If there was one thing Diana had learned just now, it was that Churkin was anything but classic. She fought dirty and without remorse. Diana would do the same.
Diana’s kick pushed them apart, forcing each of them to hit the ground as safely as possible and reassess the situation.
Now breathing heavily, Diana rolled quickly onto one knee, both feet planted, ready to pop up, left hand on the dirty pavement, right resting on her knee, shredded knuckles showing but not slowing her down.
Churkin crouched, feet firm, hands forward, empty, open in a classic fighter’s stance.
From the corner of her eye, and behind Churkin, Diana saw Reese move.
Finally! It had only been moments, and though she hadn’t actively used any brain space worrying about her friend, she was immensely relieved to see that Reese was okay—as okay as she could be.
Diana narrowed her focus back to Churkin, who thankfully kept hers on Diana as the obvious threat.
Reese stayed quiet, letting Churkin make the mistake of continuing to count her out.
Keeping their enemy’s attention became a priority, covering any noise Reese might make. So Diana burst off the ground, fists flying, teeth bared, as a yell fueled her flight to close the distance.
With her left arm she swept upward, blocking both of Churkin’s blows and clearing the way for the downward sweep of her right fist. Hammering with the base of her fist, she hit the other woman in the nerve bundle at her upper thigh, effectively collapsing her leg.
Using that as a start, Diana laid the woman on her back, pinning her legs and delivering a series of nonlethal blows. There wasn’t much she could do with Churkin being protected by that thick skull and the Kevlar. She couldn’t get her arm across the woman’s throat to choke her out—the other woman’s defenses were too good—and she couldn’t open an artery through both fabric and skin with only her bare hands.
Her gun was gone, her baton also thrown, the shovel off to her left.
She had no knives or throwing stars sewn into pockets in her uniform. Her handcuffs—designed for control—were useless in combat. She had only hands and boots and . . . Mace!
Diana used her left hand to deliver and block blows while her right reached toward her belt. But at that moment she spotted the streak of brown in her periphery. Coming from the right, the broken bottle missed slicing her cheek only because of her own quick reflexes. Supremely grateful for her superior position, Diana jumped to her feet, the only thing that kept Yulia’s long reach—at least five inches longer by way of bottle neck and jagged end—from finding skin and flaying it open.
Taking two steps back, Diana gripped the mace, yanked from its breakaway holder, and grasped firmly, ready. She held her left hand, palm out, in front of her, an old magician’s trick to divert attention.
Yulia didn’t seem to see the mace, and she also wasn’t aware of the shovel.
Reese was now on her feet and swinging like a baseball player on steroids, her anger evident in the blade, aimed edge out at Yulia’s spine.
Yulia didn’t know it was coming and Reese didn’t seem to know Yulia was wearing a vest.
The powerful blow knocked the other woman forward, the shock seeming to ripple through her system, rather than sever her spine.
Diana jerked to her left, toward Reese, the bottle Yulia held coming closer as she stumbled. It waved erratically as the other woman tried to aim it, but couldn’t. Diana opened fire with the mace directly into the woman’s face.
But Yulia surprised her again.
Her eyes closed, her face stayed relaxed.
Son of a bitch! Was there anything this woman hadn’t trained for?
She clearly held her breath. It still had to hurt, but if you’d tried it, if you were Maced once in the face before, then the pain existed, but you knew it was temporary. Churkin did all the right things to diminish the effects: she closed her eyes but didn’t squeeze. She didn’t breathe in; she didn’t react by reaching up and rubbing her face.
She did step back. Effectively blinded, at least momentarily, she turned to face them, hands forward, eyes closed.
Uncannily wielding the bottle alternately aiming at each of them, she slowly retreated.
Her feet shuffled backward, two steps, three in rapid succession.
Now was the time to grab her, but the broken bottle was still an effective deterrent.
Yulia’s foot hit something, one of the guns. And—still holding the bottle toward them—she dropped in a rapid move and was upright, gun aimed their way before Diana had a chance to get to a gun of her own.
