Alliance Read online

  Alliance

  Red Star: 1

  CATHERINE JOHNSON

  FREAK CIRCLE PRESS

  Alliance

  Copyright © 2018 Catherine Johnson

  Catherine Johnson has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  All rights reserved

  Cover image courtesy of efes via Pixabay.com.

  Cover design by JB, 2018.

  DEDICATION

  To Susan and Sarah, and everyone who kept the faith that this book would happen. It exists because you believed.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Translations

  About the Author

  Also by Catherine Johnson

  prologue

  Nikolai was trying to distract himself from the torturous itching of his new tattoo. Normally, a couple of rounds of Mortal Kombat II on the PlayStation could absorb his attention through any event short of the detonation of a nuclear bomb, but given that his cousins Luka and Vadim had just kicked his ass for the fifth game straight, it might have been safe to say his concentration wasn’t great.

  The nagging irritation on his arm wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but it was constant and he knew he couldn’t - shouldn’t - scratch at it. If he rubbed the scabs away, if the ink healed less than perfectly, everyone would know that he had failed to endure this simplest of tortures. It would be a mark of disrespect to ruin the piece. The quality of the tattoo itself - as it was inked - was not important, but the care of it afterward was. He had seen many designs that had been etched with little more than a needle and scorched rubber mixed with piss. Those crude etchings had been faded by time and bisected with scars, but while the ink had been settling into the skin they had been cared for as if they were the mark of God, which was not so far from the truth.

  Nikolai attended a state school like almost every other kid in his neighborhood, most of the time, but his family also indulged in some unconventional, yet necessary, homeschooling. During the fascinating interludes when Alexei Sokolov was his tutor, the point was oft-repeated that torture was most effective when the pain was persistent. Alexei’s motto ran something along the lines of ‘start small, and allow yourself room to grow.’ Hacksaws and blow torches were not always necessary, they were blunt instruments and Alexei only used them when making a point; he preferred a small blade and a candle, or water if he could not obtain ice. Nikolai thought the itch of a new tattoo was right up there with some of Alexei’s most effective methods. In any other respect, his tolerance for pain was considered high, but faced with the itch of a healing tattoo he was reduced to the level of a whining toddler.

  Nikolai did not like feeling like a child. He was fourteen. If they had been back in Russia he would have been considered a man. Here in America, he was barely a step above a baby. He’d been old enough to be sent to Juvie for a not inconsiderable sentence, but he was caught between the two worlds. He had never truly known childhood innocence, but the actions of adults often confused him, and he knew he was not mature enough to join their world… not yet.

  Not yet, but one day he would be.

  His latest tattoo was proof enough of that. Tattooing was illegal in New York City, so for a teen such as himself to have ink was extremely unusual, but his family knew the right people. His family knew all the right people. His grandmother knew the right people to perform tattoos, even on someone not yet eighteen years old. She’d known the right police officers to find him, along with Luka and Vadim, with a few baggies of Horse and a wad of cash that was far too thick for three teenagers to claim ownership of. She’s also known the judge that would give them the required sentence, no more and no less.

  Tattoos were not an abomination to his family; they were a way of life. Some families kept kitschy photo albums, his family had their stories drawn right into their skin. But the ink had to be earned. You couldn’t just go out and get any old rendition of Mickey Mouse or Big Bird on your ass, you had to be worthy of the legend you were creating. The pigment embedded in your skin meant something. The dagger wrapped in barbed wire that had been etched into Nikolai’s embarrassingly skinny left bicep represented his induction into the prison system, a momentous milestone in the journey of his life.

  Nikolai yearned for a pair of stars on his knees, the sign that he would kneel to no man, but Alexei was adamant that he had to earn those marks. Intention and pride were not enough; a man had to be tested before he could be honored. Alexei said that Nikolai was too young to be tested yet. If anyone else had issued the edict, Nikolai would have argued, but he suspected that Alexei would be the man to test him when the time came and he had a great respect for Alexei’s skill and talent. The man looked like a character from a fairy story, perhaps the kindly cobbler who consorted with elves. He was tall and thin and with his gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose he looked the epitome of peaceful intelligence. There was more strength in those lithe limbs than any stranger could guess at, and that brilliant mind was as sharp as the tools he used. He was his grandmother’s most trusted advisor, her Sovietnik. He was the man tasked with teaching Nikolai, Luka, and Vadim about their family business and the legacy that underpinned it. Alexei also had several particular skills which he was passing on to the boys.

