The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(78)

“Can I have my gun back then?”

With a smile, Mishca opened his door. “Not a chance. I might take a while, but call me if you need me.”

It took some negotiating before Mishca was allowed under the tape and into the restaurant. At first glance, it was just as bad as it was described to be, except, the bodies were no longer on display, all in black body bags on the floor. For every one, there was nearly two uniformed officers taking notes, though all of them looked out of their element.

A detective extracted himself from the crowd, making his way towards Mishca. He obviously didn’t know who he was, or his approach would’ve been far different.

“Who the hell let you in here?”

Sighing, Mishca ignored him, looking towards the back of the room where a bloody message was smeared onto the wall. He quickly read the words, twice over, then turned to the detective.

“I was cleared, obviously.”

“Listen, boy—”

“Volkov,” Mishca said looking the man over. “I believe that’s the name you’re looking for, no?”

Ah, and there it was, the recognition. The detective glanced over his shoulder to where Mishca had been looking seconds ago. That’s when the questions started. They were the usual, and Mishca answered them diligently, but he was waiting for the detective to get to the questions about what had happened here, that way, he could glean information from them.

“Have you any idea what that means?”

The Final Hour Is Coming…

He had a pretty good idea what they meant. “Not in the slightest.”

With the number of bodies present, Mishca was surprised—

“We’ll take it from here, detective.”

Keeping his irritation off his face, Mishca turned to face Agent Green. The detective couldn’t mask his as well, shuffling off, no doubt in search of his superior.

“This is turning into more than a coincidence, Volkov,” she said with a gesture around them.

“Or an unhealthy obsession. Tell me, how much does the FBI pay you to stalk me?”

Wisely ignoring that, Agent Green walked over to the three bags on the center stage, expecting Mishca to follow her without question. Glancing down at his watch, he decided he had a few minutes to spare—since Luka still hadn’t made his appearance yet—he watched her unzip each bag one by one, revealing the faces inside.

Mishca hadn’t known them all well, if at all, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care about their deaths. If they had any family, he would make sure they were taken care of.

“You do know these men, don’t you?” She asked.

“They were employees here,” he answered simply.

From what he could see, they were shot, no defensive wounds that he could make out, and it seemed like a pretty clean death, except for the one bloke who’d been cut down the middle.

“We might have more questions for you, if you’re willing to come down to our offices…”

She phrased it like a suggestion, but Mishca knew it was anything but. And worse, did she really think he would actually agree to that.

“I’ll pass. If you need to contact me, call my attorney. You should have her on speed dial by now.”

With a mocking salute—Luka was rubbing off on him—Mishca made his way out of the restaurant, and back to the car where Lauren was waiting. He already had his phone in hand, ready to lay into him for being late, but to his surprise—and annoyance—Luka was sitting happily in the car.

He looked up with raised brows, blinking twice. “What took you so long, Boss?”

Deciding it was best not to threaten him, Mishca got down to business. “Where is he?”

“Couple locals saw him leave, not much else. A few of my contacts thinks he flew in about six hours ago, so he has a good few hours ahead of us.”

Mishca was nodding along, then frowned. “Where the hell is Vlad?”

“How the hell should I know? He called, told me to come wait with the missus—I assumed you sent him off.”

Strange, but he didn’t have time to worry about that. “Let’s just go before Green starts running my plates.”



“Just because I’ve decided not to kill you doesn’t mean you can call me whenever you want,” Klaus said dryly as he slammed the door behind him. “I do have a f*cking life.”

As he walked by him, Luka poked him in the side, earning a scowl from Klaus. “You’re a prickly thing, aren’t you?”

Glaring at Mishca, Klaus said, “What the f*ck. Where’s his leash?”

“I left it at the office,”—Clearly Mishca was was willing to play along this time too— “That wasn’t why I called you here.”

“Then by all means,” Klaus said with a grand wave of his hand. “Get on with it."

“Have you seen the news?”

“I hate local politics.”

“I’ll take that as a no. A bunch of civilians were killed at Mikhail's restaurant and,”—he rushed to go on when Klaus scoffed—“they weren’t just killed by anyone. Jetmir is back.”

Completely blank of any emotion, Klaus said, “Give me a location.”

“We don’t know where he is, but I’m hoping you can find him.” His eyes skirted to Lauren for a moment, then back to Klaus as he spoke in rapid Russian, too fast for Lauren to get a grasp on, not that she would have known what he said otherwise.