The wedding invitation feels expensive, with textured paper and gold leaf lettering. I suppose that is fitting, as it is a golden ticket to the event.All our research indicates this wedding will be crawling with security, and anyone without an invitation will be turned away.
“You’re Lev Petrov for the night, in case you were wondering. The barcode at the bottom will tell them who the invite belongs to when they read it. Might want to get a fake ID made up, just in case.”
“Who is Lev Petrov?”
“Someone who’s not going to that wedding anymore, that’s for sure,” Felix chuckles.
I burn to ask how he managed to get this, but I know he would not reveal this information to me. I tuck it into the back pocket of my pants, taking care not to crease it as I slide it in, and nod my thanks. “So, we are done here,da?”
“Square as a WASP,” he replies.
I scowl. Does that word not mean what I think it means? His tone says yes, but I do not know what is square-shaped about a stinging insect. My face must betray my confusion.
“Square like uncool… White Anglo-Saxon Protestant…” he says, lifting his brows in a way I recognize—it means there is a joke I am missing. “I’m sensing this is a bit of a lost cause. Never mind. Yeah, we’re good. Might call you back if Johnson buys some dentures and testifies anyway, but I’ll know way before that happens.”
I jerk my chin. “Then we are done.”
“Pleasure doin’ business, Dimitri. Feel free to give me a shout in the future if you need anything, and I’d be happy to set up another trade like this—I’ve got plenty that needs doing, and it’s always nice to find a guy willing to get his hands dirty.”
Now that I have met Felix, I understand why James was willing to utilize his services. In our industry, a man is only as good as his word, and trust is hard to come by since loyalty is too easily purchased. Felix is well-connected, discreet, and efficient. James still owes the man a favorfor cleaning a crime scene for him when we were pursuing another hit months ago.
Personally, I believe a man should clean up his own messes, and the thought of owing someone a near-limitless favor makes my skin itch.
With a grunt of acknowledgment, I push off the door and head west out of the alley, towards the side street where Wesley’s van is parked.
“Hope you get your guy,” Felix calls at my retreating form, proving once again that he knows more than he should.
The white van with the faded Bugs-B-Gon decal blends in well with the scenery. The street is mostly deserted, and the van is parallel parked next to a fire hydrant, wearing a chipped yellow boot on its tire. On my way to the side with the sliding door, I bend down and unlock the boot to toss it into its spot in the back corner of the van.
I knock twice, and Wesley’s pale face appears in the opening a second later. As I climb in, he settles back onto his wheeled stool and scoots away to give me enough room to sit on an overturned crate while we wait for James. The wall of monitors on his right flicker as the screens change and cycle through the various views he finds useful—traffic cameras from nearby intersections, weather updates, police emergency call logs, surveillance photos, and mugshots of the man we have been tasked to kill...
How he can so easily access restricted information is not my concern, though it is very impressive.
Before I accidentally crush it, I retrieve the invitation from my back pocket and hand it to Wesley. He peruses it, whistling his approval. “This is quite posh,” he remarks. “Come have a look, Mac.”
“On my way, Short Round.”
I believe it references something from popular culture, but even after hearing it for months, the nickname rubs against me the incorrect way. It strikes me as strangely rude and inaccurate, which are not things I typically associate with James.
Wesley is neither short—though the shortest of us, he still stands over six feet—nor round. His frame has picked up plenty of bulk since we started training together, especially impressive considering the fact that he is chained behind a screen 80% of the time. One of the British flags amid the incongruous pattern of bright tattoos lining his arms appears distorted with the new width of his bicep in a way that gives me some private amusement.
A few seconds later, James opens the van door, slides the black case containing his gun under the desk, and turns over a bucket to sit on. He kicks me as he stretches out his long legs, shooting me an apologetic look before nearly tilting over in an effort to stretch out in what little space remains.
Once he is settled, he jokes, “Well, this is fuckin’ cozy. I gotta tell Eleanor to stop feeding you guys.”
Wesley exhales a laugh, but I purse my lips.
“So, we’ve got our in?” James asks. With a look at Wesley, he holds out his hand expectantly. Wesley flicks the invitation towards him, and he catches it midair between his thumb and index finger. “Viktor and Katerina Volkevich invite you to the wedding of their son, Matthew. Nice of them.”
As one, we all turn to look at the face staring from the mugshot on Wesley’s screen. I do not know him personally, but we share the same wide brow, thin lips, high cheekbones, and a rounded tip to our noses—Slavic features. Mine are far more severe and angular, and far less balanced, thanks to the long, twisted scar.
When our handler, a man who goes by the monikerthe General, sent us the email with a picture and the name of our next hit, I was more than wary. Viktor Volkevich is the head of one of the local RussianBratvacrime syndicates operating out of Ulysses, New Jersey. It is no small matter to kill their leader, as proven by the near-obscene amount of money in the offer.
“I am still not convinced we should do this,” I decide, crossing my arms. Now that we have the invitation, all I can see are flaws in the plan.
“Russian mafia boss fits the criteria to a T,” James argues. “And what about all that shit Wes found in his search history? He’s a fucked-up fucker, D.”
I nearly roll my eyes. His criteria—his newly discovered moral compass, courtesy of a woman he has known for less than a year. Ridiculous. We are hitmen, not vigilante heroes. “Yes, he is a bad man who does bad things. This is not the source of my trouble.”
