3 5. NICK

Blackness.

Cold.

Pain.

Pain is good. Still alive .

Can’t breathe. That’s bad .

Floating. Can’t move. Noise. What ?

Something pulling. Can’t move. Can’t walk. Where ?

Feel my knees. Something hard and sharp. Rocks? Rocks. Ground .

Get up, Nikolai. Get up or you’ll drown .

Noise. Up! Up! Up !

Ruff! Ruff! Ruff !

Pain explodes in my head and my legs as my head breaks the surface of the waves. My chest is on fire. What happened? In front of me I see Samson and Delilah barking feverishly .

I’m on my knees in the rocky bottom off the shore below the cliffs. And I can’t breathe .

“Wha–”

As soon as my mouth is open, I cough up a lungful of seawater. The salt burns like acid as it flows out, but when it’s over I can breathe. In short snatches, but it’s air and it tastes as good as the fancy wine in my cellar .

“Ruff! Ruff! Ruff !”

The dogs are dancing frantically around me in the water. As I catch my breath, I feel pain in my wrists. I look down to see dozens of angry red indents in the flesh there. My throat clenches as I realize what happened .

“Did you pull me to shore?” I croak weakly. “Good dogs. Such good dogs .”

They settle and lick my face tenderly, as if they understood me. After a few moments, I manage to get to my feet and navigate the rocks until I reach the shore. Once there, I collapse on my back, the dogs snuggling in on either side of me .

I assess my situation: I’m below the cliffs. I took in water, but I can breathe. Every muscle is sore. My head is on fire .

Gingerly, I reach up to the source of the agony and come away with blood on my hand. It’s alarming, but there’s not as much as I’d feared, given the amount of pain .

Suddenly my mind’s eye is flooded with a clear memory: kneeling. Looking up at Storm. Pressure and pain in my head. Falling. A flash of green hair. Screams .

Storm’s screams .

I sit bolt upright, prompting a wave of nausea and a fresh jab of agony from my wound. My body shivers uncontrollably from lack of oxygen and the after-effects of shock. That’s not good .

“We have to help her,” I groan to the dogs. “Storm’s in danger .”

They sit at attention, whining, confused. They need orders .

I focus on my breathing, trying to clear my mind of everything that isn’t useful, rational thought. No fear. No pain. Just reason. Figure it out, Nikolai. Find the solution .

There’s no way I can get up the cliffs under my own steam. I have no means of communication down here. The closest thing I have is the radio in the boat, but it’s locked up tight. The key is in the house .

The idea comes to me in a flash. It’s going to push their limits, but they can do it. They have to do it .

I pull off my sodden T-shirt, arms aching with every movement, and wring it out as best I can while the dogs look at me with tilted heads .

“Gonna go for a run,” I husk. “That’ll be fun, right ?”

Their tails wag tentatively .

I wind the shirt tightly, stretching it with each twist, until it becomes a makeshift rope. Then I tie one end onto Samson’s collar. Once that’s secure, I do the same with the other end on Delilah’s collar. The two are now connected at the neck by a black band of fabric .

Now for step two. I slide the belt from the waist of my jeans and place my arms over the shirt, so that I’m lying between the two dogs with my arms across the rope like the kitten on that old Hang In There poster .

Finally, I strap the belt diagonally over my shoulder like a bandolier and secure it under the shirt rope. Now, even if I lose my grip, I won’t go flying off .

I hope .

I lay down on the rocky shore, feeling the gravel bite into my bare skin. This is going to hurt .

“Home,” I croak .

The dogs don’t hesitate. They take off with all their might, dragging me along with them. They move in synch with each other, matching each step, using their powerful neck muscles to pull me along as they climb .

Each scrape and bump is agony, but we make progress up the seemingly endless series of switchbacks. I swim out of consciousness a handful of times during the climb, so I have no idea how long it takes us to reach the top .

When we finally crest the edge of the cliff, I collapse next to the panting dogs and undo the belt. A deep red impression cuts into the skin where it pulled me, but that’s the least of my worries. Lying on my back, I can see the sun is at a 45-degree angle. At least seven hours since the attack .

“Good dogs,” I whisper, stroking their necks. Their breathing is harsh, almost coughing. I can’t imagine how exhausted they must be .

Or maybe I can. The idea of standing right now seems impossible .

You have no choice. She needs you .

The thought brings with it a surge of adrenaline that helps me forget the pain and struggle to my feet. The dogs look up form where they lie on their sides, panting in the tall grass. The look Samson gives me says “Really? Already ?”

