Conflicted (Undercover #2) (11 page)

I felt myself flush and gave him a half-shocked, half-turned-on look. But the truth was, I was glad of the momentary distraction. This was a whole new kind of fear.

We were waiting for the guards to tell us it was safe to disembark. They were checking the whole area for snipers. Any moment, Yuri was going to wave us forward and we’d emerge into the daylight, blinking and helpless. And pray that the guards had done their job.

“Who is it?” I whispered, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “Who is it, who might try to kill us?”

“Olaf Ralavich and his men. A rival family.” He shook his head. “Not like us. They are not part of the brotherhood.”

“They have less...honor?”

He looked as if he was going to spit. “They have no honor at all.”

Yuri waved us forward. After long minutes of waiting, now we had to move fast. Luka went first and I almost wanted to press up against his broad back like a child, cuddling up to him until we were safely inside. But Yuri had warned us not to even hold hands, in case we had to break and run.

I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. And found myself at the end of the world.

It happened while we were at sea. There’s been a war, and we missed it. God, what if we’re the only survivors?

That’s what it looked like. Like every post-apocalyptic movie I’d ever seen.

The yacht was moored at an ugly, concrete dock. The sky overhead was almost the same shade of light gray, the clouds completely covering it. Even the sea looked a sickly gray. The gray blankness made the desolation before us stand out even more.

There had been factories, once. Now they were just shells, walls ripped down to expose their innards. There were scorch marks from fire—or possibly bombs. There was no bird song and no greenery of any kind that I could see and not even a blade of grass.

The guards marched us towards the nearest building: three men in front, three behind, guns drawn and eyes watchful. Other guards were already patrolling the cracked, crumbling road and I could see a few perched high up on walls, keeping a lookout. “What
is
this place?” I asked.

Luka shook his head. “Nowhere you ever want to come again.” Even he seemed unsettled by it.

Crossing the open area felt like being a mouse crawling across a highway. My heart was a tight, pounding ball in my throat as I waited for a shot to ring out. Despite the instructions, I grabbed Luka’s hand and squeezed it tight. He squeezed back.

Seconds later, we reached the building and trooped inside. I let out a long sigh of relief. Looking out through the cracked windows, I could see the yacht. It looked very small and vulnerable out there on its own. Luka had been right—it wouldn’t have been safe to leave me there.

As the fear receded a little, I became aware of the cold. Luka had been right—it was
freezing.
And very, very, creepy. The sooner we got out of there, the better.

Soon, we heard a car. Luka gave me a meaningful look. I looked down at myself as if checking my appearance. I was still trying to play the new girlfriend, eager to make a good impression—and, weirdly, part of me
did
actually want that. The rest of me was scared as hell that Luka’s dad would see straight through my cover. Unlike his son, he wouldn’t be blinded by feelings.

A car door slammed. New guards entered, exchanging nods with our own guards. They all stood to attention and I could see the fear in their eyes. The same dread that Luka inspired in civilians, this man inspired in criminals. And then he was walking into the room, his long coat flapping like a cape.

“Luka,” said Vasiliy Malakov. “It’s been too long.”

I could see immediately where Luka got his build from. Vasiliy was almost as tall as his son, almost as wide and, despite being in his fifties, he seemed to have retained most of his muscle. He was almost like a prototype for Luka—not quite as big, not quite as handsome (Luka must have inherited his gorgeous eyes and cheekbones from his mother) but still a man that made you stop and look, even at his age.

He embraced Luka and kissed him on both cheeks. Then he turned to me. “And you are?” he asked me in Russian.

I had to remember to blink and look uncomprehending.

“She doesn’t speak Russian,” said Luka quickly, in Russian. “She’s American.”

I got the sense the Vasiliy had seen enough in his lifetime that very little would surprise him, but that did the trick. He turned and stared at his son as if he’d said I was radioactive. “You brought an American
here?!
To a
meeting?!
”

“She’s okay,” said Luka stiffly. “She’s fine.”

His dad shook his head. “You couldn’t keep your dick dry for one night?”

“It’s not like that! She’s not just—” Luka took a breath to calm himself. “I like her.”

His dad sighed and laid his face in his palm. “Luka, Luka...an
American?!
She is not suitable for you.” He glanced at me. “She’s pretty enough, I grant you. I’d want to jump between her legs if I was a little younger.”

“Father!”
snapped Luka.

I willed myself not to blush. I didn’t want them to know I understood Russian.

Vasiliy sighed again. “You shouldn’t have brought her here. What have you told her?”

“Only that it’s guns. She can keep quiet.”

They’d been talking in Russian for a long time. I tried to look uncomfortable, as if I was wondering what was going on. Luka caught my look. “My father is asking all about you,” he told me in English, forcing a smile onto his face. “He says you’re exactly what I need.”

I smiled at the lie and then smiled at his father.

