Stolen Jewel by Alexis Abbott
Stefan
Ilook up at the overhead mirror. My eyes squint in the near-darkness as I pull away from our newest home base. The log cabin up on the mountain, along with any semblance of peace and warmth, has slowly shrunk away into nothingness behind me.
I sneaked out not long after the all-encompassing nighttime swept in. I played it cool and waited until after I was certain my precious charge had fallen asleep. Luckily, she was pretty worn out from our intense, vigorous lovemaking, and I knew she would sleep like the dead. Of course, that didn’t make it any easier on my heart to leave her behind. I slid out of bed so quietly and cautiously as to not wake my sleeping princess. I remember exactly how she looked in the soft glow of the moon through the bedroom window. Her lips gently parted to let out soft, rhythmic breaths. Her dainty hands, one folded under her cheek on the pillow, the other draped across the bedsheets. She looked so peaceful with her lashes gently fluttering as her eyes flit behind her lids. She whimpered a little in her sleep when I got out of bed. I wonder what she was dreaming about. I wonder if she dreams about me, and if so, are they good dreams or nightmares? Either way, I knew that if she was awake to see me leave, she would put her foot down and insist on coming with me.
After her stunt last night with the sheriff, I know she’s becoming protective of me. Attached to me. Even though she’s the captor and I’m the man in charge, Jewel cares about me enough to throw herself in front of a metaphorical bullet. I can’t be sure she wouldn’t take a literal bullet for me, too. That is an admirable, impressive trait. She’s not even from this world, so she has every reason to be afraid. Hell, to be afraid of me, too. She constantly amazes me with her resilience. She’s the dead weight I expected when I took on this mission. Jewel isn’t a burden. She isn’t a cross to bear. But she could definitely be a liability. We may have gotten out of last night’s encounter unscathed, but it could’ve gone very differently. That was too close for comfort, and it proved even more to me that Jewel needs my protection. I can’t let my world of shadows and death consume her in all her goodness.
So I had to be deceitful, just to get away. It’s my hope that she’s stayed asleep long enough for me to get a good head start on the six, seven, maybe eight-hour journey I have in front of me. That’s another reason for leaving when I did-- to drive throughout the night. This particular route is full of surprises. There could be traffic further south, not to mention road closures and detours are basically inevitable in the mountains this time of year. I’ve been winding down in elevation for a while now as I come down from our hideout on the mountain. I have the car heater blasting, but this stolen old car is just now starting to warm up finally. I’ve been driving with my calloused hands tight on the freezing cold steering wheel, breathing puffs of warm cloud in the frigid air. Every now and then, I have to rub my hands together to bring them tingling back to life. Even under multiple layers of clothing, the chill reaches down to my bones. I’m strong enough not to shiver, but my body aches for some warmth.
If the cold isn’t miserable enough, the pitch blackness certainly helps. That sheriff likely wasn’t exaggerating when he said nobody but the occasional hoodlum spent much time up on that mountain. It’s a dangerous and difficult place to even find. There are no streetlights, and the occasional one you do find is usually burnt out or flickering like a scene from a horror movie. I have only my dimmed headlights to guide me down the winding, narrow, cliffside roads. But the darkness is my friend in this case. I’m heading south under cover of night, in the hopes that it will be a less eventful drive than our daytime mileage lately.
My mind replays our encounter with that maniacal motorcyclist. Swerving around us, firing bullets at the woman I swore to protect. We managed to make it out with our lives, but only barely. Much like our showdown with the sheriff, it could’ve gone much worse. Especially if anything had happened to my precious Jewel.
My thoughts turn to worry as her beautiful face swims in my head. Those lovely soft brown doe eyes staring up at me defiantly as she clenched her fists and stood her ground. When we first met, I thought she was a brat. But I’ve come to see her as inquisitive and persistent now. She doesn’t cause problems for the hell of it, she solves them. But her investigative nature might lead her-- and me-- down a dangerous path if she goes too far. I left her a handwritten note pinned to the inside of the front door, explaining that I’m going on a supply run. I didn’t tell her where I’m going or why or how long I’ll be there. I tried to keep it simple, but not so cryptic that it will send her little lawyer brain into hyperdrive trying to ‘figure it out.’ For once in my life, I have someone besides myself to care about, which I’m learning is a double-edged sword.