The woman’s eyes were still closed, and Diana was still close enough. Softly, she reached to her belt again and slid out a spare magazine. She’d practiced for years throwing knives; she could nail a two-inch target sixty feet away. But tonight she’d started using that skill throwing anything heavy and elongated she could get her hands on. She pinched the magazine between her thumb and forefinger, leaving prints galore on it. It didn’t matter; it was police issue, numbered and coded back to her—and thankfully without a rubberized grip like her baton. She held the butt of the magazine toward her palm and again raised her elbow, wrist straight, toward the woman backing away from them, just now starting to blink.
Was she immune to Mace? Holy crap.
A few people were. It would just figure one of them would be Yulia Churkin.
The woman dropped the bottle in a clatter of glass that echoed off the high walls. Who knew what noise they had made before, but now that they were in a silent standoff, the glass clinked at an ungodly decibel. Churkin was reaching into her back pocket, and to her left, Diana could just see Reese moving, obviously wanting to yell out the usual “keep your hands where we can see them”. But Reese had no position of power: she was holding a shovel while Diana gripped a full magazine but had no gun. And Churkin was aiming at them.
The assassin must have pulled the scrap of paper from her pocket without looking, because just as she started to blink her eyes, she flicked it at the ground toward Reese.
Diana dropped her elbow, extending her arm and letting the magazine fly.
Again she nailed Churkin in the head, this time the temple, this time—finally—eliciting a response. “Ow!”
In the split second her free hand went up to her head, her gun hand swiveled toward Diana and shot off two rounds.
But Diana had already ducked, and Churkin still had some mace in her eyes.
Before Churkin shot, Reese dropped the shovel with a clatter and executed a move straight out of training, rolling sharply to her left and coming up on her knee, Glock in hand and aimed at Churkin.
She didn’t say anything this time, just fired three shots, all hitting Churkin center mass.
This time, Churkin emptied her clip as she ran, scattering Diana and Reese to the sides of the alley, the unaimed bullets more dangerous than anything else. The assassin rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, taking the gun with her.
Breath soughing, Reese leaned over and put her hands on her knees, but to her credit didn’t barf up her lunch. The whole thing about most officers never drawing their weapon was a joke, but most didn’t end up in street fights like this.
Reese only stayed that way for a minute. Then she stood straight, checked the gun in her hand, and walked over and looked at the other one lying on its side in the pale light where the pavement met the brick of the wall. She toed the weapon. “This is hers. I have yours; I think she has mine.”
She next headed over to the paper, also nudging it with her foot and frowning. Then she spoke. “Looks like it’s from an elementary yearbook. . . . Cynthia May Beller . . . cute kid.”
Diana felt her own stomach turn over. It was only years of steeling herself against the things this life had thrown at her that kept her from hunching over and tossing her own lunch. It shouldn’t have made her insides roll; she should have seen this coming.
Not noticing that Reese had stalked the four corners of the scene and taken a quick inventory, the voice came as a surprise. “We have to get the bottle; it should have clean prints. It looks old and it rained recently. We might get some hair off that shovel.”
When she was done with that, she should have pulled her radio, miraculously still clipped to her shoulder and called it in. She didn’t. Instead she stood straight and looked at Diana, still standing where Churkin had left her. “What was she?”
That, Diana could answer. “A professional.”
Reese’s eyes nailed her. “What does that make you?”
She’d told him to call, given him a window when she’d be away from home, on the burner phone. The right one.
Will was worried.
They shouldn’t be talking much. Text was the best bet. Calling could cause trouble. But he wanted to hear her voice. Wanted the tone as much as the words to tell him she was okay. He wanted to believe her, because belief would push back the worry.
He wasn’t built for worry. Never had been.
With Sam, he’d once worried she was having an affair. That hadn’t ended well. It had also torn him up inside.
Will knew he was at his best when he was laser focused. Unfortunately, he was at his sharpest when he just didn’t care. Strangely, he spent more time worrying about Diana than he ever had about Sam. Had he just not loved Sam enough? Had he not clung tightly because he hadn’t yet learned that things could get ripped away? Maybe there just wasn’t much to worry about back in the days of Sam and Bethy. His wife had been sweet and beautiful, his daughter healthy and a charmer. He’d always thought that’s what they were good for. Never once had he stopped to look deeper, to understand that he needed Sam to be smart, resourceful, strong.
