There was a woman tied to a chair in the middle of the room.
Oliver knew he didn't slow down as he strode through the warehouse, Anatoli at his side, but he still felt like he was moving in slow motion. His breaths sounded incredibly loud to his ears, and a faint buzzing was drowning out most of what Anatoli was saying, but he still caught phrases which sounded like 'a little favour, Oliver' and 'will be very grateful'. As his hearing returned, along with his peripheral vision, he started noticing other things besides the woman, who was being circled by Sasha and Alexei, two of Anatoli's men. There was also a youngish guy being held back by some low level thugs – this guy, judging by the cursing and yelling, was American. So was the woman American too? And what could she have done that was so bad, that Anatoli wanted her dead? He looked at Sasha again, this time noticing the unholy glee in his expression, and gritted his teeth.
Alexei was ok, just a kid enjoying the status being in the Bratva gave him. But Sasha was a psycho, no doubt about it. He was bending down, probably whispering some sick shit in the woman's ear, judging by the tears streaming down her face. He focused on the woman, trying to think of what he was going to do. She looked young, with long black hair, Goth make-up and piercings. They'd gagged her but hadn't bothered to blindfold her, so she could see all their faces. She knew what that meant. He could see it in her eyes.
Oliver nodded at the kid being held back.
"What's his problem?"
He was careful to speak in Russian, but Anatoli answered in English, walking over to the guy, who was spitting obscenities at them.
"The Irish think they can come to our city, and take our money."
The guy stopped struggling and stared at Anatoli.
"My father doesn't know anything about this! This was my idea! Meghan's just a hacker! She didn't even do anything yet!"
"And now she'll be a dead hacker," Anatoli answered. There was no anger in his voice. Just an icy certainty.
"We can't touch you, because of your father. Her, on the other hand . . ."
He looked at Oliver, expectantly. Oliver felt a muscle clench in his jaw. He wanted to refuse, to protest, but knew it was pointless. He would have to kill her, unless . . . was there another way?
He walked over to the woman, crouched down and looked her in the eyes, feeling his heart break as he saw a brief flare of hope in them. He shook his head, and told Sasha and Alexei to move away. He knew what he had to do. He just wasn't sure if he knew how to do it. What if he miscalculated and really killed her? His only real experience with the technique had been Yao Fei using it on him. Then, once they'd been hiding out in the plane, Shado had tried to teach it to him, as best she could, in between Slade making fun of them, and refusing to believe it actually worked. But he'd never actually tried it on anyone, and now he was going to experiment on this poor girl whose only crime, he bet, was getting in over her head.
This was fucked up. He wanted to take the tape off her mouth – what if being short of air made her die for real? What if she suffocated? But that would look too suspicious to Anatoli and the others, so it would have to stay. He could still cut her loose though, and got out his knife. Sasha, who had brightened when he'd assumed that Oliver was going to cut her throat, tried to protest when he applied the knife to the rope around her wrists. Oliver looked at him.
"What's the matter, Sasha? Can't handle a woman?" He saw Sasha bristle at the contempt in his voice and was glad. And now, it was time.
As soon as she felt the ropes part, she tried to get off the chair, and he slid one arm around her neck, interlocking it with the other behind her head. He pulled her to her feet and started squeezing, and immediately wanted to throw up, but kept his face impassive, as her struggles grew weaker. At first her hands banged weakly against his forearm, but that soon stopped, and he knew he could let go once her heels drummed against the floor. She slumped over on the chair, her eyes open, and he had to suppress a sudden wave of panic. She was dead. He'd squeezed too hard, had done it wrong, and he'd really killed her. He put it out of his mind, sternly telling himself he could lose it later – not now, not while he was still in the shark tank.
Instead of what he really wanted to do, which was empty his gun in Sasha's smirking face, he strode over to where Anatoli's men were holding the kid, and dragged him to her. Oliver ripped the duct tape off her mouth, and grabbed the kid's hand and clapped it over her mouth and nose. The kid sprang back, a look of revulsion on his face.
"Jesus. You fucking killed her."
Sasha rolled his eyes and walked away in disgust, muttering under his breath in Russian. Oliver wasn't sure, but thought he caught 'waste of good pussy', and swallowed hard to control his gag reflex. Anatoli signed to his men to take the kid away, and Oliver crouched down in front of her again, and closed her eyes. He knew he had to move quickly, so he grabbed the woman's body and slung it over his shoulder before anyone could decide they wanted to help get rid of it.
"Oliver – I can do that for you."
Oliver stopped, gritting his teeth and taking deep breaths through his nostrils, trying to calm down. Was Anatoli doing this on purpose, speaking to him in English and saying his fucking name? His real name? Then he answered his own question – of course he was. Playtime was over. Oliver had to commit. Once he was sure he had his voice under control, he answered.
"That's ok, Anatoli. I know a place."
He walked out, not waiting for an answer. Once he got to his SUV, he put her in the back, as gently as he could. He didn't dare wake her up here, where he could actually feel an itching between his shoulder blades, where the bullet or knife would land if they decided to take him out. And he really knew a place. He had to get there, because what if Anatoli sent someone to follow him? He slammed the trunk shut, and got into his car, hoping he looked convincing enough for anyone watching.