“Why did you tell her that?” asked Vasiliy in Russian. “Sometimes, I worry there’s too much of your mother in you. Soft like butter.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to dump her, when you get back to Moscow. I can’t have an American sniffing around.”

I felt myself tense and tried to hide it.

“She’s not sniffing—” Luka began.

But his father interrupted him. He put a big, fake grin on his face and grabbed hold of me, kissing each cheek in turn. “Welcome!” he said in English. “So rude of us to talk in Russian. I apologize. Luka has been telling me all about you. You must call me Vasiliy.” Then, still grinning at me, he said in Russian to Luka, “I’m serious, Luka. Get rid of her as soon as you get home.”

I had to keep the stupid, dumb smile on my face even as I felt the hurt inside me swell. He hated me. Somehow, the fact he disliked me as a father, that I wasn’t good enough for his son, bothered me even more than the
sniffing around
comment.
Stupid! As if this is any sort of normal relationship! As if you’re really his girlfriend!

But Vasiliy’s distrust was a problem, too. I was going to have to be super-careful around him. Luka would give me the benefit of the doubt but Vasiliy
wanted
to think badly of me. The slightest hint that something was off about me and I’d be screwed.

One the guards held his finger to his ear, listening to his earpiece, then nodded to Vasiliy.

“They’re here,” said Vasiliy. “Let’s go.”

***

The building we were in was an old factory of some kind—big, hulking machines and stacks of old cardboard cartons. We’d been waiting in what used to be the front offices. Now we moved through a door and onto the cavernous factory floor.

A group of men approached. Wait...not a group, exactly. They kept their distance from one another, as if there was no trust between them. And they didn’t seem to have anything in common. Some of them were dressed like bikers, some of them like blue-collar workers and some of them in suits. And something was off. There was something familiar about their clothes, their attitude.

“Okay,” said one of the bikers. “Let’s get this started.”

Only he didn’t say it in Russian. He said it in English, with a broad Jersey accent.

Vasiliy stepped forward and introduced himself, clasping hands and kissing cheeks. I listened to the men, memorizing their names. Every one of them was American and I heard accents from New York to California. I felt sick. The weapons I’d seen in the yacht’s hold were heading straight for my home country.

“I want to thank you for making the trip,” said Vasiliy in English. “Some things are better discussed in person.”

I remembered what Adam had said: that Vasiliy was the figurehead now and Luka ran the business. Vasiliy would have brokered this deal and persuaded all these men to fly out here and then drive God knows how many miles to wherever the hell we were, somewhere isolated and totally private. Vasiliy was the showman and the face they’d come to trust. But, now that the pleasantries were over, it was time for Luka.

I’d grabbed Luka’s hand again as we stood there listening to his dad. Now he dropped it, looking at me almost apologetically. Then he walked forward and, suddenly, he was all business, the mask coming down. I felt my heart slowly icing over again as he reminded me, word by word, what he really was.

The way things were done now, with big shipments of guns coming to America in cargo containers, was dangerous and costly, he explained. “One shipment is lost, and it’s hundreds of thousands of dollars. And when the weapons
do
get into the country...what then? You still have to get them across several states to reach your customers. Every state border means another chance of getting caught.” He glanced at some of the bikers. “Paying off rival motorcycle clubs, bribing the police. It’s a mess.” He shook his head. “No more.”

“We are going to do for guns what McDonalds did for hamburgers and what Starbucks did for coffee,” he said. He described a complex network of distribution, with legitimate, Russian-owned businesses trucking the guns across America to exactly where they were needed. “No more big deals,” he said. “A million small ones. Too small to track, too small to trace. If one shipment gets caught…”—he shrugged theatrically—”so what?”

As I listened, my blood ran steadily colder. It wasn’t just the audacity of the plan he was outlining. It was the way he sounded just like his dad. Not quite as slick or polished as Vasiliy’s showmanship, but he was getting there.
In a year, maybe two, he’ll be just like him.

This was why I needed to be his salvation. But how? How could I save him when my whole purpose here was to take him down?

When Luka had finished, the Americans looked at each other. Eventually, one of them spoke up. “It sounds good,” he said. “But what about Ralavich? Most of us buy our guns from him. You’re taking a big slice of his business. What about repercussions?”

Vasiliy stepped forward. “I’m not scared of Olaf fucking Ralavich. His operations in the US are a mess. I’m surprised he’s lasted this long. It’s time for a change.”

Luka called for the guards and they trooped in, carrying the crates I’d seen on the yacht. “A sample,” said Luka. “To show we mean business. Yours to keep—a crate each.” He picked up  a crowbar and cracked the top off one of the crates. It was filled with gleaming assault rifles.

The Americans exchanged glances, impressed. Meanwhile, I was reeling.
A sample?!
This huge pile of crates was just
a sample?!
There must have been hundreds of guns there.