Not What I expected
Three hours later, I was finally able to find a bathroom and use it. In theory, I had family meeting us at the airport. When we finally got that far through the terminal, by which time Zeke seemed to have become fluent in Russian. He was asking directions and pointing to things and moving both of us right along. At least I didn’t have to struggle with my terrible Russian. He was more lingually adept, besides, Russian was a Germanic language spoken like a Romance language, so his Fenech influences were better for forming Russian words than my English ones. My uncle Nickolai was a member of a special branch of the police that dealt with the Russian mob, the irony was not lost on me since I was here to deal with said Russian mob and find a way to keep Alexandra’s half-sister safe from Russian mobsters.
Like the Italian mob, there were different families in charge of the Russian mob. Although family is sorta what you make it in the Russian mob, not necessarily who you’re related to. There had been some team work among the factions while Alexandra’s half-sister’s father was in charge, but since he was languishing in a US prison or Gitmo or only god knew where, it had fallen apart and as a result, no one was trying to kill me for a change, but there was a contract out to kill Alex’s younger half-sister, related through their mothers. Because my aunt always had interesting taste in men. Of course, my mom had dated him first, so who was I to judge. And my own father could probably have given this guy a run for his money in a jerk contest. Not many people had mourned my father’s passing, least of all my brothers, my mother, and me.
but because I had finally found a bathroom, the Universe decided to take its part of the deal and cash it in. Instead of Nickolai waiting for us with a sign, it was six police officers with handcuffs. We’d been in the country less than six hours and already being arrested. That was fun.
“It has to be a mistake,” Zeke said to me. “Or a joke.”
“Meh, this is Russia,” I told him and shrugged. It could have been either or neither. I was leaning towards neither as one of the police officers said something to me that I didn’t understand while putting handcuffs on me.
Ten hours after our flight landed, I was sitting in a room with an interpreter, because my Russian really was that bad. The police officer that had been questioning me had given up in frustration. I understood. Between my poor Russian skills and his broken English, and his lack of sense of humor, he had decided he wasn’t getting anywhere with me. He also thought I was making fun of him when I asked him to write all the questions down for me. I hadn’t been, but… I hadn’t gotten the soda they had promised me either. Not that it mattered, soda in Russia always tasted weird.
The translator was almost as worthless as the cop had been, she kept saying get with killer making in English which didn’t translate even in English. I had her write it down on a piece of paper and frowned at it. Maybe my Russian was worse than I realized, and I needed to buy Rosetta Stone software and work on it because while all the letters were there, it didn’t make sense in Russian either.
“Ah, Nadine,” my uncle Nickolai suddenly opened the door while shouting in Russian at people I couldn’t see. Zeke followed behind him, a smile as large as the Cheshire Cat’s on his face.
“Whatever you are about to say is going to annoy me,” I warned my husband.
“There was been a misunderstanding,” Uncle Nickolai held out his hand for me and spoke to the translator.
“Yes, that’s good, usually, except Zeke thinks it’s funny so I probably don’t,” I told Nickolai.
“Well, the mob bosses you want to meet with think you are your friend, Aislinn Cain, so they told the police and now the police think you are here to help capture serial killer, even more so since you traveled on a Homeland Security VISA for Zeke.”
“Um, what?” I looked at Zeke. He nodded slowly. “I do not capture serial killers, I don’t even like the thought of it and has she not made the papers in this country? She has more scars and she’s shorter,” I told Nickolai.
“She also has darker hair,” Zeke pointed out.
“Thank you for your marvelous insight,” I sneered at him.
“She’s also less given to emotional baggage,” Zeke offered.
“She’s a sociopath,” I snipped.
“There’s also that,” Zeke answered.
“Yes, but do you know Aislinn Cain, can you get her here, sooner rather than later,” Nickolai asked.
“Well, I know her, that’s about as much as I can guarantee. Why do the Russians need Aislinn and why is it such an emergency and why do they think we are her?”
“They think you are her; they think Zeke might be Malachi Black.”
“Blake,” I corrected Nickolai.
“Yes, him. We have been petitioning for several weeks for the SCTU to come train some law enforcement officers, because we have a bad serial killer on our hands.” Nickolai told me.
“They are all bad from what I can tell.” I was still snipping my sentences off at the end.
“This one is worse than most. He seems to be smart and he is bloody,” Nickolai answered, ignoring my curtness.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious. Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.
Copyright © Hadena James 2016
All Rights Reserved