As he drove to a small wooded area on the outskirts of the city, he had time to think. Too much time. But at least driving in Moscow was its usual mix of traffic jams and insane near misses. Concentrating on the road kept his mind off the half-dead woman in the trunk of his car. He couldn't tell if he was being followed – the occasional glance in the rear-view mirror showed him one or two cars driving erratically, but that was nothing new.
Why was he doing this? He'd been planning to get out for months now. After every hit Anatoli made him participate in, after every body, every bundle of clothes he was ordered to get rid of, his determination only grew stronger. He had a plan in place, everything was coming together, and Anatoli made him do this? Did he know? Up till now, he'd gotten away with killing criminals – sure, his mind jeered. That makes you less responsible when you clean up after Sasha, who kills everyone. Was it because she was American? Would he have done the same for Tatiana? Of course he would have, he realised, if she'd been the one in that chair. They were innocents. He was the killer, here.
He only realised he'd been chewing on the inside of his cheek when he finally arrived at his destination and stopped doing it. He drove off a track and parked under some trees – enough to be partially hidden, only, as no one in the Bratva actually ever feared discovery.
Oliver went to the trunk, and got out a huge shovel, trying to avoid looking at her. How long had it been? How could he have lost track of time? When Yao Fei had done the same to him, it must have been an hour in between 'killing' him and reviving him – but had it been less? The thoughts were whirling through his mind as he started digging, still unsure if anyone was watching. He didn't bother with a deep grave- she was so tiny. The thought struck him like a brick to the head, and he had to lean on the shovel as he vomited, shaking. He had to wake her up. He couldn't wait any longer. He staggered to the trunk and reached for her, then stopped. What was he going to do if she was really dead? Nothing, he answered himself. Nothing at all. He rubbed his hand over his mouth roughly, and reached for her again. This time he put his fingers on the pressure points, and squeezed.
Her eyes flew open, and she gasped, taking a deep breath. She tried to sit up and he pushed her down, shushing her all the while. She looked around her, wildly, trying to see as much as she could in the semi-darkness of the trunk.
"You! What . . . what's going on? What happened?"
Her voice was shaking, and she looked like she was desperately trying to control herself. He had to calm her down.
"Listen . . . listen to me."
Her eyes widened even further as she registered his voice, and his speech.
"You're not Russian!"
She sounded betrayed.
"Look, I can't explain right now," he continued, urgently.
"I have to pretend I'm burying you."
She went deathly pale at his words, and nodded, looking like she was trying not to puke. He reached past her, pulling out a rolled up carpet. Her eyes followed it and then looked at him, accusingly. He couldn't meet her eyes. Yes, he'd buried bodies before. No, none of them had been young women. That didn't make it any less wrong. Even though he was about ninety percent sure that he wasn't being watched anymore, he didn't want to risk it. So he pretended the carpet was heavy, and threw it into the shallow grave he'd dug, and then filled it in, quickly. He put the spade next to her and paused.
"I have to close the trunk. I'm sorry."
Oliver met her eyes and wished he hadn't – the terror had come back to them. But she nodded, visibly gathering her courage, and he closed the lid as gently as he could. He forced himself to get in the driver's seat casually, and started driving to his apartment. He tried to look for a tail, but found himself too distracted by thoughts of what to do next. He'd only thought as far as saving her life, but now he had to get her to safety – it dawned on him that he was going to have to get her out of the country. How the hell was he supposed to do that? Of course, there was always a way. It depended on how much he was willing to sacrifice for her.
Oliver arrived at the apartment, correction, the Bratva-sponsored apartment, sooner than he'd expected, and parked in the lowest level of the parking garage – the one where he'd strategically smashed most of the lights. He'd also sabotaged the elevator on that side – it was good for him to use the stairs, and there were no cameras in the stairwells. When Anatoli had told him which apartment he should rent, he'd gone over it more than once to check for audio or video surveillance. He hadn't found anything. If there was something he'd missed – well. They'd both be fucked. But he'd set up some traps at the windows and in the corridors – if they came for him, he'd know. And he'd do her first, and then himself. When the Bratva rolled out the torture, they didn't mess around. He wouldn't let that happen to her. Once again, that thought. Where did it come from? What was so special about her? I don't kill women, he answered. And stormed out of his car, trying to get away from his own thoughts. He opened the trunk slowly, so as not to startle her.
"Listen, we . . ."
It dawned on him that she was holding herself stiffly, and that he couldn't see her right hand, like she was holding something under her body. Had he left his tools in the back? Oh, crap. He held his hand out to her, trying to suppress the admiration he felt. She was a fighter.
"Give it to me."
"I don't-"
"Whatever you're holding. Is it the screwdriver? I bet it's the screwdriver."
She bit her lip, tears rising in her eyes. But she shook her head.
"Look. You stab me in the neck. Right here," he said, his fingers pressing against his jugular.
"I bleed out. And then what? You're in Moscow. You have no passport, no money, and if the Bratva find out you're alive, they're gonna make you wish you were dead."
She'd winced when he described himself bleeding to death, and her lips trembled at his last words. Her hand came out from behind her, and he was right – it was the screwdriver. He took it from her fingers, and this time the tears fell in earnest.
"Hey, hey," he said, trying hide his panic. No, no, he could never deal with tears.
"Don't cry. Please. I'm going to help you. Here, let me get you out of there."
