Рейс (Flight)
Here I was—alone in Vladimir's private jet, slicing through the sky like a bullet bound for Los Angeles. He'd sent it just for me, or so I'd heard. I didn't ask. I preferred the silence of an empty cabin over the cattle crush of a commercial flight. No screaming kids. No nosy strangers. Just me, a glass of amber liquor, and a thousand unanswered questions.
I leaned back, swirling the drink slowly, watching the light catch the edges like fire. Everything felt surreal. My family had always been secretive—tight-lipped about their work, allergic to the public eye. We lived in a mansion in Russia, so yeah, they were rich. Filthy rich. But money never explained the bloodstains on their clothes or the late-night phone calls that ended in shouting and silence.
They never let me in. Never told me what they did. And now they were dead.
No cause. No closure. Just a funeral I wasn't invited to and a jet waiting to take me halfway across the world. The police wouldn't talk. My relatives wouldn't talk. But I knew someone who might—Vladimir. My older brother. My new guardian. My only lead.
I hadn't seen him since I was seven. He was nineteen then—twelve years older, practically a stranger. I doubt we got along. I barely remember his face. But now, after nine years, I was about to meet him again. And this time, I wasn't just a kid. I was a detective in training, whether anyone liked it or not.
There was something dark behind the Volk name. Something twisted. I could feel it in my bones.
"Дорогая, хочешь что-нибудь еще, прежде чем мы улетим?"
"Dear, would you like anything else before we take off?"
The voice pulled me from my thoughts. Soft. Mellow. I turned to see a young Russian woman—flight attendant, probably. She was the one who'd handed me the drink.
"Нет, спасибо."
"No thanks."
I passed her the empty glass. She smiled politely and disappeared into the back. A few minutes later, the engines roared to life, and the plane lifted off. I watched Russia shrink beneath me, the lights fading into the black. I sighed, shifted in my seat, and let sleep take me. Eleven hours in the air. By the time I landed, it'd be past midnight.
I rested my head against the window. My body was sore from hauling my stuff into the jet. Within minutes, I was out cold.
—
"Йокра? Йокра! Время вставать."
"Yokra? Yokra! It's time to get up."
Someone was shaking me. I groaned, cracked open my eyes, and saw the flight attendant again. She looked relieved.
"Слава богу. Я на секунду подумал, что ты умер на мне! Я пытался разбудить тебя последние 10 минут."
"Thank goodness. I thought you died on me for a second! I've been trying to wake you for the past ten minutes."
I rubbed my eyes. The hum of the engines was gone. We'd landed. I peeked out the window—pitch black outside. The attendant urged me to hurry.
"Да ладно, эти ребята ждут тебя. Не беспокойтесь о своих вещах, люди заберут их для вас через некоторое время."
"Come on, these guys are waiting for you. Don't worry about your stuff, people will pick it up later."
Guys?
I didn't even get a chance to ask before she guided me toward the exit, her hand gently pressing against my back. We reached the staircase leading down to the tarmac.
"Следи за своим отчимом, дорогая."
"Watch your step, dear."
I nodded in thanks and stepped into the night. The air hit me like a furnace. Hot—way too hot for midnight. I didn't know LA cooked like this after dark. The city lights shimmered in the distance, and the street lamps cast long shadows across the pavement.
Then I saw them.
Three black SUVs parked in formation. More than six men in dark suits stood in front of them, like statues. One raised a hand, gesturing for me to come closer.
So these were the guys waiting for me.
Interesting.
