The Dysfunctional Mob – Part 35


Getting Home

The news was reporting that an American had been involved in a drug deal with a group of organized crime members and that she had shot all of them.  It was wildly inaccurate.  Josef Borisovich was in custody, and according to Nikolai, he was pinning all the murders on me. 

“Ready?”  Apex asked Zeke and me.  I was limping and had a makeshift dressing on my bullet hole, which hurt like crazy.  I had been shot in the past, but I’d always been able to relax for a few days afterwards.  Not this time.  This time, they were searching airports and train stations for me and bullet hole or not, I had to get the heck out of Russia.

Vasilli and Apex had made a lot of phone calls in the last hour and had somehow managed to secure transport to Belarus, there was no love lost between Belarus and Russia.  Despite being neighbors, the two countries did things specifically to irritate each other.

I was a wanted fugitive, not from mobsters like I was used to, but from an actual law enforcement agency.  It was a new thing for me and I wasn’t entirely sure what was going to happen to me.  I tried not to think about it, because it made me feel sick.  However, we had stopped a serial killer, supposedly gotten protection from the Russian mob, which I wasn’t going to put a lot of faith in, and I had realized exactly why I needed to expand into Russia and Mexico.

Apex came with Zeke and me.  We stopped at a bank still inside Russia and Apex went inside and did something that involved a stack of Rubles when he came out and we headed west, towards Europe. 

At the border of Belarus and Russia, Apex paid some guy the stack of Rubles and our car, driven by the Chechen that spoke the best English proceeded to cross the border into Belarus.  I wasn’t taken to a hospital; I was taking to an automotive garage where some guy poured vodka on my leg and dug the bullet out of it before stitching it back up and telling me to watch for infection. 

After a few very tense hours, Zeke, Apex, and I boarded a plane in Minsk, Belarus and headed to Germany.  Once in Germany, Zeke and I parted ways with Apex.  He flew on to the US and we flew to France, back to Zeke’s relatives, who had been alerted to what had happened in Russia and were waiting to receive us with open arms. 

I had been in France for six hours when Zeke’s uncle, the person we were staying with, came into the room where I had my leg propped up and stabbed the bullet hole with what appeared to be a tire iron.  I screamed and was loaded up into a car and driven to a hospital.  Since I didn’t speak French, I didn’t understand a lot of what was said at check in.  I just knew that I had supposedly been changing a flat tire, when something went wrong, and the car fell off the jack sending a tire iron into my leg.

No one questioned the physics of this improbable accident, my wound was cleaned, my leg X-rayed, and antibiotics were prescribed.  By the time we left France, two days later, I was no longer a fugitive from Russia.  I didn’t know how, but Nikolai had managed to convince Interpol and the FSB that I was a hapless bystander that had been kidnapped by the Russian mob because they knew I had money and had been held hostage during the raid to recover me, led by Nikolai, because I was his niece.

When Zeke and I arrived home, we found a house full of people.  Not just the people living with us, but my mother, my brothers, Zeke’s mom, Aislinn, Nyleena, Aislinn’s mom, even Malachi was there.  If I had to name it, I would call it a “welcome home and glad you weren’t arrested in Russia” party. 

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

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