He lifted her out of the trunk and she wobbled slightly as he put her down on her feet. He didn't want to waste any more time, and rushed them up three flights of stairs and a winding corridor, to reach his apartment. Once again, he felt doubt as he opened the door. How sure was he that there wasn't any surveillance? But he had to stop being paranoid. He pushed her in, and switched on the lights, glad that he'd closed the heavy curtains before he'd left for the day. She stood in the middle of his living room, and once again it struck him how small she was, and how young she looked. But that was all the Goth stuff, right? God, he hoped she wasn't one of these teenage geniuses – somehow, he'd feel worse if he'd been doing all this to a child.
He wasn't sure what to call her at first, but then remembered he'd heard the Irish mob guy yelling her name.
"Listen, Meghan-"
"That's not my real name-"
He found himself looming over her without consciously having moved, and she shrank back in fear.
"Do not tell me your real name!"
He noticed how terrified she looked and tried to moderate his tone.
"You . . . you have to be smarter than this. If I know your real name, and the guys wanted to get it out of me, don't you think they could do that?"
"Oh."
"What about the Irish kid, does he know?"
"No . . . I used an alias when I worked for them."
He was already moving towards his tiny kitchen area when she answered him, and he muttered 'good, good' distractedly. Something else had come to mind, and he rummaged in a drawer for a garbage bag. She looked at it, puzzled, when he shoved it into her hands.
"The bathroom's over there – you need to put all your clothes, and jewelry, and shoes in here."
She looked at him, horrified. He felt irritated, suddenly. Wasn't it obvious? Though maybe it was only obvious to him – maybe you've killed too many people, and gotten rid of too many identifying features, like clothing, he thought, feeling a wave of self-loathing wash over him. He shook off the thought. He didn't have time to explain. He turned her towards the bathroom and gave her a little push.
"You can take a shower, and there's," he waved his hand in the air, "woman stuff, to take off your make-up. I'll –" find you something to wear, he thought, not finishing the sentence out loud.
It took him a while to find an old tracksuit he'd shoved into the back of a closet, around the time Anatoli had told him he needed to dress better, that Russian mobsters only wore sweatpants in bad movies. He never bothered to tell Anatoli why he was wearing the same tracksuit, day in, day out. And that it had nothing do to with movies, bad or otherwise. Anatoli wouldn't understand. He'd never told Anatoli about the hours he'd spent, sitting on the couch, staring into space, waiting for a text which would tell him what to do - which shopkeeper needed to be beaten up, which car needed to be torched, and who needed to be killed. But he got Anatoli's point, so he put away the track pants, and bought himself a suit.
When Oliver came out of his bedroom and found her standing in the middle of the living room in just a towel, he was slightly stunned, until he realised that he hadn't actually explained why he needed her to get rid of her clothes. She was biting her lower lip and her eyes were filling with tears as she started to take off the towel, and he spun around, thinking to himself that Shado would have been proud of his reflexes. Though she'd have added that he should have kept his mouth shut, too.
"Jesus Christ! What . . . what are you doing?"
"You said I should-"
"That's not what I meant!"
He closed his eyes, and counted to ten, not speaking until he was sure he could control his voice.
"I got you this to wear until I can buy you new clothes."
He carefully extended his arm behind him, and felt her take the tracksuit from him. He waited a few seconds, trying to ignore the rustling sounds behind him, and when he turned around, she was sitting on the couch, looking impossibly young and dwarfed in his clothes. He sat next to her, making sure there was some distance between them. She was biting her lip, and then it seemed she couldn't hold back anymore.
"I just . . . I don't understand. Why are you helping me?"
"Not because I want to fuck you! You're just a kid!"
"I'm twenty-two!"
"I'm not a rapist," he muttered. No, he thought. Just a murderer. Something else occurred to him.
"Did Sasha say something to you?"
She looked puzzled.
"Who?" She thought a little. Then her face hardened.
"Oh, yeah, that creep. 'When captain come back, he fuck you in asshole.'"
He shook his head, not knowing how to respond to that.
"I didn't – I don't do that," was all he could come up with at short notice.
Her look was challenging.
"You're a Bratva captain! An American Bratva captain! You're telling me you don't run hookers? Liam told me all about it, women and, and girls in containers, like property-"
"That's exactly what I'm telling you!"
He was getting angry now.
"I never accepted any of those jobs, ok? I just-" kill people, he thought. He had to get out of this. First he got her out, then he'd find a way to get himself out. He tried to calm down.
"This was a test. For me. Because I never wanted to do any of that stuff."
He looked at her, but she was staring straight ahead.
"I'm sorry."
She shrugged, though he could see there were tears in her eyes. A buzzing sound from his phone brought him back from his thoughts, and the message was clear. He had to get going. He looked at her, trying to list the things he was going to have to get for her. The hair, that was going to be a problem.
"You're going to have to dye your hair, or cut it. Or both."
She looked at him in surprise.
"This? Oh, this is a wig. I just need some baby oil, and it'll come off easy."
Oliver sighed in relief. One less thing to worry about. He'd look at the sizes on her clothes and shoes before he got rid of them, and he'd get her some new stuff. And he'd already come up with a way to get her out of the country. Not really come up with, he thought. It was more of a swap – she would take his place. She would get out, and he would stay.
"Listen, I have to go. There's bread and jam – I'll get you something else to eat when I come back."
He started for the door, looking at his phone again. If he hurried, he could get the girl some clothes before he needed to check in with Anatoli. He looked at the garbage bag on the floor, and groaned inwardly. He had to stop by the hospital, where he'd bribed the janitors to look the other way while he used the incinerator, before he could do any of that.
