Unlike most patients, Lesya was in a psychiatric clinic of her own free will. When her nerves heal a little, she will return to normal life... On her birthday, her father’s employee Victor, who had long shown Lesya signs of attention, took her from the hospital for a day and proposed. Lesya accepted him - she did not love Victor, but he was a reliable person and truly cared about her. She will be fine with him... Why only after they were signed off on the same day and the girl returned to the clinic, both Victor and her father stopped answering her calls? And the attending physician announced the start of a new therapy, after which Lesya did not remember anything, but found strange marks on her body? Not fully understanding what she was doing, the girl decided to escape...
The work was published in 2016 by Eksmo Publishing House. The book is part of the series "Alien Games. Action Novels by T. Kogan." On our website you can download the book “A Club for the Elite” in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. The book's rating is 5 out of 5. Here, before reading, you can also turn to reviews from readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In our partner's online store you can buy and read the book in paper version.
Tatyana Vasilievna Kogan
Club for the elite
Club for the eliteTatyana Vasilievna Kogan
Other people's games. Action novels by T. Kogan
Unlike most patients, Lesya was in a psychiatric clinic of her own free will. When her nerves heal a little, she will return to normal life... On her birthday, her father’s employee Victor, who had long shown Lesya signs of attention, took her from the hospital for a day and proposed. Lesya accepted him - she did not love Victor, but he was a reliable person and truly cared about her. She will be fine with him... Why only after they were signed off on the same day and the girl returned to the clinic, both Victor and her father stopped answering her calls? And the attending physician announced the start of a new therapy, after which Lesya did not remember anything, but found strange marks on her body? Not fully understanding what she was doing, the girl decided to escape...
Tatyana Kogan
Club for the elite
© Kogan T.V., 2016
© Design. LLC Publishing House E, 2016
From the diary of V.
- Kill him! Come on baby! “The voice rang in my head like a rattling saw, cutting my brain from the inside. I almost physically felt the bloody fragments of what I once considered common sense and a strong will beating against my skull. “Kill him and it will all be over.” You know what you should do. You know everything. You're smart, aren't you?
Of course, I'm smart. Always has been. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here now, with a stone in my hand. It was an ordinary cobblestone, half buried in the ground. I dug it out of the soil with effort, breaking a nail and cutting myself on the sharp edge. And now she squeezed him harder and harder, enjoying the pain in her cramped fingers. I clung to this pain as the only saving guide, the only opportunity not to lose myself, to preserve what little of the old “I” that still remained in me. Or so I wanted to think? Maybe I became someone else a long time ago, but have not yet had time to get to know him properly?
The man huddled on the ground moved, and I instantly felt hot, scalding blood rush to my face. There was no time left for reflection. The man was strong, much stronger than me. Every second of delay meant a threat to my life. I slid my eyes over his powerful neck and fixed my gaze on the back of his head. One quick strike. Gather all your strength and swing. Stop thinking and fall into darkness, only to jump out at a new level a moment later.
I squeezed my eyes shut until it hurt, but I opened them wide again, pulled my hand back and sharply slammed the cobblestone into the thick blond hair on the top of his head.
Sunday
Boston, Massachusetts
The evening was cold and cloudy. The chilly wind chilled to the bones, the low sky was obscured by ragged clouds, and Boston seemed gray and inhospitable.
The taxi turned onto Charles Street and then onto Revere.
“At number seventy-two, please,” the passenger asked the driver.
The car drove a little further along the pavement patched with multi-colored asphalt and stopped at a long old five-story building with black shutters and decorative metal balconies hanging over the sidewalk.
- How much do I have to pay?
Mike Nolan took two twenty-dollar bills from his pocket and handed them to the taxi driver. Then he took a large sports bag and emerged from the warm interior into the uncomfortable dampness of the street. He stood for a while, raising the collar of his light jacket, which offered little protection from the icy gusts, and stepped up the steps leading to the high entrance door.
He inserted the key into the lock - it did not open immediately, as Bobby warned. Mike lifted the key up into the hole and pushed a little harder. The castle gave way, letting him into an unkempt hallway that smelled of age. Again steps and a second door, with the lock of which the same simple manipulation had to be done.
The narrow, creaky staircase pressed askew against the wall. The wooden steps echoed under boots, the white paint on the railing had long since dried and cracked. Mike went up to the third floor.
The apartment was small, with a non-standard layout. Immediately from the hallway, an empty square room began, followed by another, smaller one, from where a wide arch with a glass door led to the bedroom. The only furniture here was two chairs and a folding table. On the floor, face down, lay a plasma TV. In the corner of the bedroom there was a lonely white mattress and two pillows.
“I bought an apartment a long time ago, but I haven’t settled in yet,” Bobby explained a week ago, handing Mike the keys. “But hanging out for a while will do.” Refrigerator, microwave - everything is there. It's a long way to the grocery store, but I think you'll figure it out.
They weren’t exactly friends with Bobby; rather, they maintained friendly relations in memory of their childhood. For a long time they lived on the same street, where besides the two of them - it so happened - there was no one else their age. We went to school together, played together after school. It’s not that they were terribly interested in each other, but the lack of an alternative will bring anyone closer together. After school, their paths diverged: know-it-all Bobby went to university for some very fashionable specialty - risk management or something like that, and Mike went into the army as a contract worker. They sometimes crossed paths when they came to visit their parents in their small one-story suburb, told news, shared plans. Bobby always had plans. He was an ambitious guy. I calculated everything and laid it out on the shelves.
– I have already been invited to work by two large companies, so a warm place awaits me immediately after studying. I’ll work hard for a couple of years, slowly save, invest in high technology - this is especially important now, along with pharmaceuticals. Then I'll go for a promotion. In another couple of years I’ll buy an apartment or a house, then I’ll worry about looking for a wife...
Bobby was always enthusiastic and from the outside could seem like an out-of-touch idealist with rose-colored glasses. His appearance was suitable: plump, ruddy, cheeky, he resembled a cheerful pig. Many competitors underestimated his abilities, following his first impression. Most of them were subsequently very perplexed when the cheerful pig showed a wolfish grip and stepped on their throat.
- How are you, huh? Will you stay in the army? Or are there other ideas, huh? - Bobby usually asked, sipping one miserable shot of whiskey at the bar all evening.