  The official story, as far as his school was concerned, was that he, Luka, and Vadim had recently enjoyed a holiday back to their mother country. Nikolai would have liked for that to be true. He harbored a desire to return to Russia, even though his grandmother had decreed such a trip far too dangerous, for now. Fortunately, he had a wealth of stories from his family to embellish at school. He would not – could not – tell anyone the truth. It would be incomprehensible to most of the people that he knew that anyone with the resources available to his family would have to spend time serving an actual custodial sentence. Very few people understood the way that his family worked. They didn’t understand his grandmother and father. It was not possible to live in their world without having experienced prison.

  The last six months had not been a waste, they had been a lesson. His family were letting him grow into a man, letting him make his own mistakes, letting him learn from them, and they did not intervene in the punishments any more than absolutely necessary. His two cousins had been right alongside him through the crime and through the punishment. His grandmother was also grooming them for their places in the organization. His babusya kept a laser focus on their formal education, so the fact that she had let it be interrupted by this interlude might have seemed ironic, but it spoke to her commitment to their development. She needed them to know how the syst
em worked. She needed to know that they could endure the rigors, the solitude and separation of doing time. Nikolai knew that his education would have been stunted if he’d waited until after his eighteenth birthday to complete any meaningful stretch of incarceration; as it was he was sure that his grandmother would arrange the next stage of his education when the time came. He had heard much about how comfortable Juvie was compared to adult institutions. He didn’t mind. He was impatient to get such tests out of the way so that he could finally become a fully functioning part of the family.

  His grandmother was the head of the family, but there were whispers that she would soon step down. His father, her eldest son, was her right hand and heir, but Nikolai did not want his destiny handed to him on a silver platter. Good leaders were not made that way. He wanted to be a good leader. He wanted to earn his destiny with blood, sweat, and determination. He wanted to prove he was worthy of the honor. He wanted to be worthy of the honor. He wanted to be able to carry the legacy of his grandmother and his family.

  His first real test had been to lose his freedom, temporarily. His second would be to endure the small torture of the healing of the etching on his arm. There would be many, many more tests – both great and small – in the years to come.

  Still, the itching did not seem to be bothering Luka or Vadim, and they had been given the same marks in the same place. It burned Nikolai with the fire of shame and envy that they were bearing their discomfort with more fortitude than he. He felt a brother’s love for his cousins, and along with that love, a brother’s resentment and envy. They loved each other without restraint, but that love supported a healthy measure of competition.

  Almost the entirety of Nikolai’s living family shared the same tenement building. Luka and Vadim had been under his grandmother’s care since the death of their parents. She had been Nikolai’s guiding influence since the death of his own mother. The three cousins, with barely twelve months between the eldest of them and the youngest, lived in the same apartment as their grandmother and Nikolai’s father. Together they formed a haphazard, but a complete family unit. Kolya, Ruslan, and Yury - his other cousins, younger than the first trio by only a couple of years - lived with their enviably full and normal families in the same building.

  “Yeah!” Vadim punched the air as he completed a combination. His character delivered a devastating uppercut to Nikolai’s avatar. The controller was still gripped in his right hand. “I win again.”

  Luka twitched an eyebrow but said nothing. He was out of the game for this round and was occupying his mind by rapping along with Biggie Smalls. Their grandmother lamented their taste in music, but Nikolai found the melodic chanting to be soothing, much better than the electro-pop crowding the rest of the chart.

  “Fuck you. Another round,” Nikolai demanded. “I’ll kick your ass.” He couldn’t give up or he’d scratch his new ink to bits.

  Before they could set up the next competition, the door to his room opened. Their grandmother stood in the doorway. Their game and their music had been loud and the apartment was not small, so he was not surprised that he hadn’t heard her approach. An apology for his bad language was already forming on Nikolai’s lips, his grandmother had rules about cursing in the house, but then he realized that his grandmother had tears on her cheeks. The wet trails shone in the light. His grandmother, Irina Volkov, head of one of the most powerful crime families on the east coast of America, was crying.

  Nikolai was shocked into silence, Luka, too. Luka hit the remote for the CD player. Vadim shut down the PlayStation without exiting the game.

  Something was wrong, something was very wrong. He had never seen his grandmother cry, not when his own mother, her daughter-in-law had been killed, not even when her youngest son and his wife – Luka and Vadim’s parents had been assassinated. No matter what the world had thrown at her, as far as Nikolai knew, Irina had met it without flinching. She wasn’t sobbing, but the evidence of her sorrow was glinting wetly on her cheeks.

  His father had been to Oklahoma on a business trip, he had been due to return within a day or so. Now his grandmother was at his door and his father was not by her side.

  “Do you need us to leave, Babusya?” Luka asked, showing the sensitivity and insight for which he was rapidly becoming known for in the family.

  “No. You should stay.” Their grandmother’s voice was quiet, but it did not waver. She came into the room. All the boys shifted so that she could sit on the bed by Nikolai.

