Roman

The streets of the Industrial District reflected my mood – grim, strewn with rubble and barely lit by a sky thunderous with black cloud. I'd been outmaneuvered. Worse, out thought, and by an enemy I had never expected to make.

Victor Antonov.

His brother had been bad enough, but he was gone. Dead. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but Victor was the worse of the two. By far. Victor was unhinged, a mob boss hated in equal measure by his followers and those whose lives he ruled by fear. The murder rate had spiked in Alexandria since Mikhail died, not fallen. And while, for once, I had nothing to do with it – I knew who did. Victor was ripping this city apart, sacrificing an entire community on the altar of his own ego and desire for power.

People were leaving.

Shopkeepers were closing up.

His enemies were fleeing.

Ellie walked along beside me, nestled into the crease between the arm I had draped across her shoulders and my hip. She too was lost in silence, no doubt exploring much of the same guilt and depression that I was experiencing.

I broke the silence, anything to get out of the. "How you doing?"

I was surprised by Ellie's reply. Her voice was firm, unwavering, and also slightly distant – as if the majority of her brain was struggling to tackle another problem. "Tell me what happened when I was," she paused, searching for the right word. "Asleep."

"What do you mean?"

She flung her arms up, exasperated, and gestured around the city. "I mean everything – all of this. Mikhail Antonov, you can start with him. He's dead, I've figured that much out. How did it happen? Why? What happened next?"

I didn't take offense to her tone. I admired it. Her honesty, her straightforward devotion to solving the crisis that swamped us. "It's not exactly clear," I admitted. "How he died. It happened about, I guess, five months ago? Some Irish guy came to town, a fighter. People in the streets say he started sleeping with Mikhail's daughter –."

Ellie interrupted. "Maya."

I raised my eyebrow. "Yeah, that's right, how did you know?"

She mustered a weak grin, but her heart clearly wasn't in it. "Reporter, remember?"

I nodded. "Of course. Anyway, I guess they had an affair, or something. I guess that asshole Mikhail didn't like that very much, and this Irish guy, he ended up killing him, and blasting away half of his men, too." I smiled, reveling with professional pride in the pain that this mysterious man, practically a guardian angel, had meted out on the Antonov clan. I just hoped that one day I'd be able to do the same. "Since then the city's been at war. Half a dozen different groups vying for control. The Mexicans, the Italians, Victor, you name it. This Maya lady, I guess she took over what was left of her father's organization, but most of the survivors ran off."

"Maya did what?" Ellie asked, tearing away from me and stopping dead. Her face was screwed up with concentration. Her little puckered-up nose was the cutest thing I'd seen all day, but I figured that now wasn't the right time to mention it. "No, that doesn't fit."

"Hey!" I said with pretend annoyance that seemed to wash right over Ellie's head. "What doesn't?"

"I wish I had my notes!" She groaned, biting down on her lip and ignoring the question. "She's no gangster," Ellie said, her face shining bright with conviction. "I've seen her in her father's box at the Arena, on TV. She always looked like there were ten million places she'd rather be. Like prison, for one."

I shrugged, and a sound like a gunshot echoed distantly off the hard brick walls of the nearby factories. My mind filed it away as nothing more than a poorly maintained engine backfiring. "I dunno. I heard she's trying to set up some kind of ethical mob outfit," I laughed, though without any real feeling either way. "Good luck with that."

"Ethical –?"

I reacted more out of instinct than conscious thought. On any other day, in any other place, the sound wouldn't have startled me. Then again, on any other day I hadn't found a couple's bodies peppered with bullet wounds and lying in pools of their own congealing blood. That was the kind of image that would stick with anyone for a lifetime, and the kind that reminded me to sharpen up my senses.

I pushed Ellie behind the rusting, abandoned shell of a car, cutting her off mid-sentence. The buzzing, hacking sound of a dirt bike echoed up the street, and I pulled my handgun out from where I'd sandwiched it, between the waistband of my jeans and my back. The metal was warm to the touch.

"Stay down," I barked, not even looking at her. My only job now was to keep her safe, not happy. That I could deal with later.

