Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9) by Allan Leverone (year 7 reading list txt) 📗

and Ride with the rest of the twenty grand in his pocket, he wasn’t too particular about where they did the dirty deed.

He just wanted to get it over with.

It was almost 11:30 when Carson entered the lot, and he could see immediately why Boris had chosen it. Large, secluded and poorly lit, it was mostly empty save for a dozen or so cars scattered across the pavement.

The Russian had backed his Town Car into the rear of the lot, farthest from the entrance, the dark vehicle almost invisible in the gloom. Carson nosed in next to it, parking driver’s side to driver’s side, and rolled down his window.

Andrei did the same. “Shut off your engine and get in,” he said gruffly.

“Can’t I just hand you the package and sit here while you take your pictures? When you’ve finished you can pass it back to me along with the money, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

The Russian stared through the two open windows at Carson, his long silver hair seeming to shimmer in the weak illumination of the parking lot. He looked pissed off about something, his demeanor a far cry from the friendly, salesman-like attitude he’d exhibited the previous times Carson had spoken with him.

The silence dragged on so long, Carson thought maybe the man hadn’t heard the question, although given their close proximity to each other, he had no idea how that could be the case. Maybe the old guy was hard of hearing. He was about to repeat his question, his unease rising—this place really was isolated—when the Russian spoke.

“I said shut off your engine and get into my car.” He spoke quietly but with a menace in his tone that was impossible to misinterpret.

Carson swallowed heavily and opened his door. He’d parked so close to the Lincoln he had to squeeze through the narrow opening. He crossed in front of the Russian’s car and slipped into the passenger seat, the object of this twenty thousand dollar photo op held in two hands.

Without a word, Boris flicked on the interior lighting and took the box from Carson. He examined it from all angles, turning it this way and that, looking like a kid who was about to open a Christmas present but wanted to extend the anticipation.

Carson glanced down into the foot well and then took a long look in the back seat. “Where’s your camera?” he said. “I’d really like to finish this and get the hell out of here.”

The Russian didn’t answer. He just continued examining the box.

Carson realized he’d begun sweating again. His breath tasted sour and the acid was trying to force its way up his gullet again. This whole meeting seemed off; it wasn’t going anything like he’d expected.

He gathered his courage and spoke with what he hoped was something like steely resolve. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he said. “It’s well past time to end this.”

“I agree,” the Russian said, his tone cold and dismissive. “So I suggest you climb out of the car and be on your way.”

“What about your photographs?”

“There will be no photographs, at least not right now and not in this car.”

“I don’t understand. What was the point of all this if you’re not going to…” The sweat that had formed impressive pools under his arms and most of the way down his back turned suddenly cold as realization began to dawn.

He forced himself to ignore his sudden dread certainty about what was happening here and said, “Fine. If you’ve changed your mind, hand over my property and I’ll be on my way.”

He’d turned and looked out the passenger side window as he spoke, unable to meet the Russian’s contemptuous gaze. The statement was met with silence, and eventually Carson knew he would have to face the Russian. He was starting to think he might even have to fight the older man, and he’d never been involved in an actual fistfight in his life.

He spun in his seat and said forcefully, “I told you I want my…” and his strong, confident voice trailed away to nothing.

Because he was staring straight down the barrel of a handgun.

Carson knew nothing about guns. He’d never owned one. Never fired one. Never even held a real gun in his hands.

For all he knew, Boris Badenov’s gun might be a fake. But it sure looked real. Heavy and deadly and real. And the unwavering steadiness of the man’s hand as he held it made Carson think—to the extent he could think at all, which was not much—that Andrei The Backstabbing Russian meant business, that he was not fooling around, that he would be more than happy to fire his very real-looking gun point-blank into Carson’s very real—and very exposed—face.

He tried to swallow and discovered he couldn’t, because no saliva currently occupied his mouth. Then he realized he needed to pee, quite badly, all of a sudden.

“What are you doing?” he croaked.

“I told you once already. Get out of my car and be on your way.”

“But I have to return the—”

“You are returning nothing. This item belongs to me now, exactly as we agreed.”

“I didn’t agree to—”

“Of course you did,” the Russian said. “You sold it to me for the very fair sum of five thousand American dollars.”

Oh God I’m screwed oh God I’m screwed oh God I’m screwed. The words played on a continuous loop through Carson’s mind as he pulled on the handle and shoved the door open with his foot. It took every bit of willpower he could muster to tear his gaze away from the Russian’s gun, certain that the second he turned his back, the man would pull the trigger and blow Carson’s skull into a million bloody pieces.

He stepped out of the car, skull intact, at least for the time being,