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Dedicated to @ashatoda

The circuit blow brought Jamie Rico instantly awake. He hadn't seen the flash, as he had his back turned to the window and his curtains drawn. So, he thought it was a gunshot. He laid still on the bed, his ears straining. Then, as he relaxed, his quick suspicious ears picked out the faint noise of a door click. He stiffened.
His hand drew out a drawer by his bedside and his fingers closed over the steel butt of a .38mm.
He raised his head from the pillow and listened. The noise was repeated. It was a soft sound, like someone taking care not to be heard, was slowly turning the handle of a door.
Silently, he took out the gun from the drawer, raised himself, and with his left hand, he groped for the light switch, found it, and turned it on. There was no response from the light bulbs as if the switch and bulbs had recently had a discord.
Darkness still hovered around the room, but he wasn't scared. He had a gun. He pulled back the safety catch of the gun and gently drew off the blanket, and slid out of the bed.
He groped his way across the room and quietly drew the curtains back. The moonlight came in, providing him with enough light to see around the large room.
Suddenly, the lights came up, flooding the room with hard light. His heart skipped a beat, and he swiveled around with the gun raised, ready to fire. But nothing unusual presented itself as a target. He listened. The noise from the running generator downstairs drifted up to the penthouse.
Suddenly, it made sense to him. The blow he had heard thinking it was a gunshot must have come from damage in the electrical lines. “That would explain the earlier darkness and the running generator.”
A reasonable explanation it was, but he was uneasy. His built-in instinct for danger still nudged him. It was this same instinct that had kept him alive up till now in a deadly lethal game of crime, where only the paranoid and ruthless survived.
Jamie Rico, born of an American migrant and a rural farmer, had lived his early years as a farm boy. Those years in rural poverty had left him with a deep scar of a humorous face and a humble look. But behind his humble eyes hid a cold, ruthless, and deathly soul. He was the CEO of Rico Truck Agency. A business that was just a front for his real dealings; drug trafficking.
He tiptoed to the door of the bedroom. His fingers closed over the door handle and turned it. Gently, he eased open the door a few inches. The light from the bedroom spread out into the corridor. He peered through but saw no one.
Cautiously, he opened the door wider, so he could see the full length of the corridor. He listened. He heard nothing to alarm him. But he felt the danger was there. He was sure of it. The feeling in him was growing intense, the tension in him was rising.
Quietly and swiftly, he edged out of the room and flattened himself against the opposite door. His gun and eyes fixed on the direction of the living room. He was almost certain the noise he had heard had come from there.
His left hand moved over the wall in front of him, reached for the light switch, and turned it on. The lights in the corridor came up, spreading far into the living room. He leaned back against the door and listened. His hand pushing on the trigger, ready to squeeze. When he heard no sound, he turned the handle of the door he was leaning on, eased it open a few inches, maneuvered his left hand behind the door, pulled out the key, closed the door, and locked it.
He paused for a moment to listen, then quietly, he crossed to the door to his room, drew the door close, pulled the key from the back, and also locked it. Even as he did all this, neither did his eyes nor the gun in his right hand, ever waver in the direction it pointed.
He slipped both keys into the pocket of his pajamas. He now had one more bedroom, the living room, the foyer, the powder room, the kitchen, and the terrace, to search. The benefit of living in a small house, he thought gloomily.
Staying close to the wall to his right, he headed cautiously for the living room. He stopped at the mouth of the corridor, and with care, peered left into the foyer. Then, in one swift movement, he swiveled right into the living room, gun in hand. His eyes swept over the room in one glance, and almost immediately, he turned left to the foyer.
Both rooms were empty, and he drew in a deep breath in relief. But, instinctively, he knew it was just a delay of the danger, which was to come. His hand reached for the light switch, and he turned it on.