On the one hand, I have someone to dote on. Someone to kiss and hold and protect. She cares about me, too, and it feels good. But on the other hand, I have someone to worry about. Now, when I drive away from her, it’s like I’m leaving half of my heart behind. I don’t know what she will do when she realizes I’m gone. I can’t predict her behavior-- even as I get to know her, she finds ways to surprise me. I’m just going to have to trust that between not knowing where I went or what my intentions are, she won’t try to escape while I’m gone. When we’re together, she doesn’t show any signs of wanting to run off. In fact, she seems pretty latched onto me by now. But I can’t know for certain there isn’t another bid for freedom left in her.
I shift uncomfortably in the driver’s seat as I remember that fateful day she climbed out the window at our first safehouse. The incident returns to me in moments of crystallized sensation. My feet crunching through the dead leaves, my breathing hard, my mind racing as I tracked her dainty footsteps through the forest. I was hunting her down, worried that someone or something would find her before I did. Even just the elements alone could’ve killed her. She was out there scantily clad and barefoot, undernourished and panicky. I know there are bears in those woods who would’ve smelled her as a tasty snack from miles away. Not to mention the occasional hunter who might’ve shot her thinking she was a deer or something, or the Bratva-trained assassins coming after us. That last prospect makes me shudder.
I don’t know precisely what the Bratva have in store for us, but I do know they’re willing to let at least one of us perish. I don’t want to die, but I definitely can’t let Jewel die. It was a measured risk, choosing to leave her at the cabin while I take on this ‘supply run.’ Sure, it scares the hell out of me to leave her behind. Unguarded. Unarmed. She’s a sitting duck at that cabin for anyone who actually knows how to find it. But going into the city right now is like waltzing into a lair of sleeping wolves. New York City is crawling with the Bratva’s eyes, ears, and bloodied hands. If anyone catches a whiff of my presence in the city, they could surround me and take me down in a heartbeat. Or at least get close enough to try me. I might be able to fend off my attackers on my own, but if my focus is split between the enemy, myself, and Jewel… I become a much less formidable target. She distracts me in a lot of good ways, but there’s a downside, too. I know the kind of dangers that might lay ahead on this journey, and I won’t willingly expose Jewel to the threat. And if someone were to kill me, she would be instantly vulnerable.
Even this meeting I’m driving to could be an elaborate setup. I think I can still trust the man I’m meeting up with, but who knows? The Bratva has a powerful vice grip on its members, especially the ones who are still tethered to the city. But this man has never steered me wrong before, and I hope to still count on him as an ally.
He’s a fellow comrade of the brotherhood, one I’ve known for a long time now. He goes simply by the name Lev, and I’ve never pushed to know much more than that. Our connection goes way back to the beginnings of my time in America. We both came over to New York City from Russia around the same time. Our missions didn’t let us intersect too much, but we maintained a low-key friendship in spite of that. We were both young and fiery then, both inspired and disillusioned by our dramatic entrance to America, a land of promise. Or so we thought. Lev and I would meet up at this tiny, grimy hole-in-the-wall bar and restaurant called Solyanka Sonya’s that serves traditional Russian cuisine. Dishes we came to think of as comfort food. We would drink vodka and vent about occupational stress, or eat pierogies and reminisce about the motherland. We talked about where we came from and how different everything is here in America. We discussed adjusting to a new life, what we missed and didn’t miss about home. We even talked shop sometimes, sharing tactical strategies. Lev is the closest thing to a brother I’ve ever really had. I’ve never felt I could trust anyone else in the business.
In fact, I believe it was our known camaraderie that kept the Bratva from ever assigning us a mission together. The organization is hypocritical in that way. They insist all the time, from all angles, that they are a brotherhood. Their whole schtick is that we’re one big, complicated, hierarchical crime family. Bratva before blood. Bratva before anything.
But if your interpersonal relationships within the brotherhood start to slightly supersede your devotion to the group as a whole, they will intervene to separate you-- by brute force. It’s cruel, but from the Bratva’s point of view, any too-close members are a threat to the integrity and continuance of the collective. They prefer their pawns and knights neatly detached from one another, so they can only go through the hierarchical channels of the brotherhood for help or answers, not each other. If the underlings start communicating and forming alliances amongst themselves, the superiors know they couldn’t hold us down for very long. But it would take a massive uprising to make real change. The foundational pillars of the Bratva are strong, and its roots run deep. So they encourage us to be independent. Detached. An assassin who cares too much can’t focus on the crosshairs, after all. For a long time, I became very good at being alone. Even Lev, the closest thing to family or a close friend I’ve had in my life, I haven’t seen in ages. What’s truly grim is that I didn’t even miss him. I’m very well-trained.
