Mikhail
The safe house we drove to after the incident at the warehouse was a cramped apartment above a bakery, and it smelled like old bread and cigarette smoke. Viktor had found it years ago, one of a dozen bolt-holes scattered around the city for emergencies just like this one.
"The news is calling it an industrial accident," Dmitri said, looking up from his laptop. "Gas leak explosion. Very tragic."
"Any mention of bodies?" I asked, trying to ignore the sharp pain in my ribs where a piece of burning debris had caught me.
"Nothing yet. But the fire burned so hot, there might not be much left to find."
I nodded, but I couldn't shake off the eerie feeling. Men like him don't die easily, and they certainly don't die quietly.
"What about the FBI?" I asked.
"They're investigating, but