Mike didn’t have any ideas, but he masked their absence with general phrases, just so as not to see the half-surprised, half-sympathetic look of his comrade. He was probably jealous of Bobby in some way. This is his confidence in the chosen path, the absence of hesitation. The friend knew what he wanted and moved in the right direction, achieving his goals. His life, like a mathematics textbook, had all the necessary formulas, solutions and answers. Mike compared his own fate to a torn page from a long essay on philosophy: a lot of thoughts, but not a single intelligible one. And in general, it is not clear where it all began and where it will lead.
Serving in the army was not his dream, although there were certain delights in it. For example, a busy schedule, sometimes leading to complete physical exhaustion. It’s much easier to exist when all your desires come down to one thing: to get a normal night’s sleep. There is neither time nor energy for exhausting reflection - that’s exactly what he needed. Don't reflect, don't think about life. Don't feel worthless.
Yes, he didn’t fly with happiness during his service, but he didn’t grieve either – that’s for sure. And then they kicked him out of there. And things got much worse.
The tiny kitchenette was located to the left of the front door. Mike took a glass from the cabinet, poured water from the tap and drank greedily. The elongated window looked out into a well formed by four walls. Neighboring houses were adjacent to each other almost closely. On the protruding canopy above the window opposite, on the floor below, there were some rags and broken glass. A rusty fire escape climbed up a gray concrete wall and disappeared somewhere behind a high solid fence enclosing the neighbor’s roof. Such a fence was more suitable for a closed farm where teenagers who have broken the law are rehabilitated...
Mike looked at his watch - a quarter to eight. Bobby mentioned that the Internet had not yet been installed in the apartment, so “you have to figure out how to entertain yourself.” He wanted to say then that entertainment requires money, which, to put it mildly, is difficult. But, of course, he didn’t say. Mike is not used to complaining. His problems are his problems, and no one else's.
He went into the bathroom and studied himself in the mirror for a long time. Vicky, the girlfriend he had been dating for almost two years and who ran away when he started having difficulties, said that he looked like Colin Farrell, although he himself, for the life of him, saw nothing in common. Mike looked more closely at his reflection: short-cropped dark hair, eyes of a vague, greenish-brown color, which Vicky beautifully called hazel - hazel. Straight, uncurved eyebrows, open forehead. He could have been considered attractive if it weren’t for the frozen, aggressively tired expression on his face.
He quickly took a shower and returned to the room, taking out clean underwear from his sports bag. The flight took only two hours, and he was sweating as if he had run ten miles. Damn nerves. He had never been so worried before. And why? Because of some work!
Mike changed his clothes and took out a chocolate bar from his jacket, which he had a weakness for. He pulled up a chair and sat by the window, staring into the evening twilight and chewing thoughtfully. The bedroom windows looked out onto a quiet street and a red brick house. In this area, called Beacon Hill, most of the buildings were copies of one another. Bobby has excellent taste in real estate - Beacon Hill, overlooking the country's first public park and the State Capitol, is considered the city's most prestigious area. It is a favorite place for politicians and public figures of all sorts.
“John Kerry lives next door,” Bobby said proudly, as if this fact somehow exalted him. – Of course, not always, only when he comes to the city. A police patrol is immediately posted down the street.
Until today, Mike had only visited Boston once, and then only for a couple of days. If he is lucky, he will stay here for a year, or even two. He had an interview tomorrow, and he was going to make the best possible impression on his employers.
For the last year he had been very unlucky, he worked temporary jobs and almost fell into despair. It's not hard for a former military man to find a job, but Mike had "special circumstances." Because of these circumstances, he was kicked around like a stray dog, not given a chance to show his best side. Over the past three months, he had not even been called for an interview, which made the invitation to Boston seem like a real stroke of luck.
“Special circumstances” did not bother potential employers, the initial telephone interview went well, and Mike was asked to come in person. He was not going to miss such a chance. So, to be honest, he was worried for obvious reasons. Not at all because of “some kind of work.” But because of the work that could pull him out of his long black streak.
It was already completely dark. The apartment was damp and uncomfortable; the window frames rattled under the pressure of the wind. Mike imagined how he would wander around empty rooms until midnight, not knowing what to do with himself, and hastily rushed into the corridor, threw on his jacket and ran out into the street.
He didn’t know the area, but while sitting in a taxi, he managed to notice a couple of bars. He turned left and walked briskly down the hill towards the nearest intersection.
The bell above the door rang loudly, letting a new visitor into the room. The pub—small and cramped, like a squirrel hole—smelled of mulled wine and spices. Several couples sat at square tables along the walls, soft music playing. Mike sat down near the bar.
A handsome guy and girl were talking animatedly about something in French. She is fragile, with shoulder-length wavy hair, stylish glasses on her thin straight nose, and a bright scarf around her neck. He is broad-shouldered, wearing a fashionable jacket, and moves slowly and seemingly carelessly. In front of them stood two large plates with something incredibly fragrant. Mike involuntarily sniffed the delicious smell and felt his stomach twist with hunger.
He studied the menu, chose a steak with a side dish and asked for water. Everything will work out well. Mike did not believe in universal justice, thanks to which the loser would one day be rewarded, but he knew that a person could not always be unlucky. At least according to the law of chance, sooner or later something good will definitely happen to him. Logical?
The pub was located on the ground floor; in the narrow long windows above the ceiling, the feet of passers-by were flickering. Despite the weather not conducive to walking, the street was full of people. Sometimes someone stopped opposite and curiously studied the situation in the glowing window of the pub, as if deciding whether to look inside or continue the search. Sometimes Mike caught their embarrassed glances - the audience frowned, as if caught doing something shameful, and hurriedly moved on.
When the steak arrived, Nolan forgot about everything in the world for ten minutes, enjoying the skillfully cooked meat, fried until golden brown. And even the worry about tomorrow’s meeting with the employer faded and receded into the background. No drama can compete with food served on time! His mood improved markedly, and Mike felt a surge of genuine optimism for the first time in months. In fact, why should he, a young and healthy guy, blame fate? Troubles happen to everyone, it is important to survive them with dignity.
The attractive young waitress at the counter smiled knowingly. Just like Vicky when they first met. Only Vikki behaved more brazenly and stared at him as unceremoniously as if she had paid for a private stripper - although she was the one dancing at the pole that evening.
