Blows dust off the cover+ It's been a while since I updated this one. Sorry about that folks, but I'm heading into my finally 2 months at university, so things are kinda hectic. In any case, I started writing chapter 10 from scratch this afternoon and then accidentally realized that I'd already started this chapter months before. Works for me, as now I don't have to worry about starting the next chapter: the intro is already written ;) Thanks for the feedback; keep it coming! Enjoy!

1:28 a.m., Sunday, March 19th

Sasha did not like what he was hearing, not by any measure. As he paced back and forth in his dimly lit office, listening to the tinny words channeling through his desk telephone and ricocheting inside his head, it was all he could do to avoid wrenching the blasted thing free from the wall and hurling it across the room. Instead, he contented himself with slamming down the receiver and uttering a harsh string of profanities in Russian. When his rage passed, he would relax, perhaps get some sleep, and call a meeting of his boys. He would cooly and calmly discuss the situation with his men and perhaps chart a path through this crisis. But now the bitter rage had crept into him and lodged under his skin like some thrashing, writing insect which would not die and seemed to dig deeper into his flesh the more he picked at it.

Stopping in front of his desk wastebasket, he ripped the sodden, half-gnawed cigar from his thick lips and threw it into the trash receptacle with all the force he could muster. Unsurprisingly, despite his considerable strength and powerful arms, the wet, flaky cylinder sailed through the air at a lethargic pace and plopped into the metal container, eliciting barely a rustle from the fresh plastic bag the janitor had put in the night before. Riled by this seeming affront on the part of the cigar, Sasha turned his attention to the surface of his desk and grabbed hold of the first thing he laid his eyes upon; in this case, an empty whiskey glass. Spinning on his heel, the burley man turned and catapulted the fragile crystal shell across the room, propelling it through the air with nerve-wracking velocity. The glass dissolved into a puff of twinkling glass shards as it struck the far wall and exploded with a deafening (and to Sasha, infinitely more satisfying) blast.

Moments later the office door flew open and Sasha regretted his outburst. Although he did not particularly care what others thought of him, an outburst like that invariably raised questions with the boys and caused the custodians and other "civilians" concern. A stubbly bald head poked through the open and cautiously evaluated the room. Sasha was relieved. It was only Vassili. He was a smart boy and knew not to ask too many questions. "Everyt'in' ok, boss?" the bald man pondered, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses but his eyebrows raised in concern.

"Yeah, Vassili, it's fine. You can go." The bald head twinkled in the harsh white light in the hallway as Vassili cast a furtive glance around the room.

"Ok, boss, ok. I outside if you needs anyt'in, da?"

Sasha gave the man a listless nod and shimmering bald dome retracted back into the hallway, carefully closing the door behind it as it retreated. When the door had clicked shut, Sasha sighed and surveyed the damage on the far wall from a distance. The wallpaper appeared to be slightly torn but none the worse for wear. This was, after all, his headquarters and while he did not necessarily relish the prospect of the building falling down about his ears, if he wanted luxury he would go back to his place. Or get another headquarters. The slight residue of alcohol which had been in the glass when he had thrown it had splattered at the point where crystal had met concrete and the former lost the fight. A slight trail of amber fluid had resulted and it lazily trailed down the wall, pooling where the carpet had not quite extended all the way out. Oh well, no matter thought Sasha to himself as he rounded the desk and lowered himself into his chair. Just another job for the staff. After all, Sasha loathed nothing more than the idea of others becoming fat and lazy on his payroll and within seconds the resentment had returned.

Rummaging through his desk drawers, he located the golden cigar holster he had placed there earlier in the evening and flipped it open, relishing the scent as the spicy, earthy odor of good strong tobacco reached his flared nostrils. He monetarily considered lighting one of the cigars up, but ultimately decided that it would be too much trouble and instead satisfied himself with inserting the end between his teeth, clamping down hard as he did so. What he needed to do now was think and although he knew that in fine company it was considered extremely bad manners to chew on a cigar, nothing seemed to smooth his troubled mind than a good, soggy Dominican. And in any case, no one else was present.

Sinking his teeth into the delicate, paper outer skin of the cigar, he set his mind at work, reviewing the events of the previous few months. First Lev, then Piotyr, and now Oleg. One by one his top men were dropping like flies and there seemed precious little he could do about it. Details were proving to be frustrating elusive and he was growing tired of hearing nothing but unconfirmed rumors and half-truths. Granted, his penetration of the Cleveland police department was not as thorough as it had been a few years earlier when internal affairs had made its anti-corruption probe, but surely his contacts down at the precinct should have more information for him by now. Either the upper ranking detectives were keeping details very close to their vests, or his boys down at the station were getting lazy. One way or another, he needed to know more. Off in the distance, a phone rang. Moments later, a furtive knock emanated from the door. Sasha cleared his throat.

