As always, when I think of her birthday, I think of the day she died. As if that’s ever far from my mind. But sometimes it’s more . . . poignant. The guilt of surviving when I should’ve died, of being the douche on the dock filming a topless girl rather than on the boat where he should’ve been, eats at me. She shouldn’t have been alone. She shouldn’t have died alone. I should’ve been with her. But I wasn’t. I was spared. And look what’s become of me. The world would be a much better place if she’d lived and I’d been the one blown to bits that day.
But that’s not the way it worked out. So the least I can do is bring the culprits to justice. One way or the other.
I pull a small key with an orange top out of my boot. It’s nondescript. If someone were to ever find it, they’d never know where it came from or, if they happened to figure it out somehow, what locker it fits.
It slides easily into the lock and I turn it until the door pops open. Inside is a black bag with a few emergency supplies and a couple of phones. One of them is very important. Like the one Dad had left us, it has all sorts of numbers that I might need at some point. I had hoped I’d never have to use any of them, but I kept them for a reason. Because things rarely go as planned. Dammit.
It also contains another copy of the footage from the dock. There are a few other odds and ends stored on it. Things that could easily get me killed. Things about weapons and smugglers and routes I should know nothing about. But I do. There’s enough insurance here to save my life a dozen times over. Or cost it. Depends on who has the phone. And who knows what’s on it. Right now, it’s only me. And that’s how I plan to keep it. Trust no one. I’ve survived a long time on that motto. It’s kept me safe. Alive.
I power the phone up and scroll through the list of contacts until I find Dmitry’s number. I text it to a second phone, that of a burner that also resides in the locker. One of several burner phones, actually. Someone in my line of work and with my family history can never have too many. I get them with no GPS and very limited . . . everything. I can use them, then trash them, leaving no trace that could ever lead back to me.
After another casual assessment of my surroundings, I secure the locker and drop the key back in my boot. I take the burner phone to an empty bench and hit the send button.
It rings several times before a familiar gruff voice says three short, heavily accented words.
“Leave me message.” A beep follows.
“It’s Nikolai,” I begin. It’s the name Dmitry gave me from the moment we met. I had to be someone other than Greg Davenport’s son, Nash. I had to be someone else entirely. “I, uh, I need to talk to you. It’s really something I’d rather discuss in person, though. If you can make it to the place I first met you, about the same time, in two days, I’d really appreciate it. Thanks, Dmitry.”
I hang up, knowing he’ll understand my message perfectly. And I know in two days, he’ll be there if at all possible. The boat shouldn’t be pulling out for another week or so, so it should be no problem for him to get there.
Punching a few keys to erase all traces of the text and the call, I get up and walk toward the exit, nonchalantly dropping the phone in a trash can as I pass.
As I make my way back to Cash’s car, my mind flickers back over the past seven years’ worth of conversations with Dmitry. He told me dozens of stories involving him and Dad. Nothing too scandalous; just mischief they got into in the early years. Evidently they both got into the business about the same time.
They made their way through the ranks, my father eventually going into the money-laundering side, Dmitry into the smuggling side. They remained friends and confidants, which is why Dad had Dmitry as an emergency exit strategy. It’s not that he would’ve risked our safety with a smuggler; it’s just that he trusted Dmitry above all others.
And now I’m about to trust Dmitry. And I’m about to ask for his help. It’s a big favor, one that he might not be willing to grant, but it’s worth asking. Things might’ve degraded to where he’s one of three or four linchpins on which our only shot of making this right depends. Only time will tell, but I have to start somewhere. I have to do something. I need a plan A and a plan B. I can’t let this go. And even though Cash said he has no intention of letting it go, I don’t trust that it’s as important to him to see this through. At least not as important as it is to me. I just don’t trust anyone that much. Not even family. I’ve been on my own too long for that to change. Maybe one day. But I doubt it.
My conscience prickles. Here I am, hesitating to fully trust anyone when I myself would be considered by most to be untrustworthy. I’ve become so driven, I let very little get in my way, especially if it’s a matter of something like “right” standing in the path of what I want or need. The life that I was forced into is one of survival of the fittest with a take-no-prisoners kind of attitude. It’s hard to shake those habits and make a smooth return to the civilized world.
A pair of bright blue eyes watches me from the back of my mind. My conscience stabs me again. I wonder what she’d think if she knew everything. Everything I’ve done.
Especially the things that involve her.
Unlocking the car, I slide behind the wheel and put all such deep, bothersome thoughts out of my head. Some things aren’t good to dwell on. This is one of them.
Pushing the start button on Cash’s BMW, I pull out of the parking lot and turn back toward his condo. I need to work out two plans, down to the last detail. I can’t afford surprises. One of them has to succeed.
* * *
After a few hours spent researching on the computer, I’m very ready for a break, even if that break involves a tuxedo and a bunch of rich ass**les. I don’t give a shit about them; it’s Marissa I’m looking forward to spending time with. And I’m not even going to pretend my motives aren’t one hundred percent selfish.
I need a delicious, feminine body to lose myself in, to bury my troubles in. Even if it’s just for a little while. And although I could probably find any number of willing partners, she’s the one I want. For many reasons, one of which, I’m sure, is the fact that she’s a spoiled little rich girl.
I know I could probably go there right now and have sex with her, but I’m enjoying this little game we’ve got going on that’s leading up to it. It’s another form of distraction, and I welcome it. I don’t mind getting all dressed up to continue playing just as long as she doesn’t start expecting more. I’ve already warned her about me. I hope she’s not fool enough to ignore that warning.