The hard lights came up, illuminating in all its glory, the products of success; Picasso's painting, hung elegantly on the marble accent wall, a leather upholstery L-shaped sofa, complemented by imported armchairs, a 75-inch flat-screen hung above the linear fireplace. All that gave confidence to a man, but Rico wasn't to be reassured by their tranquility.
The danger was near. He felt it. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing. The danger was near, lurking around, waiting for its moment to strike.
He looked again into the foyer, and suddenly, he went cold, his nerves fluttered, his legs shook. A single detail he had been searching for, and dreading to see, confirmed his suspicions.
The house key was no longer at the keyhole of the double glass doors. It was never taken out, so long as there was someone in the house, and he could vividly remember leaving the key there when he locked for the night.
In two quick strides, with his gun pointing to the living room, he backed into the foyer. He turned the handle of the front door and drew it inwards. The door didn't move. It was locked. So, he was locked with the intruder. Sweat trickled down the side of his face. He felt his rib cage could no longer contain his pounding heart.
He thought sourly of how ten years ago he would have appreciated a set-up like this, but now, he couldn’t afford to take any risk with his life going after this intruder. He was at the top of the crime game and when one climbs the ladder, without being murdered or jailed; to the top of this lethal game, one suddenly realizes that just a bullet through the head can end it all.
He had to get back to his room, get Pascal to come here, and fish out this intruder.
Pascal would handle this set-up better than I would, he told himself. After all, this is why I pay him.

ashatoda:
This is getting interesting. Please continue

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He took from his pocket a pair of thin silk gloves, and when he wore them, they became like a second skin on his hands, then waited some thirty minutes before opening the glove compartment. He took out the paper bag, and taking the package from the bag, he screwed the silencer slowly to the gun. His mind calculated.
Done screwing the silencer to the gun, he slid the gun into the pocket of his overcoat, opened the car door, and stepped out into the street. Gently, he swung the door shut, pushed it until he heard, ‘click.’
He looked up and down the moonlit street. A few taxis still bowled rapidly along the road, a few dawdlers loitered in the street beyond. It was a fine chilly night, and downtown Miami was still reluctant to go to sleep.
Moving quickly with stealth, he crossed the street, stepped into a dark shop doorway, and looked around. As he saw no one looking in his direction, he slunk along in the shadows, invisible in his black outfit. He reached the narrow alley before the condo and turned into it. Screened from the moonlight by the condo, the alley was in thick darkness.
Taking out a small flashlight from the pocket of his overcoat, he snapped it on and edged to the steel door. He stopped in front of the door, examined its lock. It would not be a problem for him. He rummaged in the pocket of his overcoat, brought out a gadget of thin steel, and; transferring the flashlight to his mouth, he squatted down and began handling the lock.
It took him less than thirty seconds to turn the lock. Then, slipping the pins back into his pocket, he eased open the door, moved into the small recess, and shut the door behind him.
He examined the fuse boxes, and almost immediately found the fuse, which controlled the electricity supply to the condo.
He rummaged again in his pocket and brought out a small screwdriver. Confidently and calmly, he set out to work.
He screwed out a hot wire from one circuit and screwed it into the main. Screwed out another hot wire, and screwed it into another circuit. He spent five more minutes working on the system. When he finished, he took out the flashlight from between his teeth and let out a breath in relief. He swallowed the excess saliva that had formed in his mouth, snapped off the flashlight, and wiped the saliva on it with the hem of his overcoat; before slipping it along with the screwdriver into his pocket.
He placed his ear against the steel door, listened for a while, then silently, he opened the door a few inches, peeped into the street. Satisfied there was no one in sight, he stepped into the alley, closed the door, and began a quick walk to the street.
He reached the mouth of the alley and stopped to peer into the street. He stiffened.
Some five yards from him, walking along the sidewalk, coming towards the alley, was a patrol cop. His mind froze with fear. His right hand automatically slid into the pocket of his overcoat, groping for his gun, but as soon as he felt the cold butt of the gun, his rationality came back to him, and he thought of the consequences of killing a cop.