"Yeah? Come in."

Once again the door cracked open and the stubbly, bald head of Vassili appeared, bathed in the harsh white light from the hallway.

"Boss, it's someone here to see you."

Sasha chomped down on his cigar. When Vassili failed to produce any more information, he felt his temper rise. Struggling to keep it under control, he sat up in his chair.

"Ok, Vassili. Who is it, if you don't mind my asking?"

A crooked smile crossed Vassili's face.

"I dunno, boss, some old lady. Didn't say what she wanted. Want I should tell her to scram or something'?"

Massaging his temples, Sasha removed the cigar from his mouth and attempted to place it in the ashtray. Halfway there, he suddenly recalled that he had disposed of the ashtray already and instead merely tossed it into the tin wastebasket next to his desk. Sighing in frustration, he impatiently gestured to his employee.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Send her in." Vassili nodded and quickly closed the door behind him.

God, why did life have to be so difficult thought Sasha to himself as he reached into his desk for another cigar. Vassili wasn't really a bad boy, none of his soldiers were. It was just that at times they seemed so…inattentive. Just the same, it did at times serve a purpose. After all, Sasha had developed a bit of a reputation around the city for being tightly wound, a reputation no doubt fueled by his occasional outbursts and rages at his workers. Deep down, Sasha comforted himself with the fact that although HE knew he wasn't really angry or aggressive or a bad person by nature, it was just the fact that he had a tendency to hire absolute idiots to work for him that resulted in his outbursts. Groping in the semidarkness provided by the drawn shades, his fingers probed for a lighter. Moments later, the door opened.

Sasha looked up and heard Vassili muttering something in a quiet, vicious voice, attempting to impress Sasha's guest with his toughness and meanness no doubt. It momentarily crossed Sasha's mind to chastise Vassili for his lack of respect for his elders, but as soon as the thought came, it was gone. In any case, it would be bad form for him to criticize his worker in front of a civilian. It would make him look weak and contradictory. Clasping the silver-plated cigar lighter with his beefy fingers, he stood up and adjusted his clothes, hoping to appear presentable to whomever his guest happened to be.

Slowly, carefully, a short dark figure was silhouetted against the light of the doorframe. In the quiet of the office, its shuffling steps resounded like sandpaper on concrete. As soon as the figure was clear of the doorway, Vassili closed the door with a satisfying clack and the two were alone in the office.

"Please, have a seat." Sasha walked around the desk and gestured towards the other two chairs in his office, facing his desk. As his eyes recovered from momentary blindness inflicted on him by the wall of white light out in the hallway, he began to pick out some of the details of his newly arrived guest.

It was, or at least appeared to be, a woman: that much he could tell from the silhouette of the head, wrapped as it was against the cold of March in a scarf or handkerchief of some kind. The woman was undoubtedly very old as well, judging from her posture and the shuffling steps with which she moved. A long, gnarled cane protruded from the baggy sleeve of a weather-beaten greatcoat and to Sash it appeared as if the woman placed a good deal of weight on it, clearly favoring one leg over the other. Other than that, the figure remained cloaked in shadows, hidden in the murkiness of the room.

"It's awful late for someone such as yourself to be out this late, mama," he spoke as the old woman approached the desk. "There are a lot of bad men out on the streets at night; I'd hate to think of someone like you finding yourself in trouble. Please, sit." Sasha about faced and returned to his seat behind his desk, fingering the top of his lighter as he did so.

"Sasha Constantinovtich. You and I have business." The quiet words ripped Sasha's attention away from the lighter where it was settled on and onto the old woman's face. Although female, the voice was like nothing Sasha had ever heard in his life. Low and heavy, it carried a fine edge which, coupled with its emphasis on sharp syllables and crisp consonants produced an undeniable aura of sheer menace.

"Prastite, ya ne savsem ponyal, chto vy skazali," replied Sasha after a pause, unsure how to proceed: I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch what you said.