“Sorry, my friends,” I groan. “She needs us .”

They manage to get to their feet and pad along beside me as I lumber my way towards the house. It’s only a hundred yards away, but it seems like miles .

* * *

T he bathroom fills with steam as the scalding water of the shower sluices over my back. The waterproof bandage over the crease in my scalp is holding, so that’s all right. I probably need stitches, but that’s not going to happen any time soon .

My muscles respond to the heat, gradually unbunching and becoming pliable again. I should be thankful whoever had the gun was a piss-poor shot, and that it was a small caliber. Probably a .22 shell. It creased my skull instead of penetrating it, following the curve of the bone .

The green-haired bitch was on the ground with us when it happened – she must have been hiding somewhere in the cutbank next to the cliff edge. That means the shooter was either Arkady or one of his goons. Given what I know about the boy, I’m almost certain it was him .

Not that it matters. Nothing is going to save him from me .

* * *

T he sun is a fading line of orange behind the horizon by the time I’m ready. I re-dress my head wound, which has thankfully gone from a geyser to a trickle. No matter what happens now, there’s going to be a pretty serious scar there .

Doesn’t matter. I’d take a hundred bullets if it meant keeping Storm safe .

I check the inventory I pulled from behind a secret panel in the dojo - the tools of a former life that I hoped I’d never have to use again – and pack it into my shoulder bag. I pull on the clothes specially designed for the type of work I’m expecting to encounter tonight .

In the garage, I check the fuel gauge on my Mission R motorcycle. It’s a crotch rocket that looks out of place among my classic cars, but it’s American made, and it’s nimble, which is what I need. It’s full and ready to go .

One last thing to do before I leave. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial a number from memory .

“Moscow Palace,” says the voice on the other end of the line .

“Mookie,” I say, keeping my voice light. “It’s Nick Chernenko .”

“Nick! How’s it hangin ’?”

“Long and strong, my friend. Hey, do you have Josef’s cell number handy? I need to get in touch with him .”

“Yeah, you bet.” He gives it to me and I program it into my contacts like Storm showed me, just in case .

“Thanks, Mook, I appreciate it .”

“You bet. It was good to see you the other day, man. We should get together and hang out some time .”

“Yeah, sounds good,” I say, knowing full well I’ll never see him again .

I hang up and hit Josef’s number. He picks up after a handful of rings .

“Volkov,” he says gruffly. “Who’s this ?”

“Tell me where he is and no one else has to die .”

The line is silent for a full ten seconds. Finally there’s a heavy sigh .

“What did he do?” he asks, his voice weak .

“Shot me. Took the girl .”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “Nick, I told him – ”

“I don’t care,” I growl. “Tell me where he is .”

“Nick,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “He’s my son .”

“He tried to kill me. He took my woman .”

“What if I could get her back?” he says. The desperation in his voice makes my stomach turn .

“We both know that’s not going to happen,” I say. “You’re talking to the old Nick now, and you know him. Better than anyone .”

Silence again. “You can’t let it go,” he says finally .

“I can’t let him go. If I do, he’ll keep coming for me, because he’ll know he can never be safe. If I let him go, everyone who ever had a grudge against me will think that it’s open season on Nick Chernenko. I can’t let that happen. Not with her in my life .”

“And I can’t let you go after my son,” he says. “If I let you do this, my enemies will smell blood in the water. The head of the Volkov family sat back and let Nick Chernenko take out his son. Over a woman .”

I process that for a few moments. “It’ll be war .”

“And no one will win .”

We’re both silent for a long time. I look at every option, and nothing works. Arkady’s insanity has forced everyone’s hand. Everyone has a gun pointed at everyone else, like in an old Clint Eastwood movie. Someone will eventually have to pull the trigger .

“There’s only one way this can end,” I say. The sadness in my voice surprises me .

We talk for a few minutes. In spite of everything, Josef is still my friend. I can’t do what I have planned without letting him know that it hurts me deeply. But there’s no other choice. He understands that as well as I do .

“Dasvidaniya, tovarisch,” he says finally. “Do what you have to do .”

“And you, brother. Best of luck .”

The line goes silent and I tuck the phone into the breast pocket of my windbreaker. I pluck the helmet from the wall hook and put it on, drawing a painful protest from my head wound. The Mission sparks to life and I shoulder my pack before easing the bike out onto the driveway and closing the garage door behind me .

The engine whines like a buzzsaw as I gun the bike and set off into the night, following the headlight to whatever fate has in store for me .