Although, I think as I drive along the coast, Jewel is changing that about me. She makes me live more in the moment. She makes me look at the world and people around me as living things with thoughts, feelings, and dreams, rather than just obstacles or enemies to fight my way through. Potential friends and allies rather than arbiters and casualties of war. I think back to yesterday’s drama. Even though I’m still angry at Jewel for barging in on that encounter with the sheriff, I have to admit she did a great job of defusing the situation. That cop was reaching for his firearm, and I was unarmed. Not that I would’ve let him get the upper hand; I’ve showed up to a gunfight with only my fists before and lived to tell the tale. But our exchange could have easily morphed into bloodshed if Jewel hadn’t neutralized the threat. Hell, she may have even converted that ginger-haired cop into an ally of sorts.
The more time I spend with Jewel, the more she astounds me. I just hope I can keep us both alive long enough to enjoy the world together.
The coast turns to country, which turns to suburbs. The night hours tick away and dawn is reaching its sherbet-hued fingers across the sky as I roll across state borders into New York. The world gets bigger and more imposing the farther I go. The great sparkling city plunged into smog rises like a behemoth before me. I feel a swirling conflict of emotions. I have a lot of memories here in the city, both positive and terrible. In a way, it’s where my story began. It’s a strange kind of homecoming. As I drive across the Brooklyn Bridge, I’m stunned by the shiny metal facades and skyscrapers ascending into the clouds, the endless scaffolding to rebuild these monuments to greed. I roll into Manhattan surrounded by traffic, just taking in the sights and sounds. Concrete monstrosities rise above packed sidewalks, filled with every type and walk of life. The cars creep along in deep traffic. I roll down my window for a dose of unfettered New York City sounds. Honking horns, yelling, laughter, loud music and bass pumping from a car stereo, jackhammer noises from around the corner.
I park in a big, nondescript concrete parking garage a few blocks from my actual destination. I smell the city as I step out of my car into the brisk mid-morning air. The cold air and sunshine hit my face as I begin the walk to our meeting place. We knew we had to choose a spot that was low-key, under the radar. Public, but still discreet. Solyanka Sonya’s is our old favorite, and I’m pleased to see it looks the same as I approach on foot. The building itself is a retail joint with a bunch of shops packed into its brick interior. But down a side alley, if you know where to look, there’s a steep little staircase down from the street to the front entrance of Sonya’s. I take the steps down and knock on the door. Moments later, a bleary-eyed man holding a glass of what smells like pure vodka opens the door to let me in. He waddles off to his own table without a word to me. Perfect.
Once inside, I soak in the familiar interior. It’s comfortingly dark and cave-like, lit by reddish lights along the walls and flickering tea candles on the few tables. Russian radio hits warble from the stereo behind the bar counter. An old man with pale blue, sad eyes is mopping up the counter and humming to himself. Behind him in the tiny, cramped kitchen, is his wife-- Sonya herself. She’s back there churning out traditional Russian dishes like she’s been doing for longer than I’ve been alive. I’m relieved to see the old couple still in business, like nothing ever changed. As far as I know, it’s still one of the best places in the city to find Medovukha, a traditional Russian honey mead. It may not be well-known, but Solyanka Sonya’s is an institution for the community.
I look around for my contact and see Lev posted up in a corner booth in the back. He’s nursing a vodka martini and looking characteristically intense, with his black eyes and hair. I stroll over to the table and he finally brightens up a little to see me. He stands up to shake my hand. I usually tower over everyone I meet, but Lev is tall enough to look me in the eye.
“Stefan,” he says, his voice still deeply accented.
“Lev, my friend,” I reply.
“Let’s sit. We have much to talk about,” Lev says.
We sit down and immediately the bartender brings me a vodka martini, too, before wobbling back behind the counter. Lev peers at me with those shrewd dark eyes.
“It has been a long time, comrade,” he growls.
“Too long,” I agree.
“You look the same,” he remarks. “Maybe a little older.”
“Same to you,” I reply.
The niceties completed, Lev leans in and lowers his voice.
“Tovarishch, is it true what they’ve been whispering about? That you’ve gone rogue?”
I nod slowly. “Da, my friend. But it’s for a good reason.”
He raises one heavy dark eyebrow. “A woman, I hear.”
I bristle slightly, wondering what all the Bratva have been saying about Jewel.
“She’s more than worth it,” I insist gruffly.
Lev lifts his drink. “I trust your judgement, Stefan. But you know what they’ve been saying about you for years.”
“I’m too soft on women. I let the innocents go. I’m well-aware of my reputation,” I sigh.
