Relentless (Gray Man #10) - Mark Greaney Page 0,39

as a civilian.

For the Russian mafia.

He became a hit man for the Solntsevskaya Bratva, working Moscow and St. Petersburg at first, then taking foreign jobs in Central and Western Europe. It didn’t take him long to recognize that most of his targets were political in nature, so he put together without anyone telling him officially that he still worked for the Kremlin, no matter who put the money in his bank account.

He didn’t care. He was doing what he was good at, all he was good at, and he found value in that. He justified his life by saying he followed orders, and the morality of the orders didn’t weigh on his shoulders but on the shoulders of those who gave them.

He didn’t believe any of that bullshit anymore, but it had sure sounded good at the time.

He climbed out of bed and walked over towards the spartan kitchen on the far wall of the studio apartment, and along the way he grabbed the TV remote and flicked on the news; it was in Polish, reminding him again he wasn’t in Minsk any longer. The job he’d done in Belarus ended six weeks earlier, so for six weeks he’d been here, lying low, thinking, drinking, and, unfortunately, dreaming.

He put the teakettle on, fished through the dirty dishes for a not-too-dirty cup, and readied it with a tea bag and a spoon.

His motivations had changed since his early years, when he cared only about executing his orders. Now his only motivation was the desire to work for the sake of work itself, to focus and distract, to take his mind off anything that was not the job.

Akulov saw himself as an akula, a shark. Sharks must keep swimming or they die, he’d been told once, and he felt the same. As long as he was killing, as long as he was pursuing his next victim, then he would be free of the screaming in the night.

But the thrill was gone. Now it was just the momentum.

Swim or die.

He’d become introspective, especially after the past six weeks of near hibernation, alone with his thoughts. He knew how this would all end now. He’d die in the field, and when it happened, it would be beautiful.

Death in the field was preferable to life in the loony bin. This he told himself every day.

Akulov had spent two years, against his will, at Mental Hospital Number 14, Branch 2, in Moscow. He didn’t learn much there, but he did learn that he was unusual in that he welcomed death, and the only reason he was still alive was that he enjoyed the prospect of killing just slightly more than the prospect of dying.

Before the teakettle whistled, his mobile phone buzzed in his pocket, surprising him. He looked down at the number and his heart began to pound along with the throb in his temples.

In Russian he said, “Da?”

The reply came in Russian, as well. “Maksim, how are you?”

He rubbed his eyes, straightened his back, and brought some power into his voice. “I am fine.” It was Ruslan, and Ruslan never called unless there was a job.

“I have a job.”

Maksim threw his cigarette into the sink and began pacing his little flat. And just like that, the wounded, beaten man had come fully back to life. “Khorosho.” Good, he said.

“I can send the details to the drop box, I just need to know you and the team are ready for this one. It’s big, comrade.”

Maksim had never been readier. His team? Well, his three colleagues were also here in Warsaw, also lying low and growing moss, and whether or not they wanted to get back to work, Maksim knew that was exactly what they needed.

“We are all ready, sir.”

“Very well, then. You have never let me down before. I expect your best performance. The target is . . . deserving of the full measure of your talents.”

“He will get the full measure of my talents,” Maksim assured, then said, “Where is he?”

“The target is a she, and she is in Berlin.”

Maksim Akulov hung up the phone and rushed to his computer in the kitchen, ignoring the teakettle as it began to wail. All the remnants of last night’s horror show in his brain had drifted away, the headache seemed to subside with the rush of adrenaline, and he concentrated fully on his job.

Akulov opened his encrypted drop box and looked over the dossier. “Perfect,” he said with a smile so faint it was nearly imperceptible, though