Page 9 of The Darkness is Calling

“Killing a priest in broad daylight, inside a church with witnesses present, isn’t serious?” my older brother mutters.

I restrain myself from giving in to the irritation he causes me.

“No. It’s a hobby,” I reply as calmly as possible.

He lets out a frustrated growl, while beside me, I hear the other one’s muffled laughter.

“You know very well I’m a big fan of this hobby,” Yar says, “but I always prefer a good plan that saves us from extra headaches.”

“The balaclava is necessary in many situations, but today it could be avoided. I assessed the situation properly,” I inform them both.

“I’m glad you’re the smart one,” Yaroslav mutters sarcastically.

“Let it go, Yar,” Sasha tells him. “We all know about your fantasies with that balaclava.”

This time, Yar grins.

“And actually, you know nothing.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Sometimes I get the feeling you’re crazier than Artem,” the playful blond chuckles.

I listen to their conversation, but I prefer to check my phone for new information about a shipment that is supposed to reach us right in the center of London, where chaos is the key to our success.

That is the magic of the city.

It is full of tourists fascinated by buildings and locals who ignore everyone. So versatile and chaotic that no one finds it strange when a luxury yacht docks beside others just as expensive at St. Katharine Docks and transfers several boxes from one deck to another.

With our system for jamming the cameras, no evidence exists near the meeting point, and the transfer runs smoothly every time.

“But compared to you two, I’m much more fun.”

I ignore Sasha’s comments, even though both of them are probably expecting a cutting reply from me. Instead, I pull my pistol from the shoulder holster where I hid it after turning my back on the altar splattered with the priest’s brains, and begin unscrewing the suppressor, which makes the weapon uncomfortable to carry.

For a second, silence falls around me, and I glance at Sasha from the corner of my eye as he stops at a traffic light.

“Bro’, are we stopping somewhere else?”

His slightly irritated tone makes me huff.

“And if we were?”

“I’ve got no problem with it,” he says, “but Polina promised she’d make pelmeni3for lunch, and I’m dying for some.”

He complains like a spoiled child being denied what he wants.

If anyone heard him, they would never suspect the dark and dangerous thoughts living inside his brain, which, at first glance, seems to belong to a twelve-year-old boy. But at twenty-four, the youngest of the family has proven he loves getting covered in blood, and he always does it with a satanic smile on his face.

3Traditional Russian food. Dough dumplings filled with meat, boiled or fried, served with sour cream or butter

“We’re going home,” I announce calmly, almost bored. “We need to discuss the final details for tonight with the team.”

Then I half turn toward the one in the back. “Yar, did you speak with the krisha4?” “He confirmed he’ll keep his people away from

the area. We have three free hours during the agreed window.”

“More than enough,” Sasha says, his tone completely changed now, responsible, the one he adopts when the conversation is truly serious.

“Unpleasant surprises can happen at any moment. London is not entirely ours yet.” I say, giving voice to the thought that haunts all three of us every day.