“You are dealing now with a different kind of beast,” Lev says. “This goes beyond the brotherhood. Freddie Albany is involved. You have his only daughter in your possession. Are you certain she is safe?”
I frown at him. “Safer than she would be here in the city with me. I needed supplies, and I need to talk to you.”
Lev nods. “Of course. You know what’s best, tovarishch. But you have to understand that this Albany man is not what he claims to be. He is not a man of the law. In fact, he is more corrupt than the organization itself.”
“Tell me what you know, Lev. For the girl’s sake,” I demand.
He downs his drink and sets down the glass with a clink. In a conspiratorial tone, he says, “The member Freddie Albany has in prison is no innocent collateral damage. He’s a suspected rat. An informant.”
“But for which side?” I question.
Lev opens his mouth to reply, but we hear an ear-splitting screech instead. We whip around to see that Sonya has come out of the kitchen, brandishing a wooden spoon and, more worryingly, a meat cleaver. She’s rushing toward the entrance and shouting in rapid, ferocious Russian at a couple of hooligans who have entered the restaurant. It takes me a second, but then I recognize both young men as Bratva members I knew from back in the day.
“Shit,” Lev hisses.
We both duck down instantly to somewhat hide under the table, although it’s not an easy feat for two gigantic hulking men. The few scattered patrons do the same, hiding in their booths and tables to keep out of dodge. Sonya brandishes her meat cleaver at them valiantly, but the two men push her aside. One of them looks around the room, no doubt scanning for signs of me, while the other points a gun at Sonya’s husband behind the bar. He puts his hands up.
“Tell me where is Stefan, and nobody has to die today,” the gunslinger announces.
Shit, indeed. Lev and I exchange fierce looks and get our respective guns at the ready, still crouched under the table in our corner booth.
Lev whispers to me, “Look, Stefan. You have someone else to go home to. Let me handle this situation. The city is not your turf anymore.”
“I promise I will return the favor one day,” I whisper back.
Lev just smiles. There’s a wildness in his black eyes.
“Go, Stefan. Run,” he insists.
As I scurry out from underneath the table and start booking it for the back exit through the kitchen, Lev jumps to his feet and points his gun at the two newcomers. He starts firing at the gunmen before anyone can get hurt, though Sonya is screaming at all three of them the whole time, begging them to stop. I hear her rattle off one line in accented English.
“Get out of my restaurant with your macho mafia bullshit!”
As I duck through the kitchen and burst out the back door, I say a silent prayer for Sonya. She’s a community pillar, and she’s seen her share of turf wars. I just hope she makes it out of this one alive, too. I stumble out onto the back alley, but before I can fully catch my breath, I hear the impending footsteps of a man chasing after me from the other end of the alley. He must have been waiting for me, letting the other two flush me out. I don’t even take time to look at him before I take off running. The man pursues me on foot, but he’s not quite as athletic or reckless as I am. I stay off the main sidewalks to protect innocent passersby, but in the alleys and back ways, I’m a pro. I essentially became a man running amok in these neighborhoods, and I remember them like the back of my hand. I’m able to shake off my assailant by turning sharp corners, scrambling up wire fences, hiding behind dumpsters, and keeping to the shadows. I manage to make a big, wide loop around back to the parking garage.
With my heart pounding like mad, I race to the elevator. My pursuant bellows with anger when he sees me going up, and I estimate he’s running for the stairs to cut me off. But I have the upper hand, and I return to my vehicle before he even reaches the right floor. I fling open the driver’s side door and leap inside. I fire up the engine and peel out, narrowly avoiding collisions with parked cars as I speed-demon my way out. I leave my assailants behind in the dust as I drive across Manhattan northbound. I do need to get supplies, but I decide to stop at a small town closer to the Maine cabin instead of risking it in the city. I put the pedal to the metal and rack up miles and miles in my wake.
The sun is shining high overhead now. I’m in daylight, with no cover and a possible Bratva tail forming far behind me. I weave my way along the coast, constantly looking in my rearview mirror, until finally I’m states away. I start to relax a little, but never let my guard down. I roll into a quiet, quaint rural town along the route to get supplies for our stay, and then I’m quickly on my way again. My mind is racing as fast as the vehicle. I’m putting two and two together while I blaze down the backcountry highway. I’m pushing the speed limit as much as I can without drawing the attention of the police. I’m hurtling as fast as I can back up to our mountain, to our cabin. To Jewel.
I only hope she will still be there safe and sound when I get home, because I’ve finally figured it out. I know what’s going on now.