He motioned for the waitress to bring the bill. He took the card out of his wallet and put it in the book.
Vicky generally looked at people as if they all owed her.
© Kogan T.V., 2016
© Design. LLC Publishing House E, 2016
From the diary of V.
- Kill him! Come on baby! “The voice rang in my head like a rattling saw, cutting my brain from the inside. I almost physically felt the bloody fragments of what I once considered common sense and a strong will beating against my skull. “Kill him and it will all be over.” You know what you should do. You know everything. You're smart, aren't you?
Of course, I'm smart. Always has been. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here now, with a stone in my hand. It was an ordinary cobblestone, half buried in the ground. I dug it out of the soil with effort, breaking a nail and cutting myself on the sharp edge. And now she squeezed him harder and harder, enjoying the pain in her cramped fingers. I clung to this pain as the only saving guide, the only opportunity not to lose myself, to preserve what little of the old “I” that still remained in me. Or so I wanted to think? Maybe I became someone else a long time ago, but have not yet had time to get to know him properly?
The man huddled on the ground moved, and I instantly felt hot, scalding blood rush to my face. There was no time left for reflection. The man was strong, much stronger than me. Every second of delay meant a threat to my life. I slid my eyes over his powerful neck and fixed my gaze on the back of his head. One quick strike. Gather all your strength and swing. Stop thinking and fall into darkness, only to jump out at a new level a moment later.
I squeezed my eyes shut until it hurt, but I opened them wide again, pulled my hand back and sharply slammed the cobblestone into the thick blond hair on the top of his head.
Sunday
Boston, Massachusetts
The evening was cold and cloudy. The chilly wind chilled to the bones, the low sky was obscured by ragged clouds, and Boston seemed gray and inhospitable.
The taxi turned onto Charles Street and then onto Revere.
“At number seventy-two, please,” the passenger asked the driver.
The car drove a little further along the pavement patched with multi-colored asphalt and stopped at a long old five-story building with black shutters and decorative metal balconies hanging over the sidewalk.
- How much do I have to pay?
Mike Nolan took two twenty-dollar bills from his pocket and handed them to the taxi driver. Then he took a large sports bag and emerged from the warm interior into the uncomfortable dampness of the street. He stood for a while, raising the collar of his light jacket, which offered little protection from the icy gusts, and stepped up the steps leading to the high entrance door.
He inserted the key into the lock - it did not open immediately, as Bobby warned. Mike lifted the key up into the hole and pushed a little harder. The castle gave way, letting him into an unkempt hallway that smelled of age. Again steps and a second door, with the lock of which the same simple manipulation had to be done.
The narrow, creaky staircase pressed askew against the wall. The wooden steps echoed under boots, the white paint on the railing had long since dried and cracked. Mike went up to the third floor.
The apartment was small, with a non-standard layout. Immediately from the hallway, an empty square room began, followed by another, smaller one, from where a wide arch with a glass door led to the bedroom. The only furniture here was two chairs and a folding table. On the floor, face down, lay a plasma TV. In the corner of the bedroom there was a lonely white mattress and two pillows.
“I bought an apartment a long time ago, but I haven’t settled in yet,” Bobby explained a week ago, handing Mike the keys. “But hanging out for a while will do.” Refrigerator, microwave - everything is there. It's a long way to the grocery store, but I think you'll figure it out.
They weren’t exactly friends with Bobby; rather, they maintained friendly relations in memory of their childhood. For a long time they lived on the same street, where besides the two of them - it so happened - there was no one else their age. We went to school together, played together after school. It’s not that they were terribly interested in each other, but the lack of an alternative will bring anyone closer together. After school, their paths diverged: know-it-all Bobby went to university for some very fashionable specialty - risk management or something like that, and Mike went into the army as a contract worker. They sometimes crossed paths when they came to visit their parents in their small one-story suburb, told news, shared plans. Bobby always had plans. He was an ambitious guy. I calculated everything and laid it out on the shelves.
– I have already been invited to work by two large companies, so a warm place awaits me immediately after studying. I’ll work hard for a couple of years, slowly save, invest in high technology - this is especially important now, along with pharmaceuticals. Then I'll go for a promotion. In another couple of years I’ll buy an apartment or a house, then I’ll worry about looking for a wife...
Bobby was always enthusiastic and from the outside could seem like an out-of-touch idealist with rose-colored glasses. His appearance was suitable: plump, ruddy, cheeky, he resembled a cheerful pig. Many competitors underestimated his abilities, following his first impression. Most of them were subsequently very perplexed when the cheerful pig showed a wolfish grip and stepped on their throat.
- How are you, huh? Will you stay in the army? Or are there other ideas, huh? - Bobby usually asked, sipping one miserable shot of whiskey at the bar all evening.
Mike didn’t have any ideas, but he masked their absence with general phrases, just so as not to see the half-surprised, half-sympathetic look of his comrade. He was probably jealous of Bobby in some way. This is his confidence in the chosen path, the absence of hesitation. The friend knew what he wanted and moved in the right direction, achieving his goals. His life, like a mathematics textbook, had all the necessary formulas, solutions and answers. Mike compared his own fate to a torn page from a long essay on philosophy: a lot of thoughts, but not a single intelligible one. And in general, it is not clear where it all began and where it will lead.
Serving in the army was not his dream, although there were certain delights in it. For example, a busy schedule, sometimes leading to complete physical exhaustion. It’s much easier to exist when all your desires come down to one thing: to get a normal night’s sleep. There is neither time nor energy for exhausting reflection - that’s exactly what he needed. Don't reflect, don't think about life. Don't feel worthless.
Yes, he didn’t fly with happiness during his service, but he didn’t grieve either – that’s for sure. And then they kicked him out of there. And things got much worse.
The tiny kitchenette was located to the left of the front door. Mike took a glass from the cabinet, poured water from the tap and drank greedily. The elongated window looked out into a well formed by four walls. Neighboring houses were adjacent to each other almost closely. On the protruding canopy above the window opposite, on the floor below, there were some rags and broken glass. A rusty fire escape climbed up a gray concrete wall and disappeared somewhere behind a high solid fence enclosing the neighbor’s roof. Such a fence was more suitable for a closed farm where teenagers who have broken the law are rehabilitated...