So, moving with the speed and silence of a snake, he crossed to the Palm tree closest to him, slid himself behind the trunk and into its shadow.
It was a close call; for immediately, the cop reached the alley. He peered around the trunk, saw the cop pause at the mouth of the alley, turned and looked into the alley. But the thick darkness that hovered over the alley assured him that the cop couldn't see a thing.
Then, he saw the cop take out a pen-like thing from his pocket, raised it. As he pointed it to the alley, the dark man suddenly realized what it was, and ducked his head back into the shadow of the trunk, as a sudden sharp beam of light shot into the alley.
The light sliced through the darkness, like a knife through butter; swiftly, smoothly, and effortlessly.
The beam drifted around the alley and the dark man moved his bulk silently with the moving shadow of the trunk.
Did the cop see me? He wondered.
His fingers closed tightly around the butt of the .22mm. He had enough confidence in the silencer. He waited. After some seconds, the light went off. Then he heard the sauntering footfalls of the cop as he continued his patrol down the street.
He waited for the footfalls to recede completely out of his hearing before stepping out into the alley. He peered cautiously into the street. The cop had gone some hundred yards from the alley. He waited. He had to cross the street, but he feared the cop suddenly turning back the moment he was crossing the street.
Time was getting on. The cop had wasted enough of his time. He couldn't afford to hang about any longer. From his mental calculation, he had less than a minute before the fuse system blew up.
Deciding the risk was worth taking, he stepped into the light of the moon, tiptoed, his eyes fixed on the cop's back, as he sprinted across the street.
The cop didn't turn, and successfully, he slipped into a dark shop doorway. He exhaled deeply, touched his forehead, and found he was sweating a little. After a moment of rest, he crept on, keeping well in the shadows. He crossed the warehouse and moved onto the dark patio of the café.
Wasting no more time, he took out the gun from his pocket, cocked it silently, and lifted the gun. It was a tough shot, as the target was small, and he was about some ten yards from it. But difficult shots were nothing new to him.
Suddenly, there was a loud blow and a blind flash from the alley, and as if in sync with the system, he squeezed his trigger. The gun recoiled in his hand and he heard the faint 'plop' as the sound from the firing gun was suppressed by the silencer.
He saw some pieces of plastic and glass fall from the camera at the corner pillar of the residential building to the ground. He looked over at the condo. It had been thrown into total, damning darkness.
Suddenly, he heard the patter of feet coming up the street with short, quick steps. He moved closer to the wall and peered into the street. The cop was running back. He stopped at the mouth of the alley, shone his flashlight, and went in.
Shortly after, a powerful beam of a flashlight, followed by a chubby man, came out of the condo. He waved the flashlight around the street, hurried to the alley, and turned into it.
The dark man edged out of the patio, crossed the street to the condo, gently opening the door that led to the building, and stepped into the lobby. He closed the door and listened.
Just out of the light of the moon, he could make out nothing in the thick darkness of the lobby. He stood still, listening, but heard nothing. He brought out his flashlight, snapped it on, and proceeded swiftly with stealth to the stairs and up the flight of stairs.
He arrived at the tenth floor; no more breathless than a pregnant woman, who, after over six months of pregnancy, had just taken the doctor’s advice on a walking exercise. He paused at the head of the stairs for breath before continuing down the corridor to the double glass doors.
He kneeled before the doors, transferred the flashlight to his mouth, brought out his gadget of thin steel, and went to action.
Done, he stood up, slipped the steel back into his pocket, and with little turns at intervals, he turned the handle of the door and eased open the door.
As he stepped into the foyer, he heard a generator start-up downstairs. Shortly, a light came through from the stairwell into the penthouse corridor.