I turned into the street, planting my legs firmly to help my body withstand the recoil, and prepared to fire. I blinked. If this was an attack, it wasn't well thought through. There was only one rider, dressed in black leathers and a matching helmet – visor down, moving fast but already slowing, desperately yanking at the handlebars at the sight of my loaded and aimed weapon. The Mitsubishi bike's thick tires, designed for screaming up and down the hills, kicked up a cloud of dust and debris in their wake, and made short work of the factory district's rutted roads.

A distraction?

I glanced around the street, eyes moving in a well practiced grid. Shooters on the roofs? No.

In the windows? No.

A pincer movement? No.

"Back the hell up, buddy," I shouted, my voice seeming to crack through the air like a whip. "Before I put a bullet in you." I didn't bother to think about whether I was overreacting. If the guy was innocent, then the worst that would happen to him was a nasty fright. Moments like this were neither the time nor the place for recrimination and self-doubt. Not that I typically bothered with either emotion. Inaction kills, but action saves lives. And right now, I only cared about saving two.

The bike screeched to a halt, and for a second the scene reminded me of an old school Western – two gunslingers meeting in a desolate, empty town that's seen better days. "Unless you've got a problem with me," I called out, my voice the only sound around. "Then I suggest you keep moving, friend."

"Yer the Russian lad?" The man said in a cocky Irish accent that proclaimed he was entirely unafraid. "And that's yer missus?" He whistled, impressed. "Ain't no big surprise half the town's looking for the pair of you."

"You know who I am?" I said, phrasing it is a question. It wasn't. My finger caressed the trigger. I was looking for a reason, any reason, to put a bullet through the man's helmet. He was a threat to the woman I loved. That was reason enough. He was walking a very fine line.

"Whoa there, friend," he said, copying my earlier use of the word, though in a far less threatening manner. "Massey here's no threat, no threat at all. I'm here to help, you could say. Here," he said, unzipping his leather jacket and spinning on the bike's seat. "I'm not armed. No word of a lie."

"What do you want?" I growled. I wasn't used to talking much of the best of times, and the last few days had left my vocal chords hoarse and exhausted – at least by my standards.

The rider nudged the bike's kickstand and hopped off nimbly. "Me?" He said, flicking his visor up to reveal a tiny shock of ginger hair, and a lightly-freckled face. "A good job, a pension – you know, the usual. But what do I get? Running around town for my cousin's wife." He shrugged and sighed. "At least the pay's good."

I cleared my throat. "Okay, enough, funny guy. What are you doing here?"

The rider reached into an inner pocket on his black leather jacket. Slowly – just slowly enough not to startle me. The lad knew what he was doing. "Like I said, just bringing you two a message." He pulled his hand from his pocket, and with it a cream colored envelope. I snatched it from his hand, still eyeing him warily. He shrugged insouciantly, turned and jumped back on his bike. "Here. I'd best be going, now." The bike's engine roared to life, and he departed in front of a hail of tire-swept stones.

I held the letter in one hand, and tracked him with my weapon until the sound of his aged bike's coughing engine stopped echoing off the nearby factory's tiled roofs. Ellie crept out from behind car.

"Don't do that again," she said, elbowing me in the ribs, but the tremble in her voice betrayed her. "The last thing I need is you getting yourself hurt."

She hugged me tight, and I felt a sense of profound gratitude that our unexpected visitor hadn't been something more sinister. Someone knew the location of my safe house – and it was a worrying development. It wasn't listed anywhere. No phone line, utilities under a different name, and the building itself was owned by a network of shell companies. I swore under my breath. I'd only just started to make it a home. Whatever that meant.

"What does it say?" Ellie asked, bright, inquisitive eyes lighting up at the sight of a clue. I didn't blame her. Anything that could help dig us out of the disaster we found ourselves in was all right in my book. I handed the envelope to her without a word.

"It's all yours."

She tore it open hungrily, pulling out the sheet of paper within and holding it just out of sight.

"Don’t play games. What does it say?"