Book 3: Dreams

Tony

I adjust the zoom lens on the camera, and the street below snaps into focus. Four twenty-somethings stroll down the sidewalk in the summer sunset, talking loudly to each other. The lankiest one says something that makes the bleached-blonde leader punch him. The final two laugh. With another twist, I zoom in on the only one we care about. Teo—Veniamin, as these fucks know him—cocks a fist back to hit the lanky one again, but the leader shakes his head. Together, the four of them enter a crappy electronics shop we’ve learned is yet another Russian front. I sit back from the camera.

“How’s it look?” Mikey asks.

Like Dante sent another kid just about Seb’s age into the goddamn lion’s den without thinking. The phantom Seb in my mind shakes his head. He talks less than he used to, since the funeral, but I can’t fucking get him to go away.

“They look like besties.” I shrug. “’Nother guy in the group got hit. Not Teo.”

Mikey nods. The suns