Since he hadn’t seen the monster lurking under the glass surface either, he could hardly fault his wife.
Diana was the other end of the spectrum. “Sweet” was a word that couldn’t even cautiously approach her. Her beauty was in her strength—and only occasionally in the smile that rarely showed. She’d lived a life of single-mindedness, and when she’d thought that life was over, chose a job that put her in with the worst of the worst. Diana was made of steel.
And she needed him to call her.
Will sat in the “new car.” He’d dyed his hair a dark brown that was just this side of black, taking all the blond out. He traded out his T-shirts and jeans, now wearing button-down simple plaid over worn white tanks and khakis. Then, no longer recognizable as the man who’d followed Roman Kurev, he’d taken the silver car into a tough neighborhood and traded keys with a man who knew he was getting a good deal. Will traded several steps down, caring only about the engine and the anonymity. This car was mid-level blue, the kind of shade that faded into the road at dawn and dusk. The kind that could park in shadows in the woods, mud on the underside a familiar accessory, blending with little spots of rust, looking like a shark and housing a killer.
His hands shook as he dialed the phone.
“Hey, baby.”
Just the sound of her voice sent a surge of calm through him, even though he knew full well that she could be there, lying on the floor, at gunpoint, a limb missing, bleeding out, and she could still pull off that tone. “I missed you.”
They didn’t use names. What would they call each other anyway?
“Me, too.” She sighed, taking a moment, and allowing him to take one as well.
But she’d had a purpose for the call, and he waited only a beat for her to get to it.
“S is in the hospital.” Stelian. Interesting.
“Did you put him there?”
She laughed, a deep rich sound that fortified his soul. She laughed so rarely. “I actually like the guy. Don’t know what’s up his sleeve, which side he’s playing on, or if he’d kill me, but I like him.”
That Will understood. He’d had a life, friends, and social events. Diana was still making up for lost chances; maybe she always would be.
Will didn’t speak. The rule was to not say more than was necessary and Diana was talking enough for both of them. He let her continue.
“It was a gunshot. Head grazed, brain shaken. They’re letting him out tomorrow evening and I’ll go visit him. He was in V territory when it happened and the report doesn’t add up.”
“Shit.” More and more evidence was piling up against this guy and still there was nothing solid. It was all circumstantial.
It got worse. “R and I were at the hospital—”
“R?” he interrupted.
“Coworker.”
Reese. He knew her. Diana’s best friend, if she had that. “Go on.”
“We were at the hospital and C showed up at his room.”
“C”? The coding was just too much. They shouldn’t say names. Someone could be scanning for them. Dunham had said so. But . . .“Y?”
“Yes.”
Will froze in the car. He could connect Yulia Churkin to “the Beller girl” but not to Nick Stelian. Except now he could. Shitshitshit. “Get out of there.”
“Already out.”
Where was she? Was she safe?
Will noticed his breathing was rapid, his heart rate up along with his fear level. He wasn’t built for this. For a moment he considered wishing Diana good luck and taking off, losing himself somewhere in the Rockies or Mexico. Maybe head to Africa, no one there knew of the Kurevs, the Vasilescus. But he’d still worry about her, and he wouldn’t have these periodic check-ins to both assure him and terrify him. “Where?”
He asked it before he could stop himself.
“Out.” She didn’t answer him, smart girl. Diana was resourceful, he reminded himself. “R spotted her and C ran. We fought her and she got away.”
“R, too?”
“Yeah. It gets worse.”
Could it? Then Diana spoke and it did.
“She flicked a scrap of paper at R; it was a picture of me. Grade school.”
“Son of a bitch!” He didn’t just think it; he spat it out as though getting the words out of his mouth could get the image out of his head. Churkin knew exactly who Diana was. And she’d outted at least a big clue to Reese. “What did R do?”
