CHAPTER ONE
ESPI
Two hundred dollars.Who would have thought you could put a price on one's soul? But, the four crumpled bills lying at the bottom of my med kit are proof enough of the bargain basement price of mine.
Was it worth it? Maybe not. So much for buying a plane ticket out of here any time soon—Hell, I’ll be lucky to afford my rent next month. I just hope my landlord accepts blood money. Literally. Red drops splatter across everything in my kit as I toss a pair of tweezers onto the top rack and slam the lid down.
“Here.” The punk beside me shoves another wad of cash into my hand, which I don’t bother counting. Tattoos streak his fingers, marking him as a gangbanger, though I’m not sure where from. That’s probably a good thing. “Man, thanks. You don’t even—”
“Don’t mention it,” I say over him, rising to my feet. “Seriously.” The way I cut my gaze in his direction makes him back up a step. “Don’t.”
I sidestep the only other person in the room—a man moaning on a cot set up at the back of a narrow apartment. The place is a mess. Old takeout everywhere and lines of coke in plain view onthe plastic card table that serves as one of the few pieces of furniture. It’s a stash house, picked more for its obscure location by the docks than anything pretty.
“The stitches need to come out in ten days,” I tell the man beside me on my way to the door.
Whether he listens or not doesn’t really matter. My payment only extends so far. For some reason, I find myself pausing near the door anyway to fish my cell phone from my pocket. A message waits for me, floating on the screen. It’s from Arno.
Don’t forget. Moe’s tonight. Keep him guessing. I’ll pay double.
Great.
I swipe the text aside and rattle my number off to the punk watching me. “Give me a call,” I say. “The price is the same.”
“Thanks, man.”
That word haunts me as I leave the apartment building and step out onto the street.Thanks.A small consolation considering that the guy on the cot has a gunshot wound the size of a nickel. Chances are he didn’t get that injury from a harmless accident, and the remaining possibilities aren’t that innocent. An ambush by a rival gang? The police? Maybe he was one of the punks featured on the news last week who held a family captive or robbed that liquor store. He probably got what was coming to him.
I didn’t ask.
I never do.
I never dwell, either. Instead, I smother the guilt with a lit cigarette and inhale so hard that my throat hitches and I wind up coughing. Not many people crowd the streets this time of night, but those who do shoot me sideways glances. It’s the med kit drawing their attention, mainly the blood glittering on the side of it.
I wipe off what I can on the sleeve of my sweatshirt and then toss the clothing into the trash, walking the rest of the way wearing only a shirt. I stick to the alleys, weaving in and out ofthe puddles of light cast by street lamps. This part of the city has a gritty atmosphere that is impossible to ignore. You’re in hell without having to glance at a street sign to know it. Half-naked women huddle on the corners, showcasing gaunt limbs for the cars that cruise by. One of them, in particular, leans against a dumpster just beyond the next block I cross.
Her eyes meet mine for a split second, and then she sinks into the shadows, crooking her finger for me to follow. The moment I draw even with her, she blows out a breath tainted with vodka and only god knows what else.
“You’re late,” she says. Her words run together, exaggerating her Russian accent, as blue eyes accusingly meet mine. “They don’t like that, you know. It makes them nervous.”
“I got held up,” I say, lifting my med kit. “I’m here now. Tell me what’s up. But first things first.” I take a few bills from my pocket and press them against her palm.
Instantly, the tense line of her jaw relaxes a little. She almost looks her age—too damn young to be wearing the skimpy, black dress displaying a swath of pale skin. Ratty, brown hair brushes her shoulders but doesn’t offer much cover on its own.
After a wary glance behind her, she leans in. “Piotr’s gone. You’ll meet with Vlad tonight. He thinks you’re an easy mark, so he’ll try to win you over with dances, maybe a girl or two.” She shrugs like it’s normal to equate people with currency. “But there’s something else. I don’t know why, but the guards have been edgier than usual tonight. Like they’re expecting something. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I notice anything strange. Though I did see a truck circle this way a little bit ago. The cops think we don’t notice when they drive normal cars.”
“Huh.” I pocket the information for later. Antsy Russians are a bad sign. So are the police, but for the moment, they’re the least of my problems. “Hide this for me, will ya?” I hand over my med kit.
“Still playing doctor?” Her tone is more amused thanjudgmental as she accepts the plastic case and tucks it behind the dumpster. “One of these days, you’ll be the one who needs stitches.” Her smile fades. “Especially if you keep coming here.”
I muster a half smile of my own. “How else am I going to save up enough to get you out of here?”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Right now, I need to get back before they come looking for me. There are four guards tonight, all armed,” she adds. “They shouldn’t bother you, but just in case.”
I accept the information with a nod. “I’ll keep my eye on the exit. Stay safe tonight. And, Domi?”
She pauses on her way to the street.
“You know I’m not joking about getting you out of this place, right?”
