The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) (24 page)

Nikita

When I open my office door, I’m relieved to see that we’ve beaten my early-bird secretary to work. I bend down and pick up an envelope as Natasha closes the door.

“I see we avoided your sex-starved, overdressed front desk bimbo, yay.”

I ignore the catty remark. I’m too busy speculating about the contents of the envelope. I grab a letter opener and carefully open it. Huh. Nothing but cash.

“No note, huh?” Natasha’s thinking the same thing. A note would have given us some insight into her frame of mind.

“Damn it! A retainer fee is a hell of a thing for her to be worrying about in a situation like this.” This case is beginning to irritate me and I’m looking forward to it coming to an end—the right end.

“But, see, that’s the thing,” Natasha says, pursing her lips. “For her to be thinking clearly enough to dot all the I’s and cross all the T’s to ensure ironclad attorney-client privilege, she’s got nerves of steel. Like I said, everyone’s underestimating this woman. I’m sure she’ll contact you, and you probably won’t have to wait too long, either. Looks like you’re all she’s got.”

“That raises a good point. She can’t go back to her apartment now, so where the hell is she staying?”

“We need to find out if she has any family. We know her real name is Emily Finley because she was married to her third kill. But other than that? Who knows?”

“If she has family, why the hell didn’t they help her get out of her abusive marriage?”

“Not everyone has a close-knit family like we do. And let’s not forget, people can be assholes. They don’t want to get involved, even to help someone they’re close to. The fact that her husband was a cop probably didn’t help.”

“There’s no excuse for anyone who knew about the abuse to just sit back and let him beat the shit out of her. I’d be willing to bet she has no family and when no one on the force would help her, she snapped--”

Natasha cuts me off, “Maybe so, but remember, Nikita, she made choices along the way too. That doesn’t justify her husband’s abuse, of course, because nothing ever could. I imagine it must have been incredibly hard to go through something like that and scrape together enough courage to leave the way she did. Unfortunately, it looks like she was pretty damaged inside and out by the time she did.”

I stand with my hands on my hips and my head bowed as I think through about a million scenarios for how this could go down.

“Battered women’s syndrome is real and cases have been won by using that defense. This woman’s crimes go way beyond the scope of those cases, Natasha.” I run my fingers through my hair as I tilt my head back and exhale harshly, “Jesus, she doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell because she killed cops.”

She wraps her arms around me from behind, squeezing me tight as she rests her cheek between my shoulder blades. “I’m afraid you’re right. Look, Nikita, the only person I care about in this shit storm of chaos is
you
. You can’t make everything right here. You’re going to have to let go of this need to see the woman get justice. For her, there will be no justice, baby.

“No matter what you do, no matter what favors you try to call in, no matter what strings you try to pull – none of it will matter. When the authorities catch her, Nik, she’s as good as dead. There’s no way I’m letting you go down with her. Let. It. Go.”

“Baby, I can’t…not even for you.”

Cop Killer

I’m rested when I wake up. First decent night’s sleep I’ve had in months if not years. When I don’t see Mrs. Harris right away, I assume she’s in her room asleep. That gives me an opportunity to take care of a few things.

I take a shower. Sleeping outside the night before last has me feeling so grubby, it’s worth the extra time just to feel human again. But I can’t put off the inevitable. As much as I don’t want to go back to my apartment, I don’t have a choice. I need some clothes, a burner phone or two, some cash, and my gun.

I leave a note for Mrs. Harris in case she wakes up. Out of habit I go to the door and look out the peephole to be sure no one is loitering in the hallway. I venture out into the hall and slip into my apartment. First stop, my closet. I work fast, grabbing the things I’ll need because I won’t ever be coming back here.

I stuff an overnight back with enough clothes for a few days. I open my messenger bag and place my laptop and any chargers I may need into it. I can stay in a motel with the cash I have now; which will ensure a safe place to hide and keep my belongings. It isn’t a matter of if those guys will come back and ransack my apartment, only a matter of when, so I need to get the hell out.

The final thing I need to do is call Nikita Glazov and find out if he’s on board. I dial the number I’ve memorized and he picks up on the second ring as if he was expecting my call. I hope that’s a good sign.

“I take it you got the retainer.”

“Yes. It wasn’t necessary, you know. But, yes, money has changed hands and that means I’m your attorney. Anything you tell me is confidential.”

“Meet me in Central Park—on the backside of the park—not on the Magnolia Street side.”

“Okay…I’ll be in a black SUV.”