“Pocketed it. Picked up evidence. Pulled fingerprints.”
“They won’t find anything.” Yulia Churkin wasn’t on file.
Diana said otherwise. “You’re right, C isn’t on file anywhere, but the prints matched to some old crimes.”
His head hurt like a bitch, but he didn’t dare take anything stronger than Advil. Nick needed his brain in working order. Thank God it still was.
He had not counted on Bun shooting him.
That fucking bastard. Nick was his grandson for Christ’s sake! And the only heir left unless you counted Gavril, but Gavril was too young. Even if he’d been older, he was too hotheaded; he’d finish what Bun started and drive the entire family the rest of the way into the ground. Nick thanked God at that moment for the steady paycheck from the PD. It wasn’t much, but it was something if the whole family went to hell.
Forty-three hours he’d been in the hospital. Five hours in surgery. Sixteen in an induced coma until his brain had stopped swelling enough. Another day in the ward. His skull had been grazed, the bone damaged, his brain knocked around. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking right now. He was on medical leave from work, and he wasn’t supposed to do anything more difficult than sit on the couch and watch stupid TV. Doctor’s orders were to stay away from channels with Science or History in the title. Ouch.
He couldn’t do it. He had to get back. Bun shooting his own grandchild wouldn’t play well. If Nick didn’t grab the reins right now . . . who knew what would happen?
Blinking repeatedly, as though that would lessen the pounding in his head, he went into the bathroom and stared in the mirror while he waited for the disturbingly mild meds to take whatever effect they might. He unwound the bandage from his head, another thing he wasn’t supposed to do.
He was also supposed to have a babysitter. Reese had volunteered. Given their brief and somewhat intense history, Nick hadn’t been sure if that was a good idea or not. Ultimately it didn’t matter, because Reese had parked him on his own couch, tucked him under the blanket she’d pulled from his bed, handed him the remote, and said she’d be back. Very un-babysitter-like.
The mirror showed a man who shouldn’t be standing upright. It was a game of millimeters. This time they’d fallen on Nick’s side. Next time, he would make sure that Bun’s millimeters lined up. He wouldn’t bank on kindness or family loyalty again. Let them see what Emilian Vasilescu had done. Let them see what he hadn’t.
Nick pulled on casual clothes—getting nearly killed wasn’t a concern to a man like him. He grabbed a jacket and his keys and headed out into the driveway, not knowing if the headache was lessened by the medication or by his focus.
He drove into Atlanta, the roads known by heart; they belonged to him now, no matter what the old man said. Though there were no extra cars visible at the house, it was clear that there was a meeting under way. Nick crashed it.
They all looked up, Phil Megan and Dom Petran standing, Bun sitting, a few others scattered through the otherwise empty seats. Rudin sat next to Bun, both men glowering but pinned. Nick could see their backs; they didn’t do him the honor of even turning to look at him.
“Nick!” Megan announced his presence with pride. “I was just explaining how things were to your grandfather here.”
Bun’s hand slapped the table. “This is my family. I am in charge!”
“No, you’re not.” Nick felt a calm come through him, but still he looked for firearms, both on the older men and within their reach. He didn’t see any. “Thank you, Phil.”
The lawyer came around the table and shook his hand, as though this were any other business meeting. Nick took the cue and clasped the hand of each man who’d stood on his side, thanking him for being there. He could be making a total idiot out of himself. Maybe they had all gone back to Bun when Nick was shot.
He had to stride in here and stand his ground like he was still in charge. Had to assume it. There was no way to ask if they were still his.
Turning to his grandfather, Nick spoke his mind around the pressure in his skull. “You are out. I told you that. Shooting me makes no difference.” He reached up and pushed back the hair that had remained after having a portion of his head shaved, the skin loosened, stretched, and stitched back together. He made them all see what his grandfather had done. “I’m your flesh and blood, and this is how you treat me?” He didn’t let the old man respond, just pushed forward, creating doubt and a place for himself at the head of the table. “It makes me wonder what happened to your sons. I remember some rumblings about overthrowing you, and then—one by one—they fell. Was that you, old man?”
