Note: Sergei Nikolaivitch Avadeyev and his crew, like the good doctor, are my inventions. Sergei's first name is a homage to JAG; the patronym, to the X-Men's Colossus; and the last name comes from Alexander Avadeyev, the original commandant of the Ipatiev House. (More on that later.)
"What's up with this?" Kat asked her minion tour guide - shouted, really, over the noise coming from inside the nightclub. It was tooth-rattling techno at its loudest and went pretty well with the neon-glitter facade of the place. Moscow's hottest spot, supposedly. It looked to Kat like a gaudy ex-factory perched on the edge of a seedy, derelict, disgustingly dirty neighborhood, but hey, who was she to judge?
Dragonelle shouted back, "This place is owned by someone who makes arrangements."
The party people waiting in line gave them vaguely curious glances, but not for their fashion choices: The dragon's DREAD uniform was hardly the most exciting outfit being paraded tonight, and Kat's jacket-jeans combo was downright boring. No, it was the American English that drew attention.
That and Dragonelle's rough shoving as she pushed to the front of the line. Kat elbowed along right behind her.
They jostled annoyed clubgoers and got - along with some really nasty comments in Russian - within spitting distance of the front doors. There they ran into the omnipresent bouncer.
He was standard-issue enforcer: Tall, bald, and surly. His black t-shirt was in desperate danger of being shredded across his muscles, and most of the top of his head hosted a swirly, spiky tribal tattoo. Metal spikes and studs decorated the rest. Not a guy to mess with.
He rumbled something at them in Russian.
"We're here to see Sergei," Dragonelle said. It was in a cloyingly sugar-rich tone that went perfectly with the blatantly suggestive smile and body posture she offered up.
Kat felt slightly nauseous. The bouncer was likewise not impressed. He rumbled, in badly accented English, "Name."
"We're here to see Sergei," Dragonelle said again, this time with less honey and more fire. Her eyes were narrowing and the smile taking on a razor edge.
"Not without name," the bouncer growled back. He folded his arms over his chest and squarely blocked the entrance. "Leave."
The dragon drew herself up into full hissy-fit mode. "Fine. It's Dragonelle."
The bouncer snapped his fingers and a normal-sized employee appeared with a paper-bearing clipboard that all but vanished in big boy's hands. The bouncer consulted the list, then tossed the clipboard back at the other employee, who made a hasty retreat. "Not on list. You leave."
Kat leaned over and asked Dragonelle, "How important is it that we get into this club?"
"Extremely," Dragonelle said, giving the bouncer an industrial-strength Death Glare.
The bouncer cracked his knuckles.
Kat felt a flash of sympathy for the guy. Here he was, just doing his job, not asking to be part of their international terrorist scavenger hunt or an obstacle in their path. It was going to be really embarrassing for him in a few seconds, when he was flat on the ground, totally KO'd.
Kat asked, "On three -?"
Dragonelle cocked an eyebrow. "Why wait?"
They didn't.
The bouncer hit the ground and before his big bald skull had finished bouncing itself, Kat and Dragonelle were through the door and into the club. The interior lived up to the promise of the exterior: dark, lots of crazy-colored lights flashing, really loud music, and a wild party crowd living it up in all sort of ways, most of which were probably illegal. Good times in the Rossiyskaya Federatsiya.
They also quickly discovered they'd run straight into more trouble.
This trouble was seven other guys stamped from the same mold as the thug outside. The main differences were the amount of hair, piercings, and the weapons in their hands.
Two of the new thugs had good old-fashioned nightsticks. The other five had shock-sticks that looked suspiciously like DREAD issue.
I guess Sergei buys from the same catalogue. Kat wanted to yell that at Dragonelle, but this close to the speakers, she had a better chance of being heard telepathically.
She and her de facto ally instinctively took their stances back-to-back as the Russian enforcers closed in. Any fatigue Kat might have felt was washed away by a welcome rush of adrenaline, and she consoled herself with the fact that Dragonelle, whatever her personal failings, was actually a pretty fair fighter.
The shock-sticks lit up and the enforcers came in swinging.
Kat ducked the first one and knocked the guy back a few steps, right into the thug behind him. They toppled; the glorified electric cattle prod bounced across the dance floor and tagged a civilian man, who immediately crumpled, unconscious. Dragonelle, meanwhile, had done something that sent her first opponent flying into a wall headfirst, smashing a bank of lights.
The less adled party people finally realized something was amiss and scrambled for the exits. Within a few moments, mass panic had arrived and the combatants had to fight with civvies tripping over them on their ways out.
"This isn't helping!" Kat yelled. She took a blow to the side and gave one back with interest. The thug grunted and staggered out of range. Four down.
"Deal with it!" Dragonelle yelled back. Her next victim suddenly bent double and collapsed; she plucked the nightstick from his slack hands and swung it at victim number three with skull-cracking success. Six.
Kat had her fist pulled back and ready to smash into lucky number seven's face when the music cut off. That was a relief, but since it was replaced by a single gunshot - not much of one.
Everyone still on the floor froze.
"This is no way to get what you want," a man's voice said. He sounded calm, cool, and surprisingly amused. "But then, you've never been one for manners, have you, Dragonelle?" the man concluded as he came into view on the far side of the floor.
He was everything Dr. Wolff wasn't: young, tall, dark, handsome, and slickly dressed in a sharp business suit. His English was nearly flawless, with the barest hint of an accent. Not exactly the first image that sprang to mind when someone said "Russian mobster" - but the Red Mafiya was full of PhDs and professors.