It wasn't until ten minutes past eight that another movement of the gate brought his mind instantly to the present. The gate rolled open. He sat up. A Lincoln Navigator showed its head. His lips drew off his teeth in a crooked smile. He stubbed the smoldering cigarette in an ashtray in the car and turned on the ignition of the Toyota. As the Lincoln turned right and edged into the flow of the traffic, he drove the Toyota, in his bid to follow the Lincoln. He made sure two cars separated him from the Lincoln.
The night traffic was tight and slow. With the pace used by cars along the broad street, the dark man felt even if the driver of the Lincoln spotted him, he'd think of him as part of the traffic.
The car in front of him was a low Aston Martin sports car. Ahead of it was another low car, and he got an unobstructed view of the rear of the Lincoln. He admired the balance, the ease at which the big car edged its way through the tight downtown Miami traffic. But what good would it do him after tonight? He thought. Someone once said, “Life was useless.” Another, “Money Ain't Loyal.”
After ten minutes of slow driving, the Lincoln turned off the main avenue into a side street.
Seeing the Lincoln turn, the dark man also veered his car into the street. He was now sure the man in the Lincoln was headed for home. This was now an empty road, and he couldn’t afford to be spotted.
He saw a gap in the traffic, as the Lincoln signaled left; and he stepped on the gas. He overtook the Lincoln, then slowed down. From his driver’s mirror, he saw the Lincoln turn into the underground garage of a nine-story condominium building.
He continued down the street until he spotted a space in a line of tightly parked cars. He swung his car into a corner, U-turned, came back into the street, and slid the compact car into the small space.
The car just barely fit. He turned off his headlights, then his engine, and the car blended into the scene, as just another parked car.
He looked over at the condominium and was just in time to see the glass elevator stop on the top floor of the building. A few seconds after, the penthouse windows lit up.
It came to his mind that he could afford to take no risks. The light in the penthouse apartment must be out before he could make his move. He took out his wallet, satisfied himself that his plane ticket to Russia was still in it, then he slid the wallet back into his pocket. The ticket was scheduled for the next six days; 8:00 Am flight.
“I would have to make a clean job of this,” he told himself, “else I don't see Russia or Anya ever again.”
He opened the car and stepped out into the street. He looked around. It was just like the side streets of downtown Miami; with cars roaring up and down the street. Women, dressed in just the barest essentials, walking along the sidewalks, while some people could be seen riding bicycles. Cafes, restaurants, and bars; in corners, were also in his line of view.
Everyone seemed to mind their own business, and he reckoned no one paid him any attention.
He sauntered down the street. His head down, his eyes up. He searched for cameras. He looked over the building opposite the condominium. It was a warehouse. He wasn’t concerned about anyone from there watching the condominium. Turning his attention to the condo, he found one camera on the wall, but he had a plan to deal with that already.
He continued along the sidewalk, then his eyes spotted another camera fixed to the corner pillar of the residential building next to the condominium. They positioned it in a way that whoever sat behind the monitor screen in the control room had a view of not only the entrance to the residential building but also to the condo.
He passed the building. Next to it was a restaurant, and he went inside. He took a seat at a corner close to the window, ordered cheeseburgers with fries, and as he ate, his mind thought about how best to tackle the camera in the residential building.
He couldn't afford to go through the back. The rooms of the condo were positioned such that their windows and terraces faced the side and back.
You never know, he mused, some peeps never sleep at night, they're always wide awake, watching through their windows, standing on their terraces, looking down at the street below, as if in expectation of something bad. Someone might see me enter the condominium and although it might take time, with the efficiency of the police, I am sure they would get to me. No, the back was ruled out.
He finished his meal, wiped his mouth clean with the serviette, and then walked over to the counter. He settled his bill and left the restaurant.
As he came out onto the street, he pulled up the sleeve of his overcoat, stuck his arm out to see the time by his wristwatch, in the light cast by the restaurant. It was getting on for a quarter to nine.