Mike looked at his watch - a quarter to eight. Bobby mentioned that the Internet had not yet been installed in the apartment, so “you have to figure out how to entertain yourself.” He wanted to say then that entertainment requires money, which, to put it mildly, is difficult. But, of course, he didn’t say. Mike is not used to complaining. His problems are his problems, and no one else's.
He went into the bathroom and studied himself in the mirror for a long time. Vicky, the girlfriend he had been dating for almost two years and who ran away when he started having difficulties, said that he looked like Colin Farrell, although he himself, for the life of him, saw nothing in common. Mike looked more closely at his reflection: short-cropped dark hair, eyes of a vague, greenish-brown color, which Vicky beautifully called hazel - hazel. Straight, uncurved eyebrows, open forehead. He could have been considered attractive if it weren’t for the frozen, aggressively tired expression on his face.
He quickly took a shower and returned to the room, taking out clean underwear from his sports bag. The flight took only two hours, and he was sweating as if he had run ten miles. Damn nerves. He had never been so worried before. And why? Because of some work!
Mike changed his clothes and took out a chocolate bar from his jacket, which he had a weakness for. He pulled up a chair and sat by the window, staring into the evening twilight and chewing thoughtfully. The bedroom windows looked out onto a quiet street and a red brick house. In this area, called Beacon Hill, most of the buildings were copies of one another. Bobby has excellent taste in real estate - Beacon Hill, overlooking the country's first public park and the State Capitol, is considered the city's most prestigious area. It is a favorite place for politicians and public figures of all sorts.
“John Kerry lives next door,” Bobby said proudly, as if this fact somehow exalted him. – Of course, not always, only when he comes to the city. A police patrol is immediately posted down the street.
Until today, Mike had only visited Boston once, and then only for a couple of days. If he is lucky, he will stay here for a year, or even two. He had an interview tomorrow, and he was going to make the best possible impression on his employers.
For the last year he had been very unlucky, he worked temporary jobs and almost fell into despair. It's not hard for a former military man to find a job, but Mike had "special circumstances." Because of these circumstances, he was kicked around like a stray dog, not given a chance to show his best side. Over the past three months, he had not even been called for an interview, which made the invitation to Boston seem like a real stroke of luck.
“Special circumstances” did not bother potential employers, the initial telephone interview went well, and Mike was asked to come in person. He was not going to miss such a chance. So, to be honest, he was worried for obvious reasons. Not at all because of “some kind of work.” But because of the work that could pull him out of his long black streak.
It was already completely dark. The apartment was damp and uncomfortable; the window frames rattled under the pressure of the wind. Mike imagined how he would wander around empty rooms until midnight, not knowing what to do with himself, and hastily rushed into the corridor, threw on his jacket and ran out into the street.
He didn’t know the area, but while sitting in a taxi, he managed to notice a couple of bars. He turned left and walked briskly down the hill towards the nearest intersection.
The bell above the door rang loudly, letting a new visitor into the room. The pub—small and cramped, like a squirrel hole—smelled of mulled wine and spices. Several couples sat at square tables along the walls, soft music playing. Mike sat down near the bar.
A handsome guy and girl were talking animatedly about something in French. She is fragile, with shoulder-length wavy hair, stylish glasses on her thin straight nose, and a bright scarf around her neck. He is broad-shouldered, wearing a fashionable jacket, and moves slowly and seemingly carelessly. In front of them stood two large plates with something incredibly fragrant. Mike involuntarily sniffed the delicious smell and felt his stomach twist with hunger.
He studied the menu, chose a steak with a side dish and asked for water. Everything will work out well. Mike did not believe in universal justice, thanks to which the loser would one day be rewarded, but he knew that a person could not always be unlucky. At least according to the law of chance, sooner or later something good will definitely happen to him. Logical?
The pub was located on the ground floor; in the narrow long windows above the ceiling, the feet of passers-by were flickering. Despite the weather not conducive to walking, the street was full of people. Sometimes someone stopped opposite and curiously studied the situation in the glowing window of the pub, as if deciding whether to look inside or continue the search. Sometimes Mike caught their embarrassed glances - the audience frowned, as if caught doing something shameful, and hurriedly moved on.
When the steak arrived, Nolan forgot about everything in the world for ten minutes, enjoying the skillfully cooked meat, fried until golden brown. And even the worry about tomorrow’s meeting with the employer faded and receded into the background. No drama can compete with food served on time! His mood improved markedly, and Mike felt a surge of genuine optimism for the first time in months. In fact, why should he, a young and healthy guy, blame fate? Troubles happen to everyone, it is important to survive them with dignity.
The attractive young waitress at the counter smiled knowingly. Just like Vicky when they first met. Only Vikki behaved more brazenly and stared at him as unceremoniously as if she had paid for a private stripper - although she was the one dancing at the pole that evening.
He motioned for the waitress to bring the bill. He took the card out of his wallet and put it in the book.
Vicky generally looked at people as if they all owed her.
“Sorry, the transaction was declined,” the waitress mumbled apologetically, handing him the card.
The mood instantly soured. Mike took out another:
- Try this one.
He froze tensely, expecting that the second credit card would not work either. Fortunately, the device beeped, confirming the successful operation. The waitress tore off the check:
– We hope to see you again!
Mike himself hoped that soon he would not have to wonder every time whether there would be enough money in his account when he decided to have dinner.
It became even colder outside. The wind still did not subside, trying to get under the clothes, whistled and rushed through the narrow streets of Beacon Hill. In the blue twilight, the sidewalks paved with red brick merged with the red brick of the buildings, the octahedrons of ancient lanterns exuded a diffuse glow into the space, giving the surrounding environment a mysterious, almost mystical look.
The unwary pedestrian touched Mike with his shoulder and apologized profusely.
“It’s okay,” he waved it off and quickened his pace.
Vicky approached him first. She took a napkin from the holder and wrote down her number. Mike was flattered by such attention, especially since the girl was bright: short black hair, long neck, slender figure. And the eyes are unrealistically green, half-faced. He didn’t realize at first that these were lenses.
“You’ll call me when you want to have fun,” Vikki said without prelude.
Mike took out his cell phone and immediately called her. She answered.