“I would never—”
“No one believes you.” He leaned in, close to the old man’s face, his head screaming with tension from the center of his brain. The side of his head was proof enough. “Leave.”
Bun blustered. “No.”
“Yes.” Jesus, it was just a pissing contest. He could end it by shooting the old man, but he wanted to be better than that.
“No. This is my table. My house.” Bun jammed a pointed finger at the smooth surface of the table, but it wavered.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be remedying that right away.” Then he looked at the rest of the few gathered there. He caught Phil Megan’s eyes and Dom’s as well. They knew to keep an eye on Bun and Rudin in case they tried again to kill him. Nick started talking. “No more killing. Not each other.” He looked at his grandfather when he said the next line. “We don’t do that anymore. We have each other’s backs.”
Two of the men nodded and laid firearms on the table. Ironic. But it was a sign of solidarity.
“No meth. It’s too dangerous. It will kill our own people and we take care of our own.” He walked around the table. “We do not sell guns on the street. Our town is going to be safer. People need jobs, not fear. I will do everything I can to keep everyone at this table safe and well kept, but we won’t get greedy. We’ve all seen what can happen when a few get too greedy.”
Bun snorted behind him, but Nick was nowhere near done.
“There will be more joining us. I won’t be limiting access to the table the way it has been done in the past.” He looked around the table, made eye contact with each of them, and nodded despite the crushing feeling that was pervading his skull. “Family will join or not depending on skill and loyalty. No one is guaranteed a position.” Then he launched into the part most likely to cause an uproar. “Some of the new recruits are Mexican, Black, Asian, you name it. I don’t care what nationality or color they are, I care if they’re good for this organization.”
Bun smacked his hand on the table and started to protest.
But Nick didn’t let him. “Shut the fuck up, old man! You showed me that blood isn’t everything. You taught me that shutting people out was a fool’s way of staying on top when it wasn’t earned. So everyone is welcome here. Even Celia. Even Genie.” He turned to Petran, “Ask Stefania if she wants to join. She’s smart. She’ll be welcome.”
He looked back at the men still sitting at his table. “If anyone has a problem with that, tell me now. But I will not shut out people who will be loyal and helpful. We will not judge each other by trivial designations.”
The men looked at each other. This was the last time they would sit at this table as only themselves. Nick wanted it to be clear that Vasilescu was entering a new era. Loyalty and work and intelligence would be prized and no value would be placed on birth.
Nick thanked them all for being there, for supporting him, but gave nothing to Bun and Rudin.
He tried not to show that he held his breath as he turned and walked out the door. This time he thankfully made it outside without getting shot. He slid into his car and pulled onto the street before he acknowledged that he shouldn’t have come out tonight. His head hurt like a bitch, the Advil having been little help. It had probably been adrenaline that he’d felt kicking in earlier, not any kind of medicinal effect.
The engine cranked loudly, more than usual. The blinker was accompanied by the pain it inspired with every click, and Nick wasn’t sure how he made it home without either mowing down an innocent citizen or stopping and putting his head in his hands and maybe crying for a bit.
When he walked in the door, he was fuzzy enough to not notice Reese standing in his living room until she spoke. “Where were you?”
He frowned and instantly regretted the movement. “Where were you? You’re supposed to be babysitting me.”
“You’re supposed to be lying on the couch.” She put her hands on her hips and he suddenly wanted to do exactly that.
“Okay, don’t yell.”
Her tone softened, even if the volume didn’t seem to. “I’m not yelling, Nick. Take a nap. I’ll wake you when she gets here.”
He didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but she was holding out a small white pill and he took it.
Reese didn’t let him sleep, though. She shook him as soon as he started really falling under. He was about to call her on it but she offered him a glass of water and became a goddess, a goddess who had changed clothes in the moment his eyes blinked shut. He blinked again; someone was standing behind her. He almost bolted out of bed—couch, that is—to save her. Then his eyes focused and he shook off some of the sleep.
3 a.m.
He’d been out a while. He just wished he felt more rested.
What was she doing here?
“Diana?”