"Wait!"
She was still sitting on the couch, still looking lost.
"Please. Just tell me. Why are you helping me?"
He didn't know how to answer that. He wanted to atone? He'd done so many bad things? He could still hear Tatsu calling him a monster, and that was before he became Anatoli's button man. He shrugged. She wouldn't understand.
"Don't worry about it. Just stay here. Please."
He looked her in the eyes and she nodded, slowly. He pushed her out of his mind as he walked to his car – that was one useful thing the Bratva had taught him. Dissociation was just a fancy word for it.
Ten minutes later he pulled up as close as he could to Atrium, where he'd been buying his clothes, and cultivating a pretty sales clerk at a chain store. He had about fifty thousand rubles on him, the equivalent of around seven hundred dollars – surely that would be enough for some clothes and shoes? He looked around him, trying to make sure he wasn't being followed, or watched. At least Atrium wasn't one of those malls where the Bratva collected protection – or if it was, he wasn't the one doing the collecting. He walked up to the store, and Tatiana was outside on a smoke break. She beamed when she saw him, and put out her cigarette hurriedly. Once he explained what he needed her to do for him, she quirked an eyebrow, and pulled him inside, heading for an empty changing room.
"First I need you to do something for me, Oliver."
It wasn't that surprising – they'd slept together a couple of times, even though he'd said couldn't commit to anything besides sex. And he didn't want her getting suspicious of their 'friendship', though, after the day he'd had, his body wasn't being very co-operative. He plastered a fake grin on his face and dropped to his knees, pushing her against the wall and pulling her panties off in one quick movement. Her delighted laughter soon turned into whimpers and moans as he started licking and sucking on her clit, and he felt himself responding as her thighs tightened around his ears.
She looked flushed and happy as he rose to his feet unsteadily, and went straight for his zipper, pulling his cock out and giving him a few seconds to grab her ass and lift her up so that she could slide down on it, wrapping her legs around him. He rubbed her clit as she rode, until she squealed her way through another orgasm, and he could let go and come. He collapsed into a chair and zipped himself up, trying to pull himself together. She pulled her clothes on, checked her hair and make-up in the mirror, and gave him one last kiss, before she got him all the clothes he'd asked for - jeans, some t-shirts and sweaters, all in the sizes he'd specified.
He'd stuffed all the clothes in his duffel bag, and thanks to Tatiana he knew where to buy shoes and underwear. And he needed another short stop, before he had to spend a few hours with Anatoli and the guys, so they didn't suspect anything. Which meant a lot of drinking.
Staggering towards his car at 2 am, Oliver stopped before getting in – the exaggerated gesture almost made him overbalance, and he held onto the car. There was something he'd forgotten. Something. It was there, just out of reach. God, he needed to sober up. Fast. He couldn't drive like this. He looked around him blearily, and saw the fluorescent glow of golden arches a few blocks away, and lurched towards it. Coffee first. Then he'd remember what it was he still had to do. After ordering the largest, blackest coffee they had, he started to feel more like himself, and less like his brain was floating on a lake of vodka. Food, that was it. He'd promised her food. He filled a take-out bag with burgers, fries, cokes, and more coffee for the road, and drove back to the apartment. He took the long way around, and this time, was sure he hadn't been followed.
When he opened the door, the lights were on, but he couldn't see Meghan anywhere. He didn't want to call out – everything was pretty quiet in the block. There was a glint in a dark corner, and he realised she was sitting on the floor, holding a knife she'd stolen from his kitchen.
"Hey," he said, but she didn't react except to look at him, screwing her eyes up slightly.
Something occurred to him.
"Are you near-sighted?"
She nodded.
"I'd taken out my contact lenses, and that's when they picked us up. Do you think you can get me-"
But he shook his head, cutting her off in mid-sentence.
"It would look too suspicious. I managed to get a friend to buy all this other stuff for me; but I don't have time to set up someone in optical supplies."
The smell of the fries must have wafted towards her by then.
"Oh my god. Is that- is that McDonalds?"
She got out of the corner quickly, and he couldn't help feeling relieved. If she was hungry, she wasn't giving up. He put the food on the coffee table, and she was halfway through a burger before she stopped and looked at him, and mumbled something. She swallowed, and repeated herself.
"Aren't you eating anything?"
Oliver stretched and yawned, sleepy, even though his head was buzzing on all the caffeine he'd ingested in a large coffee and two cokes.
"Yeah, I could eat."
To be honest, since choking her that afternoon, he hadn't had much of an appetite. But he needed something to soak up all that alcohol, or he'd still be drunk the next morning, and he had more work to do. They both had. He found himself wondering about her question, hours ago. The truth was, he was enjoying himself, doing something useful, and partly being himself, instead of contract killer, Bratva thug. He realised her eyes were closing in between shoving handfuls of fries in her mouth, and took the food out of her hands, trying to be gentle. He put everything that was left in the trash, and when he came back she was already snoring. She didn't even stir when he carried her to the bedroom, and just mumbled something when he lowered her on her side, in his bed.
Oliver went back to the sofa and lay down, setting his phone alarm for eight. If Anatoli wanted him, he'd message or call. He needed some sleep.
The alarm woke him up, and he groaned. He had a terrible crick in his neck, and he'd slept in his clothes, never a good idea. Shower. He needed a shower. At least he'd eaten something, and drunk some water, so he wasn't hung over. But he hadn't slept enough. He snuck a look in his bedroom, and realised she was awake already. She sniffled, but wiped her eyes hurriedly as he put his head in.