– I have a desire to have fun. When does your shift end? – he asked into the phone, looking at Vicky point-blank.
Without saying a word, the girl turned her back to him, walked up to the club manager and whispered something in his ear. He grimaced and nodded reluctantly.
Vicky returned to the table where Mike was sitting:
- My shift is already over.
He walked up Revere Street, which ran up the hill, and fiddled with the lock for a long time - the key just wouldn’t turn. There was a dull silence in the apartment, which only happens in uninhabited or abandoned rooms. Mike washed his face, took off his sneakers and, without undressing, collapsed onto the mattress. For a while he lay with his hands behind his head and staring blankly at the ceiling, then he remembered that he had not set the alarm clock. In the hallway, he took the phone out of his jacket pocket, and a white envelope folded in half fell out with it.
Mike automatically picked it up, returned to the bedroom and turned on the only wall sconce. An ordinary white envelope, without inscription, sealed.
He carefully tore the paper. Two sentences were printed on a blank sheet of paper:
“I'm waiting at the intersection of Park Street and Tremont. I’ll explain everything.”
Mike reread the message several times, trying to figure out what it meant. When he got out of the taxi, there was no envelope in his pocket, that's for sure. He remembered because he took out the cash. This means that the envelope was placed later. At the bar, several customers passed by him, and the waitress was constantly spinning around. Purely hypothetically, they could well have slipped the envelope into the jacket hanging on the chair. But why? If this is a prank, it's a pretty ridiculous one. Or was it the plump waitress flirting with him, Viccan style? Just deja vu.
Mike turned the paper over in his hands. Most likely, someone simply made the wrong recipient. He crumpled the paper and threw it through the open doors of the arch. The lump hit the wall and bounced off into the darkness. Nolan turned off the light and closed his eyes.
He had just dozed off when out of the corner of his ear he heard a noise on the staircase. The walls are thin, audibility is excellent. He closed his eyelids again, but not for long—he couldn’t relax. Something in the movement on the stairs irritated him, as if it did not fit into the standard pattern, as if it was out of tune with the usual sounds.
Mike sat down on the mattress and listened. A barely perceptible creak of a step, silence. Again the creaking, and again silence. It was as if someone was carefully climbing the stairs, trying to remain unnoticed, pausing. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed this, but Nolan's military service taught him to notice the slightest inconsistencies in everyday scenarios.
– Be vigilant and trust your intuition. Intuition works faster than the brain. Sometimes this is your only chance to survive,” their drill instructor liked to repeat, driving the soldiers around the parade ground.
On most issues, Mike disagreed with him (for which he got into trouble more than once), but on that particular aspect he agreed. If some thought is annoyingly rattling in the subconscious, it would be better not to ignore it. Ninety-nine percent out of a hundred that this will turn out to be stupidity and a trick of the imagination. But there is still one percent left on which someone’s life may depend.
Mike reached for his phone and looked at the time: 00.09.
He put on his sneakers and walked into the kitchen without turning on the light. He stood there, trying to catch sounds outside the door, but heard nothing. Probably some couple was going upstairs, stopping every now and then to kiss, and he was already imagining God knows what. He took a glass to pour water and had already put his fingers on the tap valve when the entrance lock clicked quietly but clearly.
Obeying instinct, Nolan pressed himself against the wall. In the dimness of the hallway, a black-gloved hand rested on the door frame. A dark male silhouette smoothly filtered into the apartment and froze, studying the situation. In his right hand the stranger held a pistol with an eloquently elongated barrel.
Nolan quickly picked himself up. My nerves clenched like a spring, my heart began to beat heavily, and my hands involuntarily formed fists. There was no time to think about the reasons for what was happening. Who, why, why - became absolutely unimportant. All emotions disappeared; the instinct of self-preservation blocked them, like a concrete dam blocks a deep river.
The silhouette in the hallway swayed and moved into the room. Nolan had two options - fight or run away. If the enemy were unarmed or at least with a knife, Mike would have chosen the former. But throwing yourself bare-handed at a gun is a trick of Hollywood screenwriters. Mike understood perfectly well how things would end in reality - he would not have time to cover even half the distance separating him from the armed bandit - he would shoot him like a clumsy turkey.
The seconds stretched out; Time, having slowed down, became almost tangible. Mike will not have time to run out the door: it is clearly visible from the bedroom, the bandit will only have to turn around and shoot in a straight line. His gaze fell on the kitchen window. Pull back the latch, lift the glass up with a sharp movement and jump onto the protruding canopy of the house opposite. How many are there? Two meters? You need to push off well, otherwise you will fall down to the bottom of the well - and then, consider it the end. He will be trapped.
Mike rushed to the window and pulled the frame with such force that chips almost flew. He threw his leg onto the windowsill and grabbed the edges with his hands. A dull, swift slap hit the wall a centimeter from his ear. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw the hole left by the bullet and, bending over, he pushed off as hard as he could. The second bullet pierced the frame exactly in the place where his head was half a second ago.
The soles landed with a crash on the metal ledge. Crushing shards of glass with his feet, he rushed forward towards the fire escape crawling along the wall, and almost fell, tripping over rags lying under his feet. He grabbed the iron bar with his fingers and pulled himself up, quickly climbing up. Most of all, he wanted to look back to assess the situation, but he understood that now a second’s delay could cost him his life. He felt the gun pointed at him on his back. The bullet knocked sparks out of the rusty rod of the stairs. Mike gathered all his strength, tensed his shoulders and fell over the wooden fence.
A wet gust of wind hit him in the face. He looked around, wondering which way to run. On all sides, as far as the eye could see, multi-tiered roofs stretched, the mosaic canvas of which was furrowed by the gorges of the alleys. To the right stood an ornate tall building, illuminated by street lamps, and the abyss in front of it was insurmountable. Mike ran to the left, to where the roofs of the houses were at the level of the fifth floor and almost adjacent to each other.
He passed a flirtatious white fence in an open area, walked around small yew trees in square tubs, jumped to the next roof and noticed a booth with a door leading into the house. He tried the handle, but the locked lock did not budge. Mike turned his head, wondering how best to get down to the ground, and noticed the figure of his pursuer. Nolan managed to hide behind the corner of the booth when another bang was heard.
