“And you couldn’t have told me this sooner?” he asked as the directions popped up on screen.
“I didn’t have your number.”
“Get it from Helias.”
For some reason, that made Cristian’s poor attempt at good humor vanish, replaced with a scowl. “Give it to me yourself.”
With a sigh, Atlas recited his number and turned onto the road, resigned to the long, miserable drive. He only made it fifteen minutes before glancing back at Cristian. “Why are we going to Hahn Lake?”
“Father has a business meeting out there and decided to send me in his stead,” Cristian said with bitter cheer. “Supposedly it’s an easy transaction and even I won’t be able to mess it up.”
Atlas wasn’t sure if there was a tactful way to ask the question, but he tried anyway. “Was this planned?”
“What do you think, Mr. Kinkaid?”
He didn’t answer. It wasn’t that kind of question. Instead, he turned on the radio and, like a coward, kept his mouth shut for the rest of the drive.
Chapter Seven
Hahn Lake didn’t strike him as the kind of town Decebal Vladislavic would consider an asset. What had once been a sparkling summer resort town had faded over the years. The local B&Bs and small chain hotels proclaimed vacancies as he and Cristian drove through the main strip, though they should have been filled at this point in the season. The downtown district could have been Anytown, USA. There was a small local hospital near one of the two churches. The churches looked so similar Atlas could only distinguish between their denominations thanks to the large signs posted out front. Several comfortably worn restaurants whose names were little more than a description of the food they served, and a post office were all within walking distance of the weathered-brick town hall and its short clock tower. Crammed in among the other buildings, various tourist trap boutiques showed their wares with dimly lit window displays. If Atlas ever needed to buy Bea a wood-burned anything or a bright sweatshirt whining Hahn-y, take me to the lake! he kne
w where to come.
If Cristian was equally unimpressed, he didn’t show it. He kept his head down, gaze fixed on his phone, and left Atlas to take in the sights on his own. Their destination was on the northeastern side of town, near a closed timber mill whose locked gates declared it would soon be converted into a packing plant for a company he didn’t recognize. As they drove by, he didn’t miss the large sign declaring the proposed project completion. Apparently, someone else had figured out that the project’s eleven-year late start wasn’t very promising; they’d spray painted FUCKERS over the company logo with fluorescent orange paint. There was no such vandalism on any of the signs at the closed cabinetmaking workshop a few hundred feet away, where the GPS informed Atlas they’d reached the end of their journey. The outside lights were on, allowing Atlas to find a parking spot near the two SUVs already there, though the interior lights didn’t appear to be on. All he could see was a faint pool of light, which did nothing to illuminate what they were walking into.
This did not look like a place to do any kind of good business. This looked like he’d stepped into an episode of some procedural show that would end with a jaded detective staring at his dismembered body before making a quip and sliding down a pair of aviator sunglasses.
“Who are you meeting?” he asked Cristian.
“Some delightful ruffians.” Cristian gave a sinuous stretch in the backseat and grinned at Atlas’s scowl. “Father is very interested in expanding his influence and they have been amenable to supporting his expansion...for proper financial backing of their business interests, of course. I’m here to seal the deal. Don’t make that face. This won’t take long. We go in, I charm them, collect some papers Father sent over, and we leave. In and out in ten minutes.”
There was no immediate threat to Cristian’s safety. There was no reason to lock the car doors and drive him away. Atlas frowned, but had no choice but to follow Cristian’s lead and exit the car. The door into the workshop was unlocked. Cristian pushed it open and sauntered inside, ignoring Atlas’s hissed order to stop so he could go first. A dusty electric lamp sitting on a desk behind the front counter was responsible for the light Atlas had seen from outside. An open door to their left revealed a shadowy break room and kitchenette. No one was there, which meant their only other option was going through the door into the rear section of the workshop labeled Offices-Employees Only.
He beat Cristian to the door first and drew to a stop. It forced Cristian to halt as well, which earned him a dirty look. “Mr. Slava,” Atlas warned quietly, “I realize you have no choice about attending this meeting, but please remember I also have a job to do here.”
“They aren’t going to hurt me,” Cristian grumbled. When Atlas held his ground, he threw his head back, sighed, and said, “Fine, I’ll listen to you. Can we go now?”
The door swung inward on slightly sticky hinges and Atlas could see a handful of people in the room beyond. Again, the fluorescent lighting was ignored, made up for by a floor lamp this time, which kept Atlas’s eyes from aching thanks to its soft light. Two men sat on a couch with their backs to the door, while others stood or sat in the shadows just out of the lamp. No one looked over at them; Cristian was expected, after all.
“Durand,” Cristian called out as he slid past Atlas into the room. “Decebal sends his regards.”
Atlas made it two steps into the room before Cristian froze. Atlas grunted and twisted to avoid colliding with him. He only partially succeeded, forced to reach out and grasp hold of Cristian’s shoulders so he didn’t knock either of them down. Cristian’s muscles were tense under the smooth fabric of his jacket and he stared ahead at the couch with something like horror. And then Atlas smelled it. Blood. Stale, metallic, almost moldy from the way it mingled with the dust coating the workspace.
He dug his fingers into Cristian’s flesh, tugging him toward the door. “Leaving. Now.”
He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Should have known Cristian had no intention of following through with his agreement. His misplaced faith allowed Cristian to shake him off easily and hurry toward the couch. Atlas swore and followed, trying to peer into the darkness around them. None of the shadowed figures moved and he realized grimly that none of them were supporting their weight independently. One slumped in a folding chair. Another leaned heavily against a filing cabinet. His gut pitched when he remembered Kurt’s head had tilted the same loose way when his corpse was lifted from the ground and tossed against a tree.
Stop. Don’t go back there. Stay here. Focusing on Cristian kept him from chasing the horrific memories of his platoon’s bodies scattered around him.
His charge had halted in front of the couch. His fists clenched, his jaw clamped, and Atlas braced himself for the sight he suspected he’d find. He held a hand uselessly over his nose to try to limit the stench and faced the bodies. There was blood, just not as much as Atlas would have suspected, which meant the smell was coming from the other bodies in the shadows. The lack of blood made the sight of the two men worse.
They were pale, one almost grayish, and the thin skin of their closed eyelids shone waxy in the lamplight. The shirt of the man on the right was stained with crimson blotches from the jagged wound in his neck. It was a nice shirt, fine cotton under an even finer black jacket, which probably hid more bloodstains. He was younger than Decebal, but not by much. His brown hair was brushed with silver at the temples. His open-mouthed grimace highlighted the silver streaks in his beard. The papers in his hand were still somewhat legible in spite of the fine spattering of blood over Decebal’s letterhead.
“Fuck,” Cristian swore when he spotted the papers. He took a step forward to reach for them. On gut instinct, Atlas snagged hold of his wrist and pulled him away.
Just in time too. The second man, who had been leaning just as bonelessly against the back of the couch, opened his eyes. Cristian and Atlas both lurched back in surprise, which brought an eerie smile to the man’s face. “You’re not Decebal.” He unfolded from his macabre place on the couch.
Atlas dragged Cristian behind him. He backed up with steady steps. Tripping over something could give this stranger a chance at Cristian.