shvernik had meant anything to her personally. He could only hope that Shvernik getting his face blown off in Nick's front yard had hurt her as much as Reese's death had hurt him.
Nick decided he didn't care. He only knew that his fighting skills were at a disadvantage here, but his anger, his hatred, would carry him through.
The punch would have connected with his jaw had he not seen it coming. As it was, she was so fast he almost didn't get out of the way in time.
Even in heels, even with her fist not connecting, even given the writhing, crying bodies at her feet, Yulia Churkin didn't stumble. She was that good.
Nick took a deep breath of tainted air and reminded himself that her air was worse. She didn't have the mask.
With a quick step to his left, he used his right leg to sweep out hers. But—like her—he missed.
She simply wasn't there when his foot went by.
Her own leg connected to the back of his standing leg, taking it out, neatly reversing his move onto him. While he wasn't her caliber, Nick was good. He'd lived his whole life knowing there was a punch flying, a hit coming, a gun aimed at him, and though she made contact, she didn't take him down either.
Her elbow came at him in an arc that looked nearly graceful through the time gap of adrenaline.
This time she hit. He'd moved, taking the blow in a glance on the shoulder and using it to his advantage, Nick went down of his own accord. Two steps into clearer space, away from the crying, sniveling party guests. His left hand coming up to grip his upper arm as though in pain. He would have a bruise, but it was nothing to worry over, he just made it look like it was.
From over his own shoulder he could see her taking the bait, following him to where he was crouched, his back to her.
It was dangerous, baiting her with his spine. He didn't doubt she'd cripple, crush, or even kill him in a heartbeat.
The boot came down next to his left foot, his hand still clutching his arm as he hunched over. He knew she was coming in, but he couldn't see how so he just exploded.
Levering his right hand against his left fist, he led with his elbow, shooting upward into whatever she was bringing.
Nick felt it contact before he even knew what he'd hit.
She kept coming forward, the long bone of his arm bearing the brunt of her weight. For once, she hadn't seen it coming. But Nick kept going.
Letting go with his right hand, he curled his fingers. He'd been taught this, but in the moment it was instinctual, and he jammed the knuckles up under her jaw.
Only, it wasn't her jaw.
Behind him, some part of her—elbow, fist, knee?—connected into what was surely his kidney. He was going to piss blood for a few days, but Nick didn't care. The thought flitted away as he realized what he was hitting. Not her chin, but some part of her shoulder.
Clenching his fist, he went for a different approach, hammering down onto the top of her clavicle. Two hits, three, four, he kept going, knowing that sooner or later he would hit the nerve cluster there. He aimed into the meat of her trapezius, hoping he hit it before she stopped him.
A muffled grunt, followed by her stumbling backward, was his answer.
Bitch. She deserved it.
He was facing her now, though his feet were twisted under him from when he'd come up so abruptly, and he first straightened them out.
For a moment, they circled each other, Nick knowing the time he spent getting his breath back was also time Churkin used to regain her own footing. Everything else in the room had fallen away, except it hadn't.
Too well trained to look away, Nick still took in the partier on the floor, her dress hiked up in a decidedly un-lady-like manner. Not that she'd been a lady before he'd thrown CS and OC gas on them all. One of her sparkly, spiked, fuck-me heels was missing and her face oozed tears and mucus. Nick didn't care. He only cared that she was crying and feeling her way around behind Churkin. And Churkin didn't see her.
With a rush of speed from adrenaline and sheer anger, Nick charged her. His hands didn't come up until the last moment, deliberately deceiving her from knowing where he would strike.
And he didn't strike. He pushed.
A quick shove to her hips, a shoulder into her chest, hitting all her major points of gravity. The woman on the ground behind her became no more than a tool for him, but she ensured that Churkin could not keep her feet.
Nick landed on top of her, hearing the breath whoosh out of her. But she wasn't in a street fight. She was in a gas fight and Nick had the mask. Flimsy as it might be, it was a benefit.
Churkin was coughing as she reached for his face. Her eyes were squeezed shut and he could only hope the gas was getting to them, finally. Her hands clawed at him, a nail peeling a good strip from his cheek, the burn worse in the toxic air. Nick didn't care.
He shoved the heel of his hand into her chin, slamming her head back against the floor. It was a good hit, but the thick, garish carpet made a mockery of his anger, padding her against the blow.
She twisted, using her hips and shoulders to create momentum and shove him off.
More startled than he should have been, Nick jolted backward but was stopped by someone on the floor behind him. The grunt—a guttural break from the whining—signaled that the other person hadn't been expecting the hit either. Nick paid no attention and spent his energy faking confusion.
He didn't have to do it long; Churkin gained her feet almost faster than humanly possible. Just another reminder that he was fighting an expert. But he shot his hands out, grasping her ankles just as she got upright, and with a quick jerk using all his weight, he took her stability right back out from under her.
This time when her head hit, he heard it.
Though her breath whooshed out again in an attempt to control the fall, it wasn't enough.
Crawling forward, even as she thrashed a bit in surprise, he could see her eyes and the stunned confusion there. Though the carpet was still thick and still ugly, this time the force had been hard enough. Churkin blinked, stunned by the blow to her head. Even though her limbs were already in motion from years of training, it wasn't enough. She wasn't aware of what exactly she was fighting against, which Nick used to his advantage.
He wished he had a gun, he wanted bullet holes in her; he wanted actual blood. But he couldn't get a gun past the front door. Instead he had his tie. Reaching into his pocket he easily grabbed at the only thing in there.
Kneeling over her, Nick watched as her eyes began to focus. It all happened so quickly that he couldn't have counted it off had he tried. What mattered was that the tie was in his hands.
Long and silk, it was sturdy enough for the job he had in mind. Without thinking of anything other than killing this woman—again—he wound the ends around his hands, the grip reassuring him.
Before she could react to bring her hands up, Nick straddled her and brought the fabric down across her neck, the muffled thunk of her head hitting the floor again satisfying deep in his gut.
Churkin struggled, but Nick didn't let up. He thought only of Sin and how Churkin had ambushed her in Atlanta. Of Lee, asleep in his bed as Churkin and her friend poisoned them and opened fire. He remembered Reese, and how he had tried to hold her skull together after Churkin and Shvernik had shot her in the middle of Nick's living room.
At that last thought, he unconsciously gave the tie an extra yank and watched as her face started to change color.
And she was starting to fight back despite that fact.
He expected her hips to come up, her feet bracing under her to throw him.
Though she did lift him off her, he didn't let it stop him. Coming up off the floor, pushing into the necktie, she sacrificed a little of her own pain to get out of what he held her in. Nick wasn't having it.
As she lifted her head, he took advantage and jerked his right hand quickly around her head, keeping the pressure on her windpipe as best he could. He now had the tie wrapped entirely around her neck. Wherever she went, he need only pull on the ends to cut off her air.
So when she gained a position of advantage and pressed her own bare hands to his neck, Nick held tight. He yanked the ends of his neck tie, satisfied with the changing shades of her skin. It wasn't fast, he had to hold on a long time, but it was effective.
When her fingers pressed into the flesh at his neck and he felt the floor pressing up behind him, he yanked harder on the silk.
And when his own vision started to sparkle and dim, he reminded himself that it was a game of time and he'd started first.