The Boy from Reactor 4

“Yes,” Nadia said, holding the tracking device up so Anton could see it. His eyes widened. “I’ve lost them.”

“All right,” she said, her voice twitching. “Are you in a car?”

“Yes.”

“In Kyiv?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I have an idea where we can meet.”

CHAPTER 30

KIRILO STUDIED THE jalopy in the parking lot. The Soviet-era Zhiguli sagged in the middle, as though both axles were gradually succumbing to gravity. The taxi’s number was painted on the side door. The window tint had turned the color of eggplant.

“That’s it,” Specter said. “That’s the car my man was following on the expressway before it got away.”

Kirilo’s driver pulled up behind it.

“Don’t park near that piece of garbage,” Kirilo said. “It looks like the wheels might come off any minute. I don’t want its rust anywhere near my Audi.”

While the driver rolled forward across the lot toward BMWs and Mercedeses, Kirilo glanced over Specter’s shoulder. The light on his handheld GPS device blinked furiously.

“She’s here,” Specter said. He turned the receiver off and looked at the two-story bar attached to the car wash.

“What, no voice on that thing like navigation?” Misha said. “The bitch-whore you are looking for is…up ahead…on the left.”

A black 4Runner with Stefan and Misha’s other bodyguards pulled up beside them. A Pathfinder with Kirilo’s quartet of men followed in their wake. The men followed Specter, Misha, and Kirilo toward the front door.

“A bar at the car wash?” Misha said.

“It’s the safest place in Kyiv,” Kirilo said. “No one wants his car scratched. There’s an understanding. All grudges and beefs are left at the door.”

The first floor featured a long counter and a dozen booths and tables. Small groups of men drank, chatted, and laughed with one another. All were dressed similarly to the others in their group: black leather jackets and designer warm-up suits prevailed among most of them.

Specter asked the slinky bartender if she’d seen an American woman. The bartender reminded Kirilo of Isabella. He wondered what she was doing with her friends at this very moment. Wished he could go back in time and keep his pearls to himself so he could pretend she was good and sweet. But he couldn’t, and she wasn’t, was she?

“There’s an American woman upstairs,” the bartender said. “With a man and another woman.”

Misha and his crew charged upstairs. Kirilo rowed and lifted weights to stay in good shape and fight off aging, but the infernal caves had almost killed him. He had to pause halfway up. When he heard screams above, however, he hurried to the top.

Four broad-shouldered men with grizzled faces stood around a pool table, watching a scene in the far corner. Kirilo pushed past them.

Two pieces of a broken pool cue lay at an odd angle on the floor. A college-age girl consoled a grungy young man, with chains dangling from his jeans, on the floor. He looked like a poser, with carefully cultivated facial hair and a T-shirt with a picture of hippies holding guitars. Blood trickled down his cheeks. Another young girl, with purple streaks in her hair, stood by them, shouting in English. Specter stood between her and Misha as though keeping her from harm’s way. Stefan was rifling through both women’s purses.

“It’s not her,” Specter said, nodding at the girl with the ridiculous hair. “She’s a college exchange student.”

Kirilo gave Misha a stern look. “Didn’t you hear me? No violence in the car wash.”

Misha dismissed him with a quick glance and continued rummaging through the purses.

Kirilo glanced at the poser. He looked familiar. “Who are you?”

The poser sneered.

“I asked you a question.” Kirilo tried to place the face but couldn’t. “Who are you?”

“I’m the bastard who gave birth to Baba Yaga,” the poser said, referring to an evil witch from Ukrainian folklore. “What business is it of yours?”

Kirilo took a step toward the poser, and it hit him. He reminded Kirilo of Evan. The spoiled little turd of a fiancé of his bitch daughter. Both carefully cultivated their rat whiskers. Both wore the same shit-eating grins on their patronizing faces. Wouldn’t the world be a better place without both of them? A disco in London? It was Evan’s fault his daughter was a no-good, conniving little whore-thief who wanted to move far away from her father. It was all the poser’s fault—

Kirilo stumbled backward against his will. Someone was pulling him. Men were shouting. Stop! Stop what? His lungs heaved. Blood pounded against the skin of his face. His fists trembled. His knuckles were red.

“Hey, man,” Misha said, grinning, as the bodyguards released their grip on Kirilo’s shoulders. “No violence in the car wash.”

Kirilo righted himself.

Blood streamed from the poser’s nose. His right eye swelled. The American girl screamed in English while the Ukrainian girl cradled his head in her hands.

“One more time,” Kirilo said. “What is your name?”

When the poser opened his mouth, his teeth appeared stained with beet juice. “Radek,” he said with a nasal twang. “I’m just a singer. A singer in a band.”