He showered quickly, then swore as he remembered he'd have to go into the bedroom to get dressed. He put the towel around his waist and hoped she wouldn't freak out again, but he didn't feel like putting on his filthy clothes from last night. She was already on the sofa when he came out, and her eyes widened, then she looked away quickly.
"Uh . . . I'll just get dressed – you can take the clothes out of the bag."
He pointed to the duffel bag which he'd left next to the door.
"They're yours."
He caught a glimpse of her expression as he turned away – she looked puzzled again. He pushed it aside and got dressed quickly. When he came out again she was in the bathroom, and the duffel bag was gone. She wasn't showering though – the occasional 'ouch' suggested she was taking off the wig.
Might as well make some breakfast, he thought, and he toasted some bread and started making sandwiches, wishing he had peanut butter. He hoped she was ok with instant coffee, because that was all he had in the apartment; when he heard the bathroom door opening, he turned around to ask her that, and froze in place, his mouth open. She looked . . . amazing. She must have found some make-up in the bathroom, because she'd done something to her eyes to make them stand out, and her natural hair was brown and curly, and had he mentioned that he might be falling in love? Because it sure was starting to feel that way. And it was pointless. Because once he got her out of Moscow, he could never see her again, if he wanted her to live.
"That bad, huh?"
She tugged at her hair, self-consciously.
"No!"
He cringed. That was louder than he'd intended. But she didn't jump, or look weirded out. In fact, he was pretty sure she was trying to hide a smile. So, strong and resilient, too? Oh, he was falling hard for this girl. He managed to lower his volume.
"No. You look great. Just . . . different. The clothes fit ok?"
"Yes," she answered, blushing.
"Even the . . . um . . . underwear. Which I'm kinda curious about – what do they say when all," she gestured up and down, waving her hands, "six foot hotness of you strides up and starts buying lingerie?"
He couldn't suppress a smile.
"You think I'm hot?"
"Come on," she scoffed, "do you not own a mirror? You're like, sculpted out of marble or something."
He shook his head, and waved her over.
"I only have jam, no peanut butter, sorry."
"Well, I'm allergic, so that's a plus. You never told me how you got all that stuff," she persisted, crunching her toast happily.
Though she made a face at the instant coffee, and he smirked.
"I have a friend who works in a chain store at a shopping centre. She helped me out."
"Oh. So I've been using her make-up?"
He was puzzled until she waved at the bathroom, and then he understood.
"Oh, no, no. We're not together together, we just," fuck sometimes, he thought. And winced. It wasn't like Tatiana had any expectations of him. They went out for drinks sometimes, and because of Anatoli, he got her into the best night-clubs and restaurants. The sex was good. That was it. He realised he'd stopped halfway through a sentence, and shrugged.
"We're friends. The make-up and stuff – it was there when I moved in. I don't know who was here before me."
He hated to destroy the friendly atmosphere, but he had no choice.
"And I didn't ask. "
Her face grew shuttered, and she nodded. She put the bread down like she couldn't swallow anymore, and took another sip of her coffee, her eyes far away.
"Meghan."
She turned to look at him, her hands trembling around the coffee mug.
"I'd love to tell you all about myself, and find out all about you. And we could talk for hours, and get to know each other. But I can't do any of that."
She was nodding, her eyes sad. But when she spoke, she just sounded determined.
"I just need to tell you one thing- uh. I don't even know your name. This sucks."
He smiled, despite his apprehension of what she wanted to say.
"I'm not going to blame anyone else for what I did, why they wanted to kill me. I needed money, fast, and I did work for the Irish."
She was sitting ramrod straight, looking at him fiercely. He couldn't help a rueful half-smile.
"You're talking to the wrong person if you expect me to judge you for getting in over your head with organized crime."
She cocked her head to the side, looking even more adorable than before, and he had to make an effort to pull himself together, to bring his thug persona out of the box. That's who was going to save her, not some lovesick puppy.
"Ok. This is how you're going to get out of Moscow."
He reached into the duffel, expecting to find the last thing he had procured, not from any shop. When she saw the headscarf, she nodded, looking puzzled.
"Yeah, I had no idea what to do with that."
"It's a hijab. And it's how we're going to get you out of Russia."
He rummaged in the bag again, finding the underscarf. Good. He could take the photo today.
She looked puzzled.
"It's a good disguise, but why would a Muslim woman be travelling on her own?"
"You won't be. Ok. Here's the thing. There's a Turkish family here; they're friends of mine. I mean, they became friends – it's not important. They run a convenience store. And they're stuck here. The Bratva keep taking all their profits as protection money, and they need to get out. They'll be going to the US first, then joining their relatives in England. You're going to be cousin Sertab, staying with her uncle's family. You'll stay together until you arrive in New York, then you'll go your separate ways."
Meghan looked stunned. He hoped she would stay that way, and not come to the most obvious conclusion – that he'd been planning this for a long time, long before she'd ever come to Russia.
"But what about the passports? I don't even have a passport – Liam got us here in a private plane, and used his dad's name and lots of bribes to get us through customs- God, how could I have been so stupid?"
She put her face in her hands and rubbed her eyes. His hand hovered over her shoulder, but he was unsure if she wanted him to touch her, at all. He pulled back. No. It was a bad idea. She raised her head and stared at him. Shit. She looked suspicious.