He walked along the sidewalk, his head still brought low, his eyes still searching, his mind still thinking. He passed the residential building, passed the condo, and turned right into a dark narrow alley. Lined on the other side of the alley were Palm trees; their leaves darkened and yellow from the snowfall of winter.
He hadn't walked ten yards when he saw what he sought. Set in the condo's wall was a steel door that gave access to the fuse boxes. A crooked smile appeared on his face. It lasted for some seconds and disappeared.
He continued down the alley, turned round the backstreet, and returned to his car. He opened the door, got in, and as he settled himself more comfortably in the car, he looked up at the condo. A light still burned in the penthouse apartment.
“Well then, I've still got more time to wait.”
Few minutes past one o'clock, now lost in thought, exhausted from the long wait, and staring sightlessly at the condominium, he had a sudden vision of the lighted double windows of the penthouse apartment; becoming dark squares on the walls of the condo.
He sat up, alert, and looked over at the condo. The top floor was now submerged in total, damning darkness. His crooked smile reappeared on his face.
“The time has come.”

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Few minutes past eighteen o'clock, a taxi pulled up at NW 7th St. Overtown. It was a neighborhood, considered the black eye of the Miami area.
Out came a tall, dark man. His face was thin, his eyes dark and deep-set. His mouth was hard, and his jaw looked aggressive. A few scattered white hairs on his head made it apparent he was a man past forty.
He paid the driver, waited for him to drive away, then looked up and down the street. The environment reeked of poverty and abandonment. Young men in overcoats, played cards next to a windowless convenience store, grandmas sat on their broken-down verandas, and Miami’s downtown skyscrapers rose in the distance. Nothing to raise his suspicions.
He took out his phone and dialed a number.
“I'm here,” he said, ended the call, and dropped the phone back into his pocket.
He waited.
Out of the shadow of the ramshackle convenience store, among the men playing cards, a thin man came out and called out to him. Even from afar, and with the fading light of the day, it could be seen that he was shabby, but his shabby look blended into the dilapidated situation of the sorry-looking neighborhood. His pants were baggy, his hat on his head hung anyhow, his dark overcoat was of the cheapest quality. His name was Chris Wayne.
The dark man recognized Wayne and advanced to him. He reached him, and as they shook hands, he regarded the young man. He was a boy of either twenty-four or five. Looking at Wayne, he thought sourly; what a bright-looking boy. Though years of shabby living had etched its mark on his face.
“Have you got it?” The dark man asked.
“Let's take a walk,” Wayne replied, and led him away from the other men playing cards, and down the street, they went.
They turned onto a side street and stopped in front of a 1990 Toyota Corolla model. Wayne pointed to the car.
“This is it. Just as you requested.”
The dark man examined the compact car. They had polished the car up. Its tires were new. Everything seemed okay with the car, and he nodded with satisfaction toward Wayne.
“The other package?”
“It's inside the car.”
Wayne took out a key from his pocket, went over to the driver's side, opened the door, went round to the passenger side. He keyed in the key, opened the door, and entered the car.
Both men were soon seated in the compact car. Wayne opened the glove compartment, took out a paper bag, and passed it. The dark man collected the bag, reached inside, and as his fingers closed around the cold butt of a .22mm, a crooked smile flitted across his face.
Opening the bag, a shade wider, he peered in; at the gun and its silencer. “How many slugs are in it?”
“Five,” Wayne answered.
“Unnecessary. One would have been enough.”
Wayne shrugged impatiently.
“Well, I can't say I pity whoever it's meant for.”
“Even if you offered your pity, it would be of no use to him. But, he might make do with God's mercy to make it to purgatory.”
Wayne said nothing, and the dark man, sensing his impatience, took out his wallet, counted ten one-hundred-dollar bills, and passed it to him. He checked what remained in his pocket. He still had the freedom five hundred dollars could afford.
Wayne flicked through the cash. He drew three notes out from the bunch and extended it to the dark man.
