The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(93)

These questions plagued Mishca’s mind constantly, but that wasn’t the reason he sought solace in the bottom of a alcohol bottle.

It was because Mikhail had given him the kill order.

The state’s attorney couldn’t have thought that having Mikhail remanded would have hindered the Volkov Bratva. His reach was farther than anyone realized and in the short time he had been released before arrested again, Mikhail had already put the wheels into motion.

Mishca had never doubted that he would be the one to receive it—Vlad did work under him specifically. He had both dreaded and hoped for it, not liking the idea of someone far less compassionate going after his friend. To disobey it, considering it had come from farther up the chain than even Mikhail, meant certain death. And those old Russians wouldn’t kill him outright, they would torture the hell out of him first before killing everyone he loved, then making sure Vlad was taken care of.

But he didn’t think much on that, putting Vlad’s impending death to the back of his mind.

A part of him, and Mishca sometimes hated that part because he wished it would turn off for once, thought of how Vlad, even as a dead man walking, could help him. No one spoke of it, though it was undoubtedly thought about, but it was common knowledge that Mikhail had been the one to bring Vlad into the fold. That was an offense punishable by death, but because Mikhail was a Pakhan, it was slippery territory.

A single beep on the burner phone Klaus had given him made him glare down at the tiny device, already knowing what the message was going to say.

It was time.

Picking it up, he read the address, going over the quickest, but most secure route in his head. He took a moment, looking towards the bedroom door, imagining Lauren on the other side. He thought of going to her, telling her that he would be gone for a few hours, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. She would ask too many questions, and with the mood he was in, he wouldn’t give her the answers she wanted.

Instead, he left the apartment silently, taking the service elevator downstairs, out to a car that was idling at the curb, away from any traffic cameras.

Klaus emerged from the vehicle, looking more like Mishca than he ever had now that his facial hair had grown in. Their relationship had changed, in the smallest degree. While Klaus still made it a point to be a smartass whenever he could, now, at least, he only did it when Mishca was in a good mood.

“Be easy, Russian.”

In a perfect world, Mishca would have been able to embrace him, discuss his troubles with him, but they weren’t there yet, and he doubted they ever would be.

Nodding, Misha climbed into the car, backing out, speeding off. The windows were tinted to the darkest shade the law permitted, making Mishca less worried about the cameras he would be passing.

It took no time at all to reach the rundown motel Klaus had stashed Vlad. Since Klaus had been a part of an extraction team during his first years as a mercenary, it was easy enough for him to find Vlad with very little fuss.

Mishca had other concerns, but at the moment, but he couldn’t be bothered with thinking on it at the moment.

He parked in the back lot, walking the perimeter first before stopping in front of room 701. He already had on gloves.

Turning the key in the lock, Mishca unlocked the door, shoving it open just far enough that he could get inside before closing it behind him, narrowing his eyes in the low lighting.

Much to Mishca’s surprise however, Vlad wasn’t restrained in any way. In fact, he was sitting near the lone lamp in the room, an ashtray full of butts of cigarettes ground out.

For the first time in what felt like years, Vlad looked his age. After years in their service, Vlad knew what they did to those that betrayed the organization. They were never shy about making an example out of people. It didn’t matter that he had the entirety of the FBI backing him, the Bratva would have got to him regardless.

Vlad blew out a stream of smoke as he watched Mishca, leaving his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. “I knew they would send you.”

It was rare that Mishca was at a loss for words, especially when he had time to ready himself. He wanted to be cold, he wanted to be indifferent, but seeing Vlad there, knowing what he would have to do, forced the words he had so callously spoken to his victims in the past to the back of his mind.

“Before you kill me, you should hear my story.”

Mishca had often remarked on how those that faced death only fit into two categories: those that were willing to beg for their lives, and those that refused to speak a word.

Vlad was neither.

“I wanted to change the world, that was why I joined the FBI, for what they stood for, but down the line, I lost my way.” Vlad had a faraway look in his eye. Regretting or just recalling the past, Mishca didn’t know. “They—you were no longer the job.

“There have been so many agents that have gone rogue, defecting to the other side, and I swore I would never do that.” He dropped his face into his hands. “I didn’t, but the thought was always there. I watched you grow up from the time you were a boy. I saw the innocence, I watched your father trying to taint it, but while you have committed many wrongs, I still see that little boy in you.”

Mishca had his gun in hand, trained on Vlad the entire time he spoke, but with each word, Mishca’s resolve wavered. Even if he attempted to fire off a shot at this point, his aim wouldn’t be true.

“How could they have expected me to be around you for so long and not grow to care what happens to you?” Vlad gestured over to a number of duffel bags sitting in a corner. “That’s everything I have on you.”