"This was your exit plan! You're giving this up, for me?"
He tried to laugh it off.
"Purple's not really my colour. I don't think I could have passed for cousin Sertab!"
She glared, and he relented.
"Yes, it was a plan. But now you need to get out of here, and you're in greater danger than I am right now. The longer you stay here, the greater the chance of being found. And they think you're dead. They can never find out that I didn't kill you."
"I still don't understand. Why me?"
How could he explain his motivation if he wasn't even sure of it himself? He sure as hell didn't believe in love at first sight.
"I don't know. I guess . . . I don't want to be that guy. You know, the monster."
Of course, that wouldn't mean anything to her. He could still see Tatsu's face as she said it. He looked down at the scarf in his hands and realised his fists were clenched onto it. His eyes widened in shock as he saw her hand cover his, hesitant at first, and then more decisive. He looked up into her eyes, warm with compassion, and wanted to look away. He didn't deserve that, any of it. She looked like she wanted to say something, to comfort him, but he shook his head, and she nodded.
"I don't know how to put this on," she said quietly, looking at the scarf in his hands.
He blinked hard against the stinging in his eyes, and cleared his throat.
"I got it from Yasemin yesterday, after I bought your clothes. Yasemin and Mehmet, that's what they're called. Huh. You'd better memorise their names, if they're gonna be your aunt and uncle. Anyway, they printed out some instructions on how to wear it, and which styles are most popular in Turkey."
He laughed, remembering the conversation.
"They're not particularly traditional, but once they settled in Russia, they realised it's sometimes safer to pretend to be, you know, more ethnic. It's what Mehmet calls the "forty goats for your daughter camouflage".
She looked surprised.
"He actually used the word 'camouflage'?"
"You'll be surprised when you meet him. His family was really rich, when he was a kid. He went to Eton. Before he gets to know you, he goes all full Turkish. Then in mid-conversation, he sounds like he's in some old English movie."
"Anyway, we have to get to work."
He found the printouts Yasemin had dug out for him, and gave them to her.
"Practice putting this on, until it looks like the pictures, then I'll take photographs for your passport."
She looked like she was going to thank him again, so he got up and started to make some phone calls. It was strange to speak Russian again, after hours of speaking English with Meghan. He wondered if he should contact Anatoli, or wait to be contacted. It was pretty late in the morning, and they'd probably stayed up till dawn, drinking. But he didn't want anyone to suspect. So he sent a quick SMS to Anatoli, asking if he needed anything. He was happy not to get an answer.
"Hey."
He turned around, and wow. She really was a quick learner. She'd used the simplest style to wrap the hijab, making sure that the underscarf covered her hairline completely, and the larger scarf wrapped around her head and neck. She still looked pretty, but somehow younger. That was good. He took some pictures of her, and they checked them together, agreeing on three which looked most like passport photos. There, that was done. Now, all he had to do was go to an ex-con he'd found, an expert forger who wanted to stay clean, and who Oliver had persuaded to help him in exchange for never telling Anatoli that he hadn't died in prison. There, he would swap the false passport with his name on it for one with Sertab Ozul's name, and Meghan's picture. They'd come up with a backstory for her, and she could spend the next few days memorising it.
"What if someone speaks to me in Turkish? Then I'm screwed, right?"
He'd been wandering out the door when she asked him that question. He'd already discussed it with Mehmet and Yasemin, and they'd tried to come up with a few solutions.
"We're going to make the passport say you're younger than you are – a teenager. You've hardly spent any time in Turkey, having been here all along with your aunt and uncle. Also, you're really really shy. You keep your eyes down, and don't speak to anyone. You're very conservative and traditional, and so will Mehmet be, when guarding his niece's virtue."
She made a disgusted face, and he almost laughed.
"You're hiding in plain sight, Meghan. Maybe we'll be lucky. People see what they want to see, what they expect. In this case, a shy Muslim girl."
Driving to Mehmet's store a few days later, he remembered his words and hoped he'd been right. He was using the van he'd stolen months ago, because Meghan was hiding in the back, and he was going to back into the garage near the store, so she could sneak into the back room without being seen. They'd said their goodbyes, and she'd tried to thank him again, but he'd brushed her off, shaking his head. He wanted her out of there, away from all of this. In front of the garage, he opened his door at the same time that the back slid open, and he sensed rather than saw Meghan jump out and dash into the back room.
As soon as he walked into the store, he exchanged a slight nod with Mehmet, who started yelling, just as they'd planned.
"It's too early! I don't have it yet! It was bad business, this month, very bad!"
Oliver had to work hard not to grin – Mehmet was going full Turk on him. There were some other people in the store, but they melted away as soon as they saw Oliver.
"Listen, Turk, you want to say that to Anatoli? Huh?"
He got in Mehmet's face, who spluttered and protested for a bit, then opened the cash register and stuffed some bills in an envelope, and shoved them at Oliver. That bit of acting done, Oliver stalked out, winking at an old lady who glared at him, muttering something in Russian about vicious thugs. He went to a nearby cafe, and lingered there for an hour, until it was time. When he'd planned their escape, they'd told him about kurban bayramı, a Muslim holiday that lasted four and a half days, and which would be perfect to buy time. They'd honoured this holiday for all the time they'd been in Moscow, so people in the neighbourhood were used to the shop being closed for the celebration.