“No surprise there,” I say as I shake my head. You can’t get more Russian mafia than a black SUV. “Will anyone be with you?”

“My fiancé. We’re in this together and you can trust her. I may have to finesse the attorney-client privilege issue a bit if she’s along for the ride, but you leave that to me. Natasha will know what to say if she’s ever questioned. You know, whether you realize it or not, you’re safe with me. With us.”

“Safe? I barely remember what that is. I haven’t been truly safe in years, but I’m used to it. If anybody needs to be careful, it’s you, Mr. Glazov, not me.”

I end the call and head out the door. I’m not looking for redemption. I just want someone to tell my side of the story when I’m dead and gone. I want people to know why I’ve done the heinous things I’ve done.

Over and over in my mind I’ve thanked God that I never had children. What a disaster of a legacy I’d be leaving for them. That’s one good thing about being all alone in the world – there’s no one left for me to disappoint.

I wonder how much Nikita has told his father about me. It’s unnerving to know that I’m on the Russian mafia’s radar. I believe his father sent those Russian goons to my apartment. I wonder how they broke the news that their prey managed to escape. Bet it wasn’t pretty.

It’s very possible that I’m walking into a trap. How did it come to this? I have no choice but to trust the son of a killer, a prince of the Russian mafia.

Nikita

The park is empty, so that’s one less thing to worry about. Natasha huddles behind my seat, using her binoculars to scan the area for any unexpected guests and, hopefully, spot my newest client. The woman shouldn’t have any trouble finding us in this deserted parking lot. The tricky part is going to be keeping her safe until I’m ready to make my move, whatever that turns out to be.

I know this park like the back of my hand. We’ve spent every summer going to ‘Shakespeare in the Park’, not mention all the picnic lunches and romantic walks we’ve taken together here. A smirk curls my lip when I think about how we’re living the equivalent of a double life—organized crime by day, childhood sweethearts by night.

“I think that’s her over there. See her? Behind the column under the arbor.”

“How the hell can you see her back behind there?” I ask as I peer at the same area and see nothing. “Are those heat seeking binoculars you’ve got going on there?”

“No…X-Ray vision.”

“Ha ha. That I don’t doubt. I don’t even want to know if you’re kidding. Seriously, I don’t,” I say when she opens her mouth to speak. She merely shrugs and resumes her surveillance.

The woman looks around hurriedly as she approaches. I reach back to unlock the door and she slides in, settling into the far corner of the back seat. Although no one is anywhere in sight, she slouches down in the seat.

“Nobody followed you, Jasmine, we’ve been watching.”

“I always feel like somebody’s following me. That’s the reason I need to talk to you.”

I brace myself for more bad news. This job has taken on a life of its own; much like my fiancé, I don’t like being out of control. I listen as she continues, her voice shaky as she continues to peer out of the car window anxiously.

“Listen,” she says, “these dirty cops have been having internal struggles for a while now. If I wasn’t taking them out, they’d probably end up killing themselves off anyway. Fucking bastards.”

I nod slowly, admiring how well this woman understands the cop mentality. “I agree, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. They could eventually implode without any help from us. Give us some details.”

Natasha starts writing furiously in the little notebook she somehow manages to bring with her wherever she goes. She keeps it in her pocket, in her boot, in her bra; I never know when it’s going to come tumbling off her person. I don’t worry about her leaving a paper trail; she developed a secret code when we were kids so we could communicate and our teachers had no idea what we were talking about. It worked like a charm then and she still uses the code to keep track of important details that need to be kept under strict control.

“Up until a year or so ago, they were a unified force. Rumor has it one of the insiders, Gina Edwards, stole a shitload of money and drugs from the ring. She tried to cover it up, but she should have known that one cop can’t fool another cop.”

“So what were they doing, dividing the money up like community property?”

“Pretty much. They’ve use a house in town, near that huge Methodist church. They meet there to skim money and drugs from the busts they make. I’m sure that’s probably where they divide up what they’ve stolen.”

“They sound like an organized outfit. If what you’re saying is true, it’s only a matter of time before they go after her for stealing from them. Sounds like we need to be looking for Gina Edwards.”

“We?” Jasmine says skeptically, as if she’s shocked I’m including her.

“Where are you staying?” I ask without giving her too much hope. I’m not even sure she can be helped—even by the Glazov family.

“I don’t have anywhere to stay, actually, now your Russian mafia muscle ran me off. What was up with that shit, anyway? They didn’t look particularly interested in helping me, and yet here you are. Let’s cut to the chase here, I don’t have time for games. Are you trying to help me or kill me?”