"Seryozha, tovarisch," Dragonelle said, all smiles. She gestured at the man for Kat's benefit. "Sergei Nikolaivitch Avadeyev. Charming and dangerous."
Sergei grinned as he crossed the floor, displaying excellent, very white teeth. "Precisely how I introduce you, Dragonelle."
The dragon sketched a mocking curtsey.
Some of the thugs were climbing to their feet; some were getting assistance. None of them looked eager for Round 2 now that their boss was on the scene.
"And who are you?" Sergei asked Kat with point-blank precision.
The technically correct answer had been, for years, Senior Field Agent Kat Ryan, N-Tek. Nowadays Kat Ryan, professional extreme athlete, N-Tek was also okay.
"Kat," she said shortly. She met his scrutiny with a half-smile of her own - a look that said, Hey buddy, I'm not impressed.
Sergei's amused expression deepened. "Katya. Wonderful to meet you." He swung his attention back to Dragonelle. "You're here for your boss."
"Always so clever," Dragonelle said. "Where is he?"
Sergei paused, letting the moment draw out. "No. No, I don't think I'll share that information with you."
One black-gloved hand wrapped around the hilt of a katana. "I don't think that's an option."
"You've ruined a night's business," Sergei noted, losing his amusement to a cold practicality. "This incident will cost a small fortune in bribes. I haven't worked for your organization in over a year. What's more, I -"
Kat slugged him.
It was a good shot, a gut shot, a punch to the stomach that dropped Sergei Nikolaivitch Avadeyev to his handsome knees and made him retch. The thugs made omnious rumblings but didn't approach.
Kat grabbed him by the lapel of his expensive suit and dragged him up. "Get this: I am sick and tired of chasing down uncooperative leads. So tell me, or your boys are going to be out of work. Clear?"
This whole threatening shtick was uncomfortably like her old life, and for a second she hated herself. Then she remembered that Josh was who-knew-how close to dying, and she was running around playing underworld tag with the dragon, and it didn't matter.
Sergei coughed, still wheezing a little from the punch. No - laughing, she realized. The Russian was actually laughing. "No manners," he said. "None at all. We'll talk in my office."
The thugs finally approached. And, oh joy - now they all had guns.
Which was why Kat shortly found herself standing in Sergei's very tasteful, un-nightclub office, being frisked for a wire. The secretary - make that "administrative assistant" - doing the frisking finished and turned over the half-dozen items he'd discovered to Sergei. Then he glanced at Dragonelle, snorted, and said something in Russian that probably meant, No room for a wire under that.
Sergei grinned and dismissed the assistant, but kept four bodyguard thugs. "Sit," he said, taking his own advice. Kat and Dragonelle sat. "You have wonderful timing. We just got rid of all the pests this morning."
Dragonelle rolled her eyes.
"Bugs and moles," Sergei confided to Kat with a roguish wink. She rolled her eyes and added a derisive snort for good measure.
"Do you know where Mr. Dread is or not?" the dragon demanded.
Sergei leaned back in his chair, toying with a fountain pen - and with the two of them, Kat suspected. "I know. I made the arrangements myself."
Dragonelle hissed impatiently. "So where is he?"
But Sergei wasn't paying attention to her anymore. He was frowning at Kat. "Kat... Oh, of course. Kat Ryan, correct? The athlete. In Del Oro Bay, California."
Dying or not, mission or not, Kat felt like throttling Josh. Public, televised competitions - what a great idea for a guy with a secret identity! Not so great for his one-identity bodyguard.
Instead, she gave Sergei a smile that looked more like a grimace. "Yeah."
"You're very consistent in your performances. You're good for business," he said, making the international finger-rubbing symbol for "lots of money".
"I do my best." Kat crossed her arms over her chest, making the black leather creak. "Hey, about Dread -? Kinda like to get back to that. Seryozha."
Sergei took the use of his diminutive name in stride. In fact, he seemed to like it. Uh-oh. Slight miscalculation, Kat thought, getting an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Judging from the slow, devilish smile spreading across his face, he was in favor of her using any kind of intimate nickname she wanted.
"I'll tell you," he said to her.
Dragonelle made a nasty growling noise deep in her throat.
"I'll tell you," Sergei repeated, now openly amused with life in general, "because dear Dragonelle has not made me nearly so much money in the last six months."
Kat smirked. "She's been in jail."
"You should remember that I'm currently unincarcerated," Dragonelle said sharply. There was enough fire and acid in her voice to melt titanium; Sergei just chuckled and scribbled something on a piece of paper, then handed it to a bodyguard along with instructions in Russian.
The thug handed the paper to Kat. She glanced down and read it.
EKATERINBURG, it said in bold letters. Ekaterinburg was 800 miles away - the twinkling of an eye in a Hawk.
Below that was an address, and below that was the notation, NO MORE THAN THREE MEN WITH HIM.
YES! Josh, your annoying Boy Scout self is as good as saved.
If he was still alive.
Even that cheery thought couldn't kill the buzz of adrenaline she had now: Her final goal was in sight.
Kat folded the paper and stuck it in her back jeans pocket. She looked up at their host, suddenly grateful and also curious. "What's your PhD in?" she asked.
"Medieval French literature. Now. I have police to pay off, so - Dos vidanya," Sergei said, leaning back in his chair, looking tall, dark, handsome and very much the ruthless crime lord. With a doctorate in medieval French literature.
Say one thing for the dragon: She knew some interesting folks.
Dragonelle, thoroughly ticked off, rose and headed for the door without a parting shot. Kat, thoroughly psyched, followed.
Sergei Nikolaivitch Avadeyev ruined her mood by calling out, "I'll see you around, Katya," as the door swung shut.