“It's over. This would do,” he said, flapping the seven hundred in his other hand.
Not bothering to look at Wayne or the paper notes he was extending, the dark man folded the paper bag, dropped it back in the glove compartment, and locked it. Then he looked at him.
“I know how hard the street is for you, young man. Keep it. You’d need it better than I would.”
Scarcely believing his ears, Wayne cheerfully and quickly slid the bills into the pockets of his overcoat; for fear that his good fortune might be altered, the next passing second.
“Thanks, man.” He opened the door.
“Anytime you need me. You've got my number. So long, man.”
Wayne stepped out into the street, closed the door, and began his way back to his usual evening rendezvous, turning back at intervals, and smiling sheepishly at the car, happy with his serendipity.
The dark man smiled. He felt a sense of satisfaction he hadn't felt in a long time. Whoever had said, “Blessed is the hand that giveth than the one that taketh,” was surely right, he thought.
He coaxed the engine to start and was about to put the car into gear, then he cursed, remembering he was dealing with a manual transmission. Pushing the clutch pedal to the boards, he engaged gear and edged the car into the street.
Ten minutes of fast driving got him to downtown Miami. He turned off the avenue into a broadside street. His eyes searched for a parking space and just ahead of him, a car pulled out from the line of tightly parked cars and went roaring down the road. He swung the compact car into the vacant space, stopped, and turned off the engine.
He looked over at the Truck Agency a few yards from him. From where he parked, he had an unobstructed view of the gate of the Agency, and he nodded his head in satisfaction.
He took out a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, lit it, and drew in a lungful of tobacco smoke. He relaxed back on the seat as the smoke drifted through his nostril.
He took his phone from his pocket, opened it, and went to his call records. Second on the list was a name, Anya. He stared at it, hesitating; then dialed the number.
He brought the phone to his ear, listened to the crackling noise for a while, then again, the bored, flat, automatic voice he had heard fifteen times in the past twenty-four hours came up.
It spoke in Russian for a while, then in English, it said, “The number you have dialed is unavailable.” And the call ended.
Frustrated, he dropped the phone on the seat beside him and took another drag from his cigarette.
Why suddenly unavailable? He asked himself. But after a moment of intense thought, he gave up.
It had been over eleven years since he had last contacted her. Last night, he had called her. She had answered the call. He played back the call in his head. She had squealed with excitement when she heard his voice. He didn't even have to introduce himself, even after such a long time of being out of touch. It made him smile. But, he imagined the voice he heard was weak, forced, but genuine.
Abruptly, the call had ended. He had called again, unavailable. Maybe a network problem, he mused. He waited until the next day; this morning, before he tried again. It was still unavailable. Despite that, he had thought little of it. But now, with sixteen calls unavailable, in the past twenty-four hours, it was bothering him.
Had she found herself another man? A chill ran up his spine as the thought crossed his mind.
“No.” He shook his head.
She had been so happy to hear his voice. She wouldn't have been if she had another man. But even if she had, he couldn't blame her. He had been away for so long. It was only fair that she got herself another man. But he was sure of one thing, no man could take the space he held in her heart.
He lifted himself a little from the seat, brought out his wallet from his back pocket, and took out an old paper photograph of a girl probably in her late twenties. The paper was slightly old, but the girl in it remained an exceptional beauty.
He caressed the picture, imagining he was caressing her face.
“Hold on, An. I'm coming home.”
Carefully, he put the picture back in his wallet and dropped it in his pocket.
He was still thinking, puffing on his cigarette; when the gate of the Agency rolled open.
Immediately, he became alert, sat up, and waited.
Through the gateway came a truck, and he grunted in disgust. He pulled up the sleeve of his overcoat and consulted his watch. The time was twenty-five minutes past seven.
As the truck went past him, he glanced at the driver, who stared straight ahead. His eyes caught a sign painted across the door, and his attention went swiftly to the gate, which had been rolled close.
