From Russia Without Love

13

It was late in the evening when Animus and four of his men walked into the Sofitel London St. James Hotel. While Evelina’s father was the reason he’d started dating her in the first place, he truly had come to care for her, even if she regarded their relationship as more of a business deal than true love. And now that she was gone, he missed her.

He and his men filled the elevator, but the elevator felt empty. And as they rode up, he felt as if his soul were going down. Although Animus didn’t want to face the news himself, he had to give the news to Xander.

Animus stepped out of the elevator. “What the hell am I going to tell him?” He said it more to himself than to his posse. “I failed…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” his albino buddy, Ivan, said as they walked slowly down the hall. Animus didn’t know why Ivan was such a loyal friend to him; he just was.

“I was responsible for her well-being,” Animus said. “I failed to protect her.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ivan repeated.

“I should’ve stayed by her side.”

“You have to be careful how you word it to him,” Ivan said.

“There’s no careful way to word it. She’s gone. If Xander kills me for it, at least I won’t have to think about it anymore.”

“He won’t kill you,” Ivan said. “He cares too much about you.”

“We can’t let him leave,” Animus said. “There are police everywhere, and if he tries to go to her body, they’ll try to apprehend him.”

Animus took a deep breath before he knocked on Xander’s door. The peephole went dark for a moment, and then light shone through. Gravity seemed to pull him down as he waited for someone to answer the door, heaviness pooling in his belly. Soon the peephole went dark again. The door opened, and a Russian named Sergey with smooth skin and hard eyes invited them in.

Inside the room, Xander stood and seemed to read Animus’s expression. Xander’s eyes widened, his face somehow burning with anger and pale with fear at the same time. “Where is she?!” he yelled, as if he already knew the answer. He rushed to the door and Ivan tried to grab hold of him, but Xander’s hands swept him off to the side. Animus and his men picked up where Ivan had failed and pushed Xander back into the room, where they held on to him.

Xander struggled, trying to break free. “You sons of bitches. Where is she? Where is she?”

They dragged him back into the room and to the carpet where they dog-piled him. Animus strained to hold Xander down.

“Stop fighting!” Ivan yelled.

“Keep still!” Animus’s men shouted.

Xander caught a piece of Animus’s shirt pocket and tore it. Then he attempted to move both horizontally and laterally from under the heap. Animus battled to keep Xander from escaping, but seeing his grief made Animus’s strength crumble.

Sergey pulled men off the dog pile in an attempt to free Xander, but Animus’s men piled on faster than Sergey could tear them off. At the bottom of the dog pile, Ivan threw a punch, and Animus feared it was directed at Xander.

“Don’t hurt him,” Animus warned his men.

“Where is she?” Xander demanded, his voice becoming high pitched and frantic, his body twisting and turning. “Where is she?” Animus’s men held him. “Where is she? Animus!”

Animus slipped to the side of the pile, and Sergey tore him away. He didn’t have the steel in his muscles to return to the mass of men, and he didn’t know what to say to Xander.

Xander’s body trembled, and his eyes caught Animus’s. “Don’t try to avoid this.”

Animus stood there speechless, unable to deliver the tragic news.

“Take me to her!” Xander said.

Sergey stopped resisting Animus’s crew, knelt down, and patted his boss on the shoulder.

“Take me to her, damn you all!” Xander cried, his voice quaking.

For Xander’s sake, Animus wanted to believe she wasn’t dead, but he’d seen her corpse himself, and he was grasping at nothing.

“Bring my Evelina!” Xander yelled. “Bring her to me!”

His body became unsteady, as did the will of the men holding him, but Xander’s emotions were still raw. Tears ran down his face as he now seemed to fight inward, trying to embrace his denial but unable to hold on. Animus’s men continued to hold him, and Xander’s voice became garbled as if he were drowning in anguish, drowning in reality.

Only one word was discernible. “Niet!” No!

The rest was the gibberish of a man whose spirit was dying.

Animus could no longer distinguish between Xander’s agony and his own. He shrank in on himself, feeling smaller as the room stretched wider and a wave of wretchedness swept over him, drowning his cries.