Right now, Mehmet would just be finishing his annual performance of closing up early, for "very big feast", as he put it in his broken Russian, "time of sacrifice!" Which was . . . somehow right, Oliver thought. He'd had to argue to convince them to take Meghan instead of him, even though it would be much easier to smuggle a veiled young woman out of the country than him. They didn't want him to stay and face the music, but why would Anatoli think he was involved, anyway? But Mehmet wouldn't meet his eyes, and Yasemin got up and started banging around in the kitchen. He wanted to reassure them, that he knew he was changing the plan, which was bad – but he needed to get Meghan out. He couldn't explain why.
Oliver went back to the store, glad to see it was closed and shuttered, with a sign outside, in Cyrillic, saying that the store would be closed for the next four days. The van was where he'd left it, and when he got in, he snuck a look at the back, where Mehmet, Yasemin, and their two daughters were sitting on some suitcases. And Meghan, who was wearing the hijab and a long coat – the cold weather was on their side. He and Mehmet exchanged nods, and Oliver drove towards the airport. Once they'd all got out, and started walking towards the terminal, he allowed himself a lingering look at Meghan. She didn't turn around. He bit his lip, and drove off towards a vacant lot. He unscrewed the number plates and shoved them in his bag, then got out a container of gasoline, soaking the inside and outside of the van as best he could, without getting any on him. He had a cheap lighter on him, and ignited a puddle, watching, fascinated, as the flames raced towards the van.
He took a bus back to the Metro stop, and went back to his apartment for his car, and then straight to the club, to meet Anatoli. He thought about what they would be doing now – checking in, trying to look as innocent as possible. He remembered what the plan had been for his own clean getaway – he'd been bribing morgue attendants for a while, as well as learning how to build a bomb. One John Doe in his car, bomb connected to the ignition, and boom. But he didn't need all that, now. And maybe he didn't deserve to get away that easily. But the Ozuls did. They'd be in England before the Bratva would even think of looking for them, and Meghan would be . . . somewhere else. He'd given her some advice about where to settle, but really, as long as no one in the Irish mob or the Bratva knew her real name, she'd be safe. He hoped. Maybe if he waited a few months, and asked Anatoli for an out . . . maybe everything could still turn out ok. And he could go home.
For the next week, he clung to that hope, and managed to push thoughts of the Ozuls and Meghan completely out of his mind, while playing the obedient Bratva captain with Anatoli. But when he went on a routine job with Sasha and Alexei, and woke up on the floor of the warehouse where he'd first seen Meghan, he realised it wasn't going to be that simple. At a nod from Anatoli, they grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him onto the chair. The irony of his situation was inescapable. His head was still fuzzy, so it took him a few seconds to register what Anatoli was saying. The Ozuls had vanished. That was all Anatoli was interested in. No mention of Meghan, at all. Anatoli was still talking, and Oliver tried to pay attention.
"You were the last to make contact with Mehmet Ozul, Oliver. What have you done?"
"You knew what I did – I got the money and gave it to you! I don't know anything else. And anyway, that's what this is about? Some shopkeeper goes on the lam, and the Bratva loses it?"
Anatoli sighed.
"You think we care about the few rubles you got from him every month? Use your head, Oliver. The little, what do you call it, mom and pop store, was perfect for money laundering. Which was its real purpose, all along. Mehmet did this for us for five years."
Oliver must have shown something in his face, even though he was trying to hide his emotions. Anatoli shook his head.
"So, Mehmet never told you. What do you think of your friend now?"
"I think that he had a family, wife, children, he wanted to keep safe. What, do you think I'm so stupid I believe Mehmet worked for you guys because he liked it? Who did you threaten him with, Yasemin?"
Anatoli didn't react.
"The girls?"
Oliver couldn't believe it.
"That's sick, Anatoli! They're just little kids!"
Anatoli shrugged.
"Business is business, Oliver. And besides, as long as he did our work, he had nothing to fear."
He sighed.
"Where are they, Oliver? I don't want to make this painful for you."
He signed to Sasha who walked up to Oliver, with an anticipatory grin on his face.
"I wouldn't tell you even if I knew, which I don't. What, you think Sasha here roughing me up is going to persuade me? You think you can do better than Slade Wilson, than ARGUS? Go ahead."
He crossed his arms defiantly, glad of the look of doubt on Anatoli's face. Because Oliver himself wasn't so sure he'd hold up. Neither Slade nor Waller had ever threatened to cut his cock off and feed it to him, which he'd witnessed Sasha doing many times. The threat, that is – he'd never actually gone through with it. Anatoli held Oliver's gaze for a few seconds, and then shook his head. He muttered something in Sasha's ear, who looked disappointed, and the last thing Oliver saw was Sasha's fist heading for his face.
Oliver swam towards consciousness – sleep kept trying to drag him back down, but he had to wake up. Mehmet was waiting for him to come with the van- no, he'd done that already. He opened his eyes, and tried to work out where he was; he was lying on a metal surface, and it was moving. Where the hell was he now? He thought truck at first, until the ground under him shuddered violently, and he realised he was in a plane – some kind of cargo plane. He could hear voices above his head, speaking in Russian, and tried to move his arms. He wasn't tied up, and at first he thought he had some kind of backpack strapped to him. Looking down at this chest, he realized he was wearing a parachute. What the fuck? Anatoli interrupted his thoughts.