For the first time, he realized the big sign painted in white on the red background of the iron gate, which read; RICO TRUCK AGENCY.
Do you want good service? Go to a good truck agency.
Do you want better service? Go to a better truck agency.
Do you want the best service? Come to Rico Truck Agency (RTA).
Tobacco smoke drifted down his nostrils as it flared, and he threw the remains of his cigarette out of the window in anger.
So that punk… the son of a bitch, had taken his name off the company we both built. Well, it wouldn't do him any good now, he thought savagely.
“At least he kept our slogan,” he said in compensation to himself.
Still seething with frustration and fury, he took out his pack of cigarettes, selected one, and lit it. Puffing on it, he brooded about a series he had once watched with Anya, a long time ago in a local movie theater in Russia.

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Chapter One
Part One
It was yet another humdrum cold winter morning in CSKA Moscow, but not to Natasha Orlova. Her hands, tucked in the pockets of her black leather hoodie, shivered, her teeth rattled, and her stride down the narrow alley; broke into a trot. Her shoulders were hunched against the prevailing chilling wind - she felt was against her - as she advanced; hoping that the heat generated by her body from her little exercise of trotting would fortify her against the vicious attack of the cold.
She cursed herself for listening to the cabman who had dropped her at the mouth of the alley.
“Miss, you seem to be in a hurry.” He had said. “This is the shortest cut. Through this alley, then to your right and there,” he pointed, “you have the hospital.”
She dropped and paid him. She could still remember his broad, slick smile, as he pocketed the bill, made a U-turn, and drove away with the stream of traffic, going into the city. It wasn't until she advanced into the alley that she felt the full impact of the cold.
Never has the winter been this bad in Russia, or maybe five years spent in the comparatively warm climate of America has reduced my resistance to the Russian winter, she thought as she trotted along.
She paused at the end of the alley and looked to her right. She saw the two-story hospital building, adorned with lights. An ambulance was parked outside the hospital; a few yards from the gate. She hurried along the street to the hospital, nodded to the security guard, as she passed through the gate; reached the double glass doors of the hospital, pushed the right door in, and stepped into the reception room.
Her hunched shoulders eased, and she let out a sigh of relief as the heated air of the hospital enveloped her.
She sniffed the hospital’s air, which she considered depressing, and sighed again.
Well, circumstances had given her no choice but to be here. She dropped the hood of her jacket, releasing her long ash-blonde hair. Her fingers caressed her hair as she brought it across her shoulders and over her heavy breasts.
She looked around the small, neat reception room. To her left was the waiting room. Three benches were arranged in a row, with three or four couples occupying them. To her right was a hallway that led to the rooms of the hospital. Directly opposite her loomed an impressive curved reception desk. But it was empty.
As she approached an old man, seated among the couples in the waiting room, the door behind the reception desk opened, and an old lady, dressed in light blue scrubs, appeared.
Dr. Elena Brik owned and managed the hospital. Elena was large, or rather, heavyset, with short red hair.
A rosary necklace hung on her neck, with its cross, finding rest in between her enormous floppy bosoms, which were held in place by a crop-top, under the light material of her uniform.
She regarded Natasha with disapproval. To Elena, the hood jacket which was tight around her chest, the tight-fitting leather pants that stressed her heavily curved hips, and the long slimly built legs were deliberate temptations to the Catholic man.
“Would you exercise a little more patience, Mister,” she said in a voice that conveyed much authority to the old man, who on sighting her, had pushed past Natasha, rushing up to her, and inquiring about his wife.
Natasha, a woman of high status and power, perceived with admiration; the air of confidence and authority wielded by this woman, who Natasha was certain was the chief physician of the hospital. Natasha always felt a sense of connection when she saw women in positions of power. She watched the man trudge back to his seat.
“What can I do for you, Miss?” asked Dr. Elena, in her ever intimidating and commanding voice, but this time with a note of distaste.
