Verker – worker. That one was sort of hard to figure out. :)

I'm starting to like Pavel. :) When I started this, he was expendable... but now I don't think I want to kill him off. What do you guys think? Should Pavel live or should he die? The story will work either way...

PS I'm going for forty chapters. Might be a tiny bit longer, but forty is my goal.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Troubled

"But he killed him!" Pavel was in a panic. Though he wouldn't admit it, he was scared to death of his employer, Albie Sampson.

"He didn't kill you, did he?" asked Pavel's cousin sarcastically. Pavel's cousin, Yuri, was the one who had tricked him into working for Albie in the first place. Yuri had owed Albie lots of money, and had given him a cheep lackie as payment.

"N-no," said Pavel, still distressed.

"Vhy vould he kill such a valued verker?" There was a chuckle, and Pavel winced. "As long as you are a good little verker and do vhat he says, he von't hurt a hair on your precious little head, I'm telling you. Just don't do anything stupid."

"I von't," promised Pavel quietly, tears coming to his eyes.

"Then you'll be fine." There was a click! as Yuri hung up the phone, and Pavel put his down.

Pavel wasn't particularly fond of his cousin. In fact, he thought he might hate him. And Pavel Ianov hated hating people for any reason. It was this that made him resent working for Albie— all Albie did was bad things, usually for money or for 'family'. Being a believer of doing anything for one's family, Pavel could appreciate that; but the things that Albie did...

He shivered outwardly and wrapped his arms around himself. "I don't think I can do this," he mumbled, still shivering.

"Can't do vhat?" Mikhail walked out of the hotel bathroom wearing his blue-and-white stripped pyjamas and towel-drying his lengthy black hair. Pavel collapsed on his bed and shook his head.

"Everything. Vhat did the Hoyt brothers ever do to me?" He looked up at his coworker seriously. "I don't think I can kill them. I've never killed somebody before. I don't think I could live vith myself."

Mikhail looked surprised and mildly sympathetic. "You'll get used to it," he encouraged, tossing his towel on the floor and flopping down on his own bed. "It comes vith the territory. If you vant to vork for Albie, you have to hurt people. You'll get over it eventually, kid, don't vorry."

Pavel grabbed his pillow and put it over his head. He didn't think he would ever get used to it. He didn't think he could handle it. He had to do something. He had to save them. He had to do the right thing. But in order to do so, he would have to put himself in harm's way. Could he really do that?

He shook his head. He was in deep trouble.

XXX

Two detectives and a medical examiner walked into a bar. Not just any bar, no, it was Albie Sampson's bar. Armed with a photograph of Sergei and their badges, they walked up to the bartender, who looked down at them (he had to be at least 6'5") with a sneer.

"Yes?" he asked almost too politely, the corner of his eye twitching menacingly. Seely recoiled from the man a little, looking almost scared, which was unusual for him. It was Jordan who spoke first.

"Have you seen this man lately?" she quipped, offering him the photo. The bar tender took one glance at it.

"No."

"Are you sure," she pressured, holding it out to him still, "Might have ordered the 'Peach Plate'?" The bar tender shrugged.

"The 'Plate' is popular," he said gruffly, eyeing her, "Many men order it."

Woody didn't like the way this guy was looking at Jordan. "Mind if we ask around?" he asked quickly, so as to remove her from him. The bartender glared at Woody like something stuck to his shoe, and like he was only now noticing he was there.

"I doubt you'll find any of our customers any more forthcoming," he said slowly eyes narrowing slightly, "But do as you please. It is a free country."

"Thank you," said Woody politely, leading his girlfriend by the arm away from the bartender. Matt followed quietly, occasionally glancing back at the creepy man. The three split up and started asking around about Sergei, but coming up with nothing.

Matt walked up beside Woody. "I have a bad feeling about that guy," he mumbled, looking back at him and flinching. Woody looked over Matt's shoulder at him.

"Me, too." Jordan was at the table to their right, asking a blonde man with a tiny goatee if he had seen the victim.

"Sorry miss," said the blonde man to Jordan, giving her a wink. She shrugged and walked up to the detectives.

"Any luck?" They shook their heads.

"I've asked everyone in sight," said Woody, rubbing the back of his neck, "No one knows him."

"Or they know him, but they're lying," Matt pointed out, and Jordan nodded. She squinted off toward the corner of the smokey bar.

"Did you ask that guy?" she asked, motioning toward the young man in the booth, half obscured by a shadow that had creeped into the corner. Woody looked at him and shook his head.

"Nope. I guess we missed one," he said, pulling the photo out of his jean's pocket and walking toward the booth. "Sir, have you seen this man around here before?" He held up the photo as he approached the young man.

He looked up from the beer he had been nursing and gave the photo a good look from the distance at which he was holding it. His eyes narrowed, then widened, and he jumped from his seat and sprinted toward the back door.

"Why do they always run?" moaned Matt as he watched Woody quickly gain his bearings and start pursuit. He dropped the photo in his own hand and began to chase after the two, Jordan following closely behind him.

Out the back door and into an alley, down the alley and out to the street Woody chased the young man from the bar. They seemed to be slowing a little. The man wasn't too fit— obviously not a sporty person. He was panting heavily and Woody slowly caught up.

Once he got close enough, Woody dived for the man, grabbing him by the coat and pulling him down onto the sidewalk. He shoved his knee into his back, yanking his arms out behind him and cuffing them as Matt and Jordan approached.

"You really are an idiot, aren't you?" said Matt, rolling his eyes. "Running just makes you look guilty."

"I didn't do anything!" said the young man, tears welling in his eyes. "Really, I didn't!"

"What's your name, kid?" asked Woody, pulling him up off the pavement and to his feet. He sniffled pathetically.

"Pavel," he said quietly. "Pavel Ianov."