"I said," the woman spoke again, this time in English, "you and I have unfinished business." Slowly, the figure advanced on the desk, its shuffling steps grinding on Sasha's already frayed nerves. Deep on some remote plane of Sasha's consciousness part of his brain was screaming at him that the noise of those shuffling steps was annoying and that he should kill (or at least yell at) the person responsible. Under normal circumstances, he would have had the old woman seriously punished. No one came barging into his office and addressed him in such a familiar tone, not even his long-dead brother. However, the big, blustering boyar Sasha was temporarily gone. In his place Sasha felt a slight flicker of confusion: an uncomprehending apprehension which took the edge off of his anger and severely hampered his response. Cloaked in the darkness of the office, the figure stood silently, motionlessly, waiting for the big man's response. Nervously, his fingers slid along the rounded edges of his silver lighter.

"I'm listening," he replied, maintaining his voice as level as possible.

"Do you know me, Sasha Constantinovitch?"

After careful reflection, Sasha responded.

"No, I don't know you," he began, and then, with more confidence "who are you? What do you want?" As of their own volition, his fingers clicked open the top of the cigarette lighter, shattering the silence with an abrupt tick. Sasha started at the sound for an instant, before forcing his fingers to relax. He leaned back in his chair, absently relishing the feel of the cool leather on his by-now warm skin. Where was this leading?

"My name, is not important, Constantinovtich," the voice resumed, its surface brittle and crinkling like metallic foil. "You took something from me, something very precious. And now I want it back.

Sasha's brain spun feverishly in several different directions at once. Part of him, the crimson, violent part of his soul was rapidly swelling, growing more irritated and raw by the moment. Who was this old hag? What was she doing here? What was keeping him from pulling out a gun and shooting her in the knee for her impertinence right then and there?

On the other hand, another, equally prominent and twice as anxious part of his soul cautioned him to be reasonable and to show restraint. Something was very wrong. He couldn't place it exactly, but there was no doubt that one way or another, this woman- this repulsive, ominous thing- in front of him should be listened to very carefully and shown respect. Somewhere in the reptilian, primal, survival-oriented part of his brain, a small voice was screaming at him to be careful, to treat this situation with the utmost respect and caution. Licking his lips nervously, he struggled to find his voice.

"Mama," he murmured, his voice even, "this cannot be. I am just a businessman, a stranger in a strange land, like you. However, if I have-"

He got no further than that. In the deep, dark recesses of the room another sound had slowly begun to rise, steadily building in volume until it blotted out Sasha's train of thought and demanded his attention. Leaden and heavy, Sasha had at first failed to place it. It was not until the sound built up to a crescendo that he finally heard it for what it truly was: the slapping, warbling sound that was the woman's otherworldly cackle. At the back of his neck, Sasha felt beads of sweat forming, cold against his skin. Where once confusion and anger had merged in his brain, all other senses had been wiped away clean and had been replaced be fear.

The laughing rose in pitch and volume, louder and louder, until it finally cut off with an abruptness which causes Sasha to start in his chair.

"I know what you are, Constantinovitch," the voice croaked, creaking and twisting like a rotten tree in a high wind. "You are no businessman. You have taken my son from me, and I want him back."

A sudden knock at the door ripped Sasha's attention back to the hallway. Yes! Thank God, Vassili, he suddenly recalled. He could deal with this. One word from him and Vassili would put a bullet in this musty pile of rags and shut her up for good. Then there would be no more woman, no more confusion, and most of all no more fear.

"Come in!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, reaching into his desk drawer for his gun as he did so. A woosh of warm air and a blazing column of white light tore into the room, illuminating great swathes of carpet. Vassili and Miklaus rushed in, pistols drawn. A hail of sounds and voices slammed into Sasha as he fumbled for the big revolver he knew was stashed in his top drawer.

"Everthin' ok boss?" It was Vassili, rushing up to the chairs in front of the desk and leaning in towards his huddled boss as he did so. "Everythin' ok? We heard screamin' and yelling!"

Sasha's fingers finally closed around the molded rubber handle of the revolver and, pulling it free from the drawer he leveled it at the old woman. Except that where the figure of the old woman had once stood was now only empty space.

"Where did the bitch go!" he shouted when his trembling, salivating lips finally decided to obey his brain's command. Vassili stared at his boss with the uncomprehending stupidity usually reserved for cattle and sheep.

"You mean…the old woman who came to see you earlier?"

"Who else, halyavshchik? The woman who was just here."

Vassili shot a puzzled glance at Miklaus who raised his eyebrows in stupid incomprehension. "Boss," he replied, clearly under the impression that his boss was either drunk or stoned, "that old woman left an hour ago. You walked her to the door and I ain't seen her since."