  “It’s Papa, isn’t it.” Nikolai’s statement was not a question. He could think of only one thing that would have brought his grandmother to tears.

  His grandmother confirmed his worst fear with a rough voice. “Da, krov moya. Is your papa.”

  “He’s dead,” Nikolai murmured. The growing adult inside him knew it must be so. His grandmother would not be crying if his father were even grievously injured in hospital, she would have been moving heaven and earth to ensure he received the best care with every ounce of her steely determination. But the child inside him… the child clung to a naïve shred of hope.

  “Da.” His grandmother’s voice broke over the short word. “He is.”

  Nikolai’s own tears spilled over. He couldn’t hold them back, but he swallowed the urge to break down. He would not sob like a baby. His grandmother was hurting, and he needed to be strong for her. He did not want to add to her pain or to disgrace himself. He knew what his family was. He knew the risks they took to carve their place in the world. He knew his father had fully embraced the life he had led… but… but now he was an orphan. That life had stolen his father from him, had stolen both his parents away. That life had stolen Luka and Vadim’s parents. Nikolai felt the first faint stirrings of rage, although the dragon was muffled by the weight of his loss.

  “Who? How?” Luka asked quietly. Nikolai could see that his cousin’s eyes were shining. Vadim couldn’t speak; his fists were clenched tightly in his lap, so tight that his knuckles were blanched white. Where Luka tended to cold logic, Vadim tended to hot rage. They had been orphaned before they had ever stepped foot on American soil; their memories of their parents were few and fading fast. Nikolai’s father had been their papa as much as Irina had been their mother.

  “Mongrels. Filthy rivals of group we meet with.” His grandmother lifted her chin, showing the iron in her spine. “They call themselves Dirty Rats. There was ambush. They have no honor, like krysy.”

  “They should pay. They need to pay,” Vadim grunted through gritted teeth.

  “They will,” Their grandmother assured them. “I will wipe them from face of this earth.”

  Nikolai had no doubt that the foolish biker gang would be reduced to dust. They had angered Irina Volkov and the insult would not be ignored. But it did not matter to Nikolai that his grandmother would wreak bloody vengeance; nothing she did would bring his father back.

  Nikolai reached for his grandmother’s hand, which lay passively in her lap. She had not tried to hold him to comfort him. He didn’t doubt her love for the lack of a hug; he knew that she was trying to maintain a veneer of control. It was not their way to wail and moan. He squeezed her fingers, feeling for the first time the papery age of her skin and the potentially arthritic swelling of her knuckles. His grandmother squeezed back, hard, betraying her tenuous control over her emotions. Nikolai reached for Luka, who held out his hand without reserve. Luka reached for his brother. Vadim took two deep breaths and the relented. He allowed his brother to clasp one hand, but the other fist clenched impossibly tighter.

  They were not alone in their grief. They had each other. They would never let go.

  ~o0o~

  Three-tiered crosses carved from every shade of marble covered the cemetery ground, like a field of wheat that had been frozen in time, no longer able to bend to the whims of the breeze. The graveyard was peaceful; it might have been beautiful if it had not been acre upon acre of death.

  Nikolai stood on one side of Irina, Luka at the other. Vadi
m and Alexei stood at her back. She was surrounded by her family, but a generation was missing. Nikolai understood that Irina was surrounded by half-men. Her daughters and their husbands were close and his other cousins were also nearby, but apart from Alexei, Irina had no full-grown men by her side.

  The priest pontificated over the grave, but Nikolai did not listen to his words. He knew what his father had been, what he had done, and he knew that always his father had acted in the best interests of his family. He wanted to believe that his father was in heaven. He wanted to believe that God’s judgment had been fair. He knew with absolute certainty that if his father was in hell, he would not hesitate to join him when his own time came. Nikolai intended to provide security for his family by any means necessary. He intended to learn every lesson his grandmother taught him. If he was not admitted to heaven for protecting his kin, then he would take the punishment and be damned.

  Although he and Luka stood close by, their grandmother did not lean on their arms. She had linked her arms over theirs only as a show of chivalrous courtesy. The boys had taken their lead from their grandmother. She remained strong and straight. Together they were islands of stoic calm amidst the mourning.

  Along with the other mourners, Nikolai had walked the circuit around the coffin while it lay in the chapel. He had laid his anonymous white rose atop the closed casket. By tradition, the casket should have been open. His father should have been laid out in his white suit, ready and waiting to receive the offerings and last affections of his kin, but the dirty bikers had shot his father in the face and so the casket was closed. Nikolai had watched from his grandmother’s side as his flower had become buried under a heap of similar blooms. He had done his duty, but the shell in the coffin was no longer his father. He could feel that the loving, ebullient spirit was gone.