The Boy from Reactor 4

“So how exactly are we going to get the merch?” the Gun said.

“We should do it strong,” the Ammunition said before Victor could answer. “We have the weapons, the manpower, and the element of surprise.”

Victor said, “A thief who uses a gun is not a thief.”

The twins exchanged glances and smiled. “What is he, then?” the Gun said.

“Incompetent,” Victor said.

They laughed good-naturedly. “Okay,” the Gun said. “If we don’t do it strong, we could create a diversion instead. A violent one.”

“No one wants to be in a car wreck,” the Ammunition said. “But everyone slows down to watch one.”

“Exactly,” the Gun said. He turned around to face Victor and pointed at the convertible parked a few car lengths away from the jewelry store. “I could ram that Jaguar with the truck. Everyone comes out. All eyes on my brother and me, you and the guys in the van take down the merch.”

Victor sighed. “A diversion like that is no diversion at all.”

“It’s not?” the Gun said, visibly disappointed.

“No.”

“Then what is it?” the Ammunition said.

“A summons for the police.”

The cabin remained silent for a moment.

The Ammunition turned to face Victor also. “Okay. What do you suggest we do?”

“We use the greatest advantage we have at our disposal.”

“Which is?” the Ammunition said.

Victor smiled. “You and your brother’s natural good looks.”

Victor outlined their strategy. When he was done, the Gun called the driver of the van behind them and shared the plan.

Twenty minutes later, three girls burst from the jewelry store, dancing and shrieking down the steps toward the Mercedes. A lithe, dark-haired beauty waved a jewelry box with her right hand.

“I knew it,” she shouted. “They’re worth a fortune.”

Before the girls could climb into their car, the Timkiv brothers strutted down the opposite side of the street. One of them held a map of Yalta in his hand. They waved to the girls.

“Excuse me, gorgeous,” the Ammunition said. “This is Malisleva Street, right?”

The girl with the jewelry box seemed reluctant, as though she didn’t like the attention being diverted from her and her newfound wealth. But her two friends swung their hips eagerly across the street and offered to help with directions.

The girl with the jewelry box started to cross the street to join them. A white van pulled up alongside her Mercedes. Its body shielded the girl and her car from her friends and the Timkiv brothers.

The passenger window was rolled down. A colleague of the Timkiv brothers nodded at the keys in her hand. “Are you leaving? We could sure use your parking spot. We have a delivery to make.”

The girl frowned. “Oh. Okay. Let me pull out.” She turned and lifted the door handle. There was a loud clicking noise as the doors came unlocked.

Two large men came up behind her. One slid a strip of duct tape over her head and covered her mouth. The second corralled her legs and taped them together. They lifted her and tossed her gently into the back of the open van. A third man slammed the door shut from inside.

She shimmied to the wall of the van and twisted to a semi-seated position. Her eyes stretched their sockets as though she were a wounded animal.

“Hello, Isabella. Don’t be alarmed. You will not be harmed. It is so nice to meet you. My name is Victor. I am your uncle.”

CHAPTER 33

STEAM BILLOWED FROM the boiled dumplings in Anton’s kitchen. The cover to the simmering pot of borscht rattled in place as though the slightest increase in heat would make it blow. They’d already shared half a bottle of an Alsace wine, during which time Nadia’s desires had become inexplicably carnal. Anton began to grin with increasing frequency during their conversation, as though he could tell where her mind was drifting based simply on her body language. When he finally put his glass down and approached her, Nadia didn’t run.

Anton bent at the knees, reached down, thrust his arms between her legs, and cupped her buttocks. She grabbed his shoulders to keep from falling backward.

“Anton, what are you—”

As he straightened, she teetered. Her hands went around his neck. He lifted her off the ground. She urged him on. He stepped forward, slid her butt onto the granite kitchen countertop, and released his grip. Her legs were splayed, and his hips pressed against her.

He kissed her, letting his lips sink into hers barely enough to make an impression before sealing them and kneading her gently. He tasted of apples and lemon. When he parted, Nadia lost her breath. What was she going to ask him? What was her problem now?

His left hand pressed against her lower back. His right hand massaged her shoulder, her spine, the back of her neck. The lips—those big, juicy fucking lips—caressed and nuzzled the rest of her neck, seemingly forever, slowly sucking on every pore between her head and shoulders, sending blood rushing to her face and turning her brain to mush. He finally, mercifully, slid his lips to hers and kissed her again, this time more urgently.

“Bedroom,” he said.