“Wesley?” I hiss. I do not risk looking over my shoulder, but the voice was close—no more than 10 meters away.
“Erm… let me find you… Bollocks. Same guard as earlier. I think he saw you closing the window from the outside.”
Which will appear very suspicious to him. If he has not already, this will cause him to report me to his superiors. I have no choice now but to dispose of him. Leaving him alive would be a risk too great.
“Anything you can do so he cannot call for backup?” I murmur as the man approaches from behind.
“Let me just…”There is a pregnant pause, and I can barely make out the sound of Wesley’s fingers clacking against the keys of his laptop.“All right, you’ve got 60 seconds of outage in the area, and the cameras in the rear are off. They’ve likely already noticed the cameras and are trying to get them back online. Be quick.”
I will never know how he does what he does, but I cannot dwell on it.
“Excuse me, Sir.”
Instead of turning, I pick up my pace and head for a line of tall, pointy trees several meters away, just outside the circle of floodlights. They have grown closely enough together that they should hide us from anyone else that might come outside.
I collect a knife from the belt I wear that lays flat against my lower abdominals.
“Sir!”
When I break through to the other side, I have only seconds to scan the grounds to assess my options. It is wilder back here, less meticulously kept by gardeners. All around me there are thick, old trees—some with branches hanging low to the ground. I head towards one, thinking the branches might offer some additional protection or screening.
I can hear the man pursuing me as his pace quickens. He clearly finds my behavior or appearance suspicious to have followed me this far, but the chances that he would attack a guest on nothing more than suspicion are low. Especially without the backup he is certainly trying to call for.
No violence at a wedding. It is aBratvarule, a gentleman’s agreement, though I would not expect anyone charged with protecting hisPakhanto follow that particular rule. I saw the piece in the guard’s waistband, but I doubt he would risk the noise, even with the music so loud. His orders are likely to detain and question. So it is not a surprise when he calls to me again.
“Hey! Sir, I need you to stop right there.”
I pause, but do not turn around. Instead, I grip the handle of my knife tighter.
“Pozvol'te mne uvidet' nekotoryye dokumenty, udostoveryayushchiye lichnost—” he says, switching to Russian to demand identification.
When I feel a hand fall on my shoulder, I move. I drop away from his grip, spin and slash outwards, but I underestimated the size of him. We are well-matched, he was prepared for my attack, and clearly very well trained. He knocks the knife from my hand. As it falls in the tall grass several meters away with a soft thud, lost, I curse at my folly. To allow my weapon to be parted from me... that is the move of an amateur.
Thebratoktakes full advantage, delivering a forceful punch to my stomach as I fail to protect an opening. While I move away to recover, he roars and charges me. I brace myself, but the impact rattles my teeth. He forces me back a few steps, and I get two good hits to his kidneys, but we are locked in a stalemate—a wrestling match of equal strength. He pushes, I push back, and no one gains anything.
Until I lift my knee. He brings his legs together to protect his most delicate area, sending me a look of betrayal that I would use any available advantage. But the concept of honor and fairness is strange to me when a single blow can determine the outcome of a fight to the death. What use does a dead man have for honor?
I pull away, move my body behind his and bring my arm down around his neck. I squeeze, cradling his throat in the crook of my elbow. His arms flail, scrambling for the gun at his waist, and I grab the tie he wears. I spin the tail around towards me, tighten the knot, and push it against the back of his thick neck as I step back towards the low branch behind me.
Holding the tie, I flip over the branch and use his body as a counterweight. His choking noises are loud, and his heels pound and scratch the ground as he attempts to get them under himself. For the span of a few heartbeats, he struggles in vain, and I grit my teeth against the effort ittakes to hold the tie. Then, he slows. Eventually, he stills, and his dead weight tugs at the silk.
I release my hold, and the man’s body collapses and hits the ground with a thump. My chest expands uncomfortably as I try to get in enough oxygen, caving in at the bottom of each release. After a moment to catch my breath, I pick myself up and duck under the branch to look for a pulse. I always check twice. It is important to know that a man you have killed is truly dead.
The tie is the only thing with any evidence—fingerprints—so I unknot it to take it, along with the contents of his pockets. I leave the gun. Someone will come looking eventually, but by the time they find him back here, I will be long gone.
I have to cross back through the line of pointy trees and climb over a row of rose bushes that mark the boundary of the patio to get to the garden. Then, I make my way quickly and inconspicuously across the yard, back towards the tall maze.
Three men are pissing in the bushes as I pass. One is singing loudly and poorly, and the other two are laughing about the couple they just saw disappearing into the hedge maze. I pass them, ignoring their drunken chatter, but a familiar name catches my attention.
“You think Kyle’s really gonna fuck her? Wawazhername?Nicole?” the one on the right slurs.
“No, no, no. Shut up, listen. Kyle knows what’s up. I’m betting she’s a huge slut,” the other says with a loud laugh. “Girls like her… I’m tellin’ ya, they give the best head. We should try to go catch him railing her, maybe he’ll share. Really mess with the—”
Compelled by something unnamed, I redirect myself. Before he can finish his sentence, I grab his shoulder to hold him steady and punch the man in the back of the head. He pitches forward, going down and getting tangled in the piss-soaked bush.
“Hey, what the fuck, man?!” cries one of his pals. The other is still singing.
I grab him by the front of his shirt as he scrambles to cover his balls. “Where is she?” I demand.