For a moment, he imagined that he was on a military base, going through a simulation of combat with training cartridges. The cartridge consists of a shortened cartridge case with a plastic piston capsule; the bullets do not have penetrating ability, they simply flatten their petals along the notches. He needs to overcome the last obstacle and grab the red flag to successfully complete the operation.
The illusion seemed so realistic that Nolan stood up like a statue, losing his orientation in space.
If this is a simulation, then why doesn't he have a weapon? And where is the rest of the team?
A sharp pain cut through his thigh, instantly sobering him up.
Damn it, this is actually happening. The fucking psycho is chasing him with a gun at the ready and doesn't seem to be going to give up until he kills him!
Mike jerked to the side, falling on his hands and tumbling. He rolled over the chimney, jumped to the floor below and ran as fast as he could, ignoring the pain in his leg. He meandered like a hare, not remembering the way, and after ten minutes he realized that he had lost his way. My heart jumped out of my throat and a bitter, dry taste appeared in my mouth. Mike bent down behind the back of a sun lounger left by someone and peered into the darkness. No one.
He noticed a fire escape stuck to the wall in a zigzag and went down it, jumping to the ground. The deserted street was drowned in darkness, the chrome bumpers of cars parked along the sidewalk glimmered under the matte gray of the night sky. Mike walked forward, trying to stay in the shadow of the building, turned onto another street, equally quiet and deserted, and, noticing a niche between the columns, rushed there.
He sat down straight on the asphalt, resting his shoulder blades against the wall and pulling his knees to his chin. He took a few minutes to regain his breath and then looked at his thigh. It was dark, and there was no phone to light it - somehow I didn’t think to grab it when I jumped out of the window. A small tear in the jeans was darkened and wet with blood, but the wound turned out to be shallow, the bullet grazed the thigh tangentially. Mike wondered what to bandage his leg with, and only then realized that he was dressed, to put it mildly, out of season. The jacket was left in the apartment; in the heat of the chase, he did not feel the cold, but now, when the tension was released, a prickly chill penetrated his body more and more persistently. How far will he go in a sports trowel when it’s just above zero outside?
We need to contact the police. I just wish I knew where the nearest plot is. And, as luck would have it, there were no people, as everyone died out. A prickly wave ran down his spine, making him shiver. It’s okay, he’ll probably meet a patrol car if he goes to a busier place. He stood up, wincing from the hot flash that pierced his leg, and hobbled towards the flashing traffic light at the intersection.
The first passer-by he met recoiled from him in fear - Mike didn’t even have time to ask for help. Two more girls, clearly tipsy, first glanced at him with interest, and when he asked for a mobile phone to call, they showed him the middle finger and quickly retreated. Well, where are these numerous good Americans, ready to help anyone who gets into staged trouble with a hidden camera? YouTube is flooded with videos of helpful Samaritans, but when it comes to a real person in real trouble, they are, at best, not getting kicked!
Mike hugged himself by the shoulders, trying to retain the remaining warmth. What kind of surreal thing is this, really? He arrived in an unfamiliar city and did not spend even a few hours there before he already got into trouble. Usually he at least knew the reasons, but now he had no idea! Maybe things aren't going as smoothly for Bobby as he said? Maybe he was lying a little about his successful investments? What if a friend owes money to the bad guys and they send a killer to intimidate him? Pretty logical if you think about it. Mike was just in the apartment, it was difficult to make out his face in the dark, and besides, the killer might not even know what the victim looked like. Bobby lived alone, who else would the killer think of when he saw a man running for his life?
My teeth were tap-dancing, and the pain in my leg became excruciating. Blood flowed onto the knee and down the shin, tickling the skin unpleasantly. Mike saw a neon sign for a bar, but it was no longer open. He looked around in despair.
A patrol car slowly pulled out from around the bend. Mike rushed across, afraid not to make it in time. He almost fell on the hood, forcing the driver to brake sharply.
The second policeman, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, immediately jumped out of the car:
- My name is Mike Nolan, someone shot at me...
-Where were you shot, sir? Get in the car, you need medical attention. “The cop opened the back door and helped Mike climb inside.
“I arrived in Boston this evening and was staying with a friend at 72 Revere. Someone broke into the apartment. – Mike took a breath, starting to calm down. “He had a gun, I managed to escape through the window.”
The second policeman motioned for the first one to move away, then turned back to the passenger:
- When did it happen? Did you see the attacker?
- About half an hour ago. – Mike leaned back in his chair, enjoying the warmth spreading through his veins. “It was dark, I couldn’t see his face.”
- Okay, sir, we will now take you to the station, where you will receive first aid, and record your statements. Do you have any weapons on you?
Mike shook his head and the policeman nodded in satisfaction.
There was silence in the cabin for several minutes, Mike looked out the window, wondering how long the interrogation would take. Tomorrow at ten in the morning he has an interview, and he would like to have time to get himself in order.
The car passed the police station and continued on. Mike was surprised, but remained silent: these guys were probably from another unit. The driver's sharp gaze flashed in the rearview mirror. Mike didn't like that look.
– Wasn’t it your site on the right? - he asked.
Mike didn't understand what alarmed him. There were no objective reasons for concern.
– Can you remember the division number?
The driver chuckled slightly. His colleague smiled:
- Three hundred and two.
The car turned onto the road leading to the highway and accelerated.
If their division had to be reached by highway, why were they patrolling Beacon Hill?
-Can you stop it? - Nolan asked. - I feel bad.
- Be patient until the station.
- Stop, please. – Mike reached for the door handle when the shiny muzzle of a gun aimed between his eyes.
- Finish it right here! – his partner could not restrain himself.
The brain was still pondering the situation, and the hands had already shot forward, into the open window of the glass partition, twisting the hand that was gripping the barrel. A shot rang out and a bullet went right through the ceiling of the cabin. The cop pulled his hand out of his grip, the car jerked, and before the gun was pointed at Mike again, he yanked the door open and fell out of the car straight onto the road, rolling head over heels to the side of the road. The shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the blow, exploded with pain that spread like wildfire throughout the body.
The tires squealed from the sudden braking, the driver began to reverse, pointing the wheels directly at the man lying on the asphalt.
Nolan jumped up, gasping for air, climbed over the barrier and ran across the lawn that separated the two roads. He crossed the roadway, ignoring the indignant horns and risking getting run over, reached the pedestrian zone and disappeared into the first gateway.
