If The Seas Catch Fire(18)

And yet, Sergei’s brain kept circling back to… why? He could have easily gotten away with it. The gun was unregistered. .22 caliber bullets were almost never traced back to the weapon that fired them—they were too common, and half the time, damaged by ping-ponging around inside the body before coming to rest in a bone or something. And anyway, he’d flung the gun off a cliff several miles south of town. Neither the cops nor the Mafia—whoever would’ve found the body first—would’ve had any more reason to connect Sergei to Domenico’s murder than they would the other two men who’d been bound and shot in the Caddy’s trunk.

He shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Focus, damn it. You’ve got a job to do.

And maybe once that job was finished, he could waste a bit more time wondering why the f*ck Domenico Maisano was still alive.

Around two in the morning, right on schedule, Eugenio Cusimano came stumbling out of the bar and staggered to where he’d parked. He dropped his keys three times, but finally managed to get the door open.

Sergei started his engine. Adrenaline was beginning to drip into his veins, and his heart sped up as he put the car in gear.

Eugenio fidgeted and shifted around in his seat for a moment. Maybe he’d felt the needle. Maybe he was just too drunk to control his limbs anymore. Eventually, though, he finally pulled out of his space, and headed out to the road. Sergei followed him.

Three miles later, Sergei was getting nervous. That car was still staying between the lines, Eugenio driving much too well for a man in his state. Between the booze and the cocktail of tranquilizers inside that syringe, Eugenio should’ve been groggy as f*ck by now. He really shouldn’t have even been conscious.

Sergei tapped his thumbs rapidly on the wheel. Maybe it hadn’t worked. The poison usually kicked in quickly, but Eugenio had a hell of an alcohol tolerance. What if Sergei hadn’t worked out the right dose? Or maybe the needle hadn’t gone in. Or he’d felt it before he’d pressed down enough to activate the plunger.

No. Sergei had planned for every contingency and variable. It would work. It had to.

But why wasn’t it working? What the f*ck was—

Eugenio started to weave lazily. Though the brake lights didn’t come on, the car lost speed. After a sluggish mile or so, it nosed off the road onto the soft shoulder and came to a lazy stop.

Sergei stopped behind him, left the engine running, and cautiously approached the vehicle. Just as predicted, when he reached the window, Eugenio was passed out against the steering wheel.

Sergei pushed the fat * into the passenger seat. He carefully withdrew the syringe from the seat and tossed it into the bushes. Then he went back to the stolen car, killed the engine, and got out again to open the trunk. From inside, Nicolá stared up at him, mumbling something against the duct tape across his mouth.

“We’re going for a walk.” Sergei cut the tape that was wrapped around the man’s ankles, and took his arm, guiding him up out of the trunk. After he’d closed the lid, he walked him to Eugenio’s car and shoved him into that trunk. He taped Nicolá’s ankles again, and slammed the lid.

With both of his marks doped up and contained, he drove out of Cape Swan and out onto Highway 103. Out here, with nothing but trees, mountains, and the occasional podunk town or meth lab between here and Interstate 5, the world was dark and quiet. The only light came from the high beams. When Sergei slowed down and started nosing off onto the shoulder, everything in the rearview lit up bright red from his brake lights.

There wasn’t a soul in sight, and he was confident that no one would come by this time of night. He’d been out here enough times to know how deserted this highway was. How much blood could dry on pavement and how hoarse someone could become from screaming before a passerby finally showed up and called the cops.

Sergei suppressed a shudder as he eased the car to a halt. Nightmarish memories flashed through his mind—his brothers and father bleeding out in the headlights’ glow, Mama screaming until her voice gave out, the certainty that the car pulling up had come to finish off him and Mama—but he tamped them down. That night couldn’t surface now, or it would distract him from the job at hand.

He left the engine idling and got out, pistol in hand. The air was thick and oppressive, tasting of hot asphalt, but he was cold beneath his thin T-shirt. He paused to roll his shoulders, forcing back that memory that always tried to bubble up when he came out here.

Work to be done. No time to dwell on the past.

Slowly, the chill receded and his focus returned. Time to get the job done.

He opened the trunk. “Get out.”

Nicolá blinked. Then he saw the muzzle of Sergei’s gun pointed at him, and he obeyed, scrambling to get out and on his feet. The drug made him waver a bit, but he managed to get on his feet.

“Go.” Sergei lowered the weapon and nodded at the highway. “Get the f*ck out of here.”

“What?”

“You’re a lucky man.” Sergei grinned. “Got a message. Turns out they don’t want you dead after all.”

The Italian’s face went slack. “So, the Georgian…” He struggled to form words, and still slurred them. “They’re not sending the…”

“He’s not coming. But I would suggest you start walking before someone calls me back and tells me they’ve changed their mind.”