Natasha spun her head to find the heavy-set woman, standing right in front of her, and dwarfing her.
Natasha opened her mouth, but closed it, as she found her mind blank. She realized in anger how intimidated she felt in the dominating presence of this large woman.
Dr. Elena's face relaxed, and she smiled. Her smile looked cunning, Natasha mused. To Natasha, it seemed Elena knew the effect, and power she had over her, through intimidation by her size, and the power she had acquired over the years.

“On the 27th, you got a call, requesting your presence, but you chose to come on the 29th.” Dr. Elena accused, as she strode down the hallway on the first floor.
Natasha, who was behind her, was surprised that a woman of Dr. Elena's bulk could move that fast, struggled to keep up with Elena’s pace.
“I came as early as I could. My flight was delayed.” Natasha paused as her eyes searched the face of the large woman. But she picked nothing from the expressionless face. “How is she?”
“Where were you all this while she was suffering from breast cancer?”
Dr. Elena stopped in her stride, turned, and looked at Natasha. Her eyes showed no mercy.
Natasha stopped, too.
“Cancer? Was suffering?” She paused, then went on. “What are you talking about?” Her voice was suddenly hard.
“Well, it appears you never had much use for your mother. Now, she's gone!” Dr. Elena turned to the door by her side, pressed down the handle, and pushed the door open. “There she is. You can go in and see her,” she said, and turned back with her purposeful stride, walked away.
Too stunned to utter a word, too shocked to move, Natasha stood transfixed, watching the back of the large woman walk down the hallway and disappear into a corner.
Her eyes moved from the now empty hallway to the room that now stood open before her.
At the center of the small room, she saw a body under a light blue sheet on the trolley. As if under a spell, she trudged towards it. By the time she reached the trolley, she was shaking from head to toe.
She heaved a long sigh to steady her shaking hands as she clutched the corner of the sheet and lifted it.
Although she had steeled herself for the sight. The pain still struck her with the sharpness of a bite of grit in a mouthful of food.
Tears rolled down her face; at the memories of the once fat woman, who was now reduced to a skeletal figure, in the painful embrace of death.
“I'm sorry, Mother,” she said in a voice that was far from steady.
She knew she had wronged her mother, but now it was too late to ask for forgiveness.
Five years ago, at nineteen, and full of ambition, she had left Russia and her mother, who she regarded as a failure to the golden land of opportunity, America. Like many other young girls migrating to the United States, she had dived into the adult industry in search of a living. Her break came two years later; when an American businessman took enough interest in her to marry her. Still following the Machiavellian principles that took her to the top, she stayed away from her mother, who she deemed unlucky. However, she had provided her with just enough money to live the way she liked to live.
Her eyes moved to a small rectangular brown envelope by her mother's head, and she picked it up.
It was sealed.
She turned the envelope in her hand.
Written in her mother's handwriting, on the other face of the white paper, was; “To Natasha Orlova.”
Her breath came out in quick gasps, as her fingers; instinctively tightened their hold on the envelope, knowing whatever was written in it were her mother's last words to her.

Fortune smiles and then betrays
First episode drops in twelve hours.

Copyright © 2021 Daniel Junior All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Victor Media
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America

Synopsis
Natasha Orlova was the only surviving relative and daughter of a Moscow streetwalker. Though she grew up in poverty, she was full of ambition. At eighteen, she left Russia and her mother, whom she regarded as a failure, to the golden land of opportunity, America. Like many other young girls migrating to the United States, she dived into the adult industry in search of a living. Her breakthrough in the adult industry came two years later; when an American businessman took enough interest in her to marry her. He was a man involved in a deathly lethal game of crime, but it was all good; for she loved him, and he had money, and money was one thing that was essential to her life. But soon; the tides were to change. Tides, which would eventually force the confession from her, “Money Ain’t Loyal.” A hard-boiled Crime Thriller by Daniel Junior.