Blood was pounding in my ears; it was so hot, as if continental autumn had suddenly given way to a stifling tropical summer. Nolan ran for a long time, delving into the labyrinth of streets, not having the slightest idea where he was, until he was completely exhausted. In a small park, covered on all sides by spreading trees and tall bushes, he found a bench, half hidden behind a monument to some figure.
There wasn't a soul around. The wind gradually died down, rustling the yellowing crowns soothingly. It started to rain. Mike moved to the part of the bench where thick willow branches overhung.
He would not say exactly how long he sat like that, detachedly scanning the space in front of him. Five minutes? Hour? Thousands of scattered thoughts swarmed in my brain, my head was buzzing and felt heavy, as if a hole had been drilled in the crown of my head and molten lead had been poured inside. Mike almost physically felt how the metal was gradually hardening, freezing and bursting the skull from the inside.
What in holy name just happened?
He was almost shot by law enforcement officers, right in his car, in the city center? And when they failed, they tried to run him over?!
Is this actually Boston, Massachusetts, or a city from a parallel world? Maybe he died in his sleep, and everything that is now unfolding before his eyes is just pre-death hallucinations, which survivors of clinical death so relishly talk about? But where then is the notorious white tunnel and the feeling of extraordinary lightness? It doesn't look like he's floating above his own body. Moreover, he perfectly feels how his own body hurts and shakes slightly. The adrenaline level dropped and the body felt cold again.
© Kogan T.V., 2016
© Design. LLC Publishing House E, 2016
From the diary of V.
- Kill him! Come on baby! “The voice rang in my head like a rattling saw, cutting my brain from the inside. I almost physically felt the bloody fragments of what I once considered common sense and a strong will beating against my skull. “Kill him and it will all be over.” You know what you should do. You know everything. You're smart, aren't you?
Of course, I'm smart. Always has been. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here now, with a stone in my hand. It was an ordinary cobblestone, half buried in the ground. I dug it out of the soil with effort, breaking a nail and cutting myself on the sharp edge. And now she squeezed him harder and harder, enjoying the pain in her cramped fingers. I clung to this pain as the only saving guide, the only opportunity not to lose myself, to preserve what little of the old “I” that still remained in me. Or so I wanted to think? Maybe I became someone else a long time ago, but have not yet had time to get to know him properly?
The man huddled on the ground moved, and I instantly felt hot, scalding blood rush to my face. There was no time left for reflection. The man was strong, much stronger than me. Every second of delay meant a threat to my life. I slid my eyes over his powerful neck and fixed my gaze on the back of his head. One quick strike. Gather all your strength and swing. Stop thinking and fall into darkness, only to jump out at a new level a moment later.
I squeezed my eyes shut until it hurt, but I opened them wide again, pulled my hand back and sharply slammed the cobblestone into the thick blond hair on the top of his head.
Sunday
Boston, Massachusetts
The evening was cold and cloudy. The chilly wind chilled to the bones, the low sky was obscured by ragged clouds, and Boston seemed gray and inhospitable.
The taxi turned onto Charles Street and then onto Revere.
“At number seventy-two, please,” the passenger asked the driver.
The car drove a little further along the pavement patched with multi-colored asphalt and stopped at a long old five-story building with black shutters and decorative metal balconies hanging over the sidewalk.
- How much do I have to pay?
Mike Nolan took two twenty-dollar bills from his pocket and handed them to the taxi driver. Then he took a large sports bag and emerged from the warm interior into the uncomfortable dampness of the street. He stood for a while, raising the collar of his light jacket, which offered little protection from the icy gusts, and stepped up the steps leading to the high entrance door.
He inserted the key into the lock - it did not open immediately, as Bobby warned. Mike lifted the key up into the hole and pushed a little harder. The castle gave way, letting him into an unkempt hallway that smelled of age. Again steps and a second door, with the lock of which the same simple manipulation had to be done.
The narrow, creaky staircase pressed askew against the wall.
The wooden steps echoed under boots, the white paint on the railing had long since dried and cracked. Mike went up to the third floor.
The apartment was small, with a non-standard layout. Immediately from the hallway, an empty square room began, followed by another, smaller one, from where a wide arch with a glass door led to the bedroom. The only furniture here was two chairs and a folding table. On the floor, face down, lay a plasma TV. In the corner of the bedroom there was a lonely white mattress and two pillows.
“I bought an apartment a long time ago, but I haven’t settled in yet,” Bobby explained a week ago, handing Mike the keys. “But hanging out for a while will do.” Refrigerator, microwave - everything is there. It's a long way to the grocery store, but I think you'll figure it out.
They weren’t exactly friends with Bobby; rather, they maintained friendly relations in memory of their childhood. For a long time they lived on the same street, where besides the two of them - it so happened - there was no one else their age. We went to school together, played together after school. It’s not that they were terribly interested in each other, but the lack of an alternative will bring anyone closer together. After school, their paths diverged: know-it-all Bobby went to university for some very fashionable specialty - risk management or something like that, and Mike went into the army as a contract worker. They sometimes crossed paths when they came to visit their parents in their small one-story suburb, told news, shared plans. Bobby always had plans. He was an ambitious guy. I calculated everything and laid it out on the shelves.
– I have already been invited to work by two large companies, so a warm place awaits me immediately after studying. I’ll work hard for a couple of years, slowly save, invest in high technology - this is especially important now, along with pharmaceuticals. Then I'll go for a promotion. In another couple of years I’ll buy an apartment or a house, then I’ll worry about looking for a wife...
Bobby was always enthusiastic and from the outside could seem like an out-of-touch idealist with rose-colored glasses. His appearance was suitable: plump, ruddy, cheeky, he resembled a cheerful pig. Many competitors underestimated his abilities, following his first impression. Most of them were subsequently very perplexed when the cheerful pig showed a wolfish grip and stepped on their throat.
- How are you, huh? Will you stay in the army? Or are there other ideas, huh? - Bobby usually asked, sipping one miserable shot of whiskey at the bar all evening.