"I'm sorry, Oliver, but you gave me no choice."
He pulled Oliver to his feet, and pushed him to the back of the plane, where the ramp was starting to open.
"Be thankful you have a parachute!"
Anatoli had to yell above the rushing noise of the wind.
"They wanted me to kill you! This is the only way!"
Anatoli held onto the webbing while he gestured at Oliver with the gun.
"Wait three seconds and pull the cord!"
Anatoli's last words were whipped away by the wind, but Oliver thought he heard 'forgive me'. He took a deep breath and jumped. The wind and salt in his eyes distracted him from trying to get his bearings, and he was too busy pulling at the cord to try to look around him. But as the parachute filled and he floated down towards land (he hoped), he had a terrible realisation as the clouds cleared and the constellations became visible. And horribly familiar. It couldn't be. Anatoli couldn't have done this to him. He braced himself for a landing, but was jerked to a halt with a rustle of leaves, realising that the chute had gotten stuck in a tree. The sky was lightening around him, and his surroundings became more familiar with every second. When the sun had risen completely, he couldn't deny it anymore. He was back on Lian Yu.
He needed to keep it together, he needed to keep calm, he needed to stop yelling and cursing the sky. But he couldn't. Why had he even tried to get away? Was it his destiny to stay here forever, until he died of starvation? He looked at the knife he had hidden in his boot, and which he didn't even remember taking out. He should just cut his own throat right now. Instead, after staring at the knife for a few seconds, he swung towards the main trunk, and then cut himself loose. He looked around him, trying to get his bearings. This wasn't a part of the forest he'd spent much time in before, so he still had to be careful of landmines. Though maybe stepping on one would be quicker than a slow death on this island.
He tried to climb down carefully, but the bark was covered in moss and he slid down, landing hard on his side. He lay there for a few minutes, willing himself to get up and start moving. It felt like the hardest thing he'd ever done.
It took him over an hour to get to the remains of Fyers' camp, and once he got there he realized it was for nothing. Whatever hadn't been destroyed by the missile launcher had been looted by Ivo's people. He wanted to scream his frustration, but decided to get some sleep instead, and just lay down in the remains of one of the tents.
On the second day he found his way back to the crashed plane which he'd lived in with Shado and Slade. There were a few things left there too, but no food or water. And he was getting seriously dehydrated. He found the way back to the lake, and collected some water to boil. He was sure there was something metal in the plane he could use, and he needed water, unless he was just going to lay down and die. And he wasn't there yet.
On the fourth day he decided he was there, and walked down to the beach, determined to walk into the sea and just let go. He took off his jacket and shirt, and when he threw them down, something fell out of the jacket. He bent down, and picked up his father's notebook, which he'd found it in the cargo plane, in Yao Fei's trunk. He was just about to throw it into the sea, when movement at the corner of his eye made him spin so suddenly he overbalanced and fell on his ass. It was his father. The look of disappointment on his face was all too familiar.
"Yeah, yeah, dad. I know! Right my wrongs! Well guess what, dad! I can't, and I never could!"
His father just shook his head, looking sad. "Oh, Oliver. You never even tried."
The harsh cry of a seagull made him jump and look over his shoulder, and when he turned back, his father was gone. Of course he was hallucinating. He was dehydrated and starving. He grabbed his jacket and shirt, and put them on again, shoving the notebook in his pocket. He'd try to hunt again. Anyway, what had he been thinking? Drowning was a horrible way to go. He'd find something quicker the day he really gave up.
On the sixth day Oliver found the entrance to Yao Fei's cave. He went in curiously, remembering the last time he'd been there, to get herbs for Slade. Everything was as he remembered it – and there were things he'd forgotten, like tattered clothes, knives, the cage Yao Fei'd put the partridge in. Even extra arrows. He sat down heavily, and started to think, for the first time in almost a week. Till then he'd been refusing to consider the reality of his situation, convinced that he was going to kill himself. But he didn't really want to die. He wanted to go home. And he'd survived here before. But you weren't alone, his inner voice reminded him. No, I wasn't, he thought. And there's nothing I can do about that. But he could try to survive until he was found, and he would be found. Now that the mercenaries were gone, and no-one was diverting curious visitors from the island, it was more likely that someone would stumble on it. He'd use the cave to sleep in – it was much more sheltered from the elements than the plane. He'd get fit again, after a year living soft. Maybe he could get up to speed with Yao Fei's bow. He imagined Shado shaking her head in despair at the number of times he'd missed when he tried to hunt.
So, that was the plan. Oliver curled up on the blanket he'd found in the cave and tried to go to sleep. Being on the island again was bringing back so many memories, so many things he thought he'd forgotten, that he'd wanted to forget. But one of them wasn't unpleasant. A smile touched his lips as he remembered when Yao Fei had tried to teach him something, and how long it had taken for him to learn. You win, old man. Shengcún. Survive.
Notes:
A quick formatting note: when the dialogue is in italics, the characters are speaking in Russian.
The idea for this story has been bugging me for a while, and I finally got down to writing it.
My inspiration is that damn Bratva tattoo, and the real world knowledge that the Bratva? Not nice people. Also, this Felicity's (Meghan in this chapter) backstory is different than the show's. And this is kind of the opposite to a meet-cute. Sorry.
Everything about Felicity's choices will be made clearer in the next chapter, if anyone's still reading by then!
The title is from 'The Road Not Taken', by Robert Frost.