Mike didn’t have any ideas, but he masked their absence with general phrases, just so as not to see the half-surprised, half-sympathetic look of his comrade. He was probably jealous of Bobby in some way. This is his confidence in the chosen path, the absence of hesitation. The friend knew what he wanted and moved in the right direction, achieving his goals. His life, like a mathematics textbook, had all the necessary formulas, solutions and answers. Mike compared his own fate to a torn page from a long essay on philosophy: a lot of thoughts, but not a single intelligible one. And in general, it is not clear where it all began and where it will lead.
Serving in the army was not his dream, although there were certain delights in it. For example, a busy schedule, sometimes leading to complete physical exhaustion. It’s much easier to exist when all your desires come down to one thing: to get a normal night’s sleep. There is neither time nor energy for exhausting reflection - that’s exactly what he needed. Don't reflect, don't think about life. Don't feel worthless.
Yes, he didn’t fly with happiness during his service, but he didn’t grieve either – that’s for sure. And then they kicked him out of there. And things got much worse.
The tiny kitchenette was located to the left of the front door. Mike took a glass from the cabinet, poured water from the tap and drank greedily. The elongated window looked out into a well formed by four walls. Neighboring houses were adjacent to each other almost closely. On the protruding canopy above the window opposite, on the floor below, there were some rags and broken glass. A rusty fire escape climbed up a gray concrete wall and disappeared somewhere behind a high solid fence enclosing the neighbor’s roof. Such a fence was more suitable for a closed farm where teenagers who have broken the law are rehabilitated...
Mike looked at his watch - a quarter to eight. Bobby mentioned that the Internet had not yet been installed in the apartment, so “you have to figure out how to entertain yourself.” He wanted to say then that entertainment requires money, which, to put it mildly, is difficult. But, of course, he didn’t say. Mike is not used to complaining. His problems are his problems, and no one else's.
He went into the bathroom and studied himself in the mirror for a long time. Vicky, the girlfriend he had been dating for almost two years and who ran away when he started having difficulties, said that he looked like Colin Farrell, although he himself, for the life of him, saw nothing in common. Mike looked more closely at his reflection: short-cropped dark hair, eyes of a vague, greenish-brown color, which Vicky beautifully called hazel - hazel. Straight, uncurved eyebrows, open forehead. He could have been considered attractive if it weren’t for the frozen, aggressively tired expression on his face.
He quickly took a shower and returned to the room, taking out clean underwear from his sports bag. The flight took only two hours, and he was sweating as if he had run ten miles. Damn nerves. He had never been so worried before. And why? Because of some work!
Mike changed his clothes and took out a chocolate bar from his jacket, which he had a weakness for. He pulled up a chair and sat by the window, staring into the evening twilight and chewing thoughtfully. The bedroom windows looked out onto a quiet street and a red brick house. In this area, called Beacon Hill, most of the buildings were copies of one another. Bobby has excellent taste in real estate - Beacon Hill, overlooking the country's first public park and the State Capitol, is considered the city's most prestigious area. It is a favorite place for politicians and public figures of all sorts.
“John Kerry lives next door,” Bobby said proudly, as if this fact somehow exalted him. – Of course, not always, only when he comes to the city. A police patrol is immediately posted down the street.
Until today, Mike had only visited Boston once, and then only for a couple of days. If he is lucky, he will stay here for a year, or even two. He had an interview tomorrow, and he was going to make the best possible impression on his employers.
For the last year he had been very unlucky, he worked temporary jobs and almost fell into despair. It's not hard for a former military man to find a job, but Mike had "special circumstances." Because of these circumstances, he was kicked around like a stray dog, not given a chance to show his best side. Over the past three months, he had not even been called for an interview, which made the invitation to Boston seem like a real stroke of luck.
“Special circumstances” did not bother potential employers, the initial telephone interview went well, and Mike was asked to come in person. He was not going to miss such a chance. So, to be honest, he was worried for obvious reasons. Not at all because of “some kind of work.” But because of the work that could pull him out of his long black streak.
It was already completely dark. The apartment was damp and uncomfortable; the window frames rattled under the pressure of the wind. Mike imagined how he would wander around empty rooms until midnight, not knowing what to do with himself, and hastily rushed into the corridor, threw on his jacket and ran out into the street.
He didn’t know the area, but while sitting in a taxi, he managed to notice a couple of bars. He turned left and walked briskly down the hill towards the nearest intersection.
The bell above the door rang loudly, letting a new visitor into the room. The pub—small and cramped, like a squirrel hole—smelled of mulled wine and spices. Several couples sat at square tables along the walls, soft music playing. Mike sat down near the bar.
A handsome guy and girl were talking animatedly about something in French. She is fragile, with shoulder-length wavy hair, stylish glasses on her thin straight nose, and a bright scarf around her neck. He is broad-shouldered, wearing a fashionable jacket, and moves slowly and seemingly carelessly. In front of them stood two large plates with something incredibly fragrant. Mike involuntarily sniffed the delicious smell and felt his stomach twist with hunger.
He studied the menu, chose a steak with a side dish and asked for water. Everything will work out well. Mike did not believe in universal justice, thanks to which the loser would one day be rewarded, but he knew that a person could not always be unlucky. At least according to the law of chance, sooner or later something good will definitely happen to him. Logical?
The pub was located on the ground floor; in the narrow long windows above the ceiling, the feet of passers-by were flickering. Despite the weather not conducive to walking, the street was full of people. Sometimes someone stopped opposite and curiously studied the situation in the glowing window of the pub, as if deciding whether to look inside or continue the search. Sometimes Mike caught their embarrassed glances - the audience frowned, as if caught doing something shameful, and hurriedly moved on.
When the steak arrived, Nolan forgot about everything in the world for ten minutes, enjoying the skillfully cooked meat, fried until golden brown. And even the worry about tomorrow’s meeting with the employer faded and receded into the background. No drama can compete with food served on time! His mood improved markedly, and Mike felt a surge of genuine optimism for the first time in months. In fact, why should he, a young and healthy guy, blame fate? Troubles happen to everyone, it is important to survive them with dignity.
The attractive young waitress at the counter smiled knowingly. Just like Vicky when they first met. Only Vikki behaved more brazenly and stared at him as unceremoniously as if she had paid for a private stripper - although she was the one dancing at the pole that evening.
He motioned for the waitress to bring the bill. He took the card out of his wallet and put it in the book.
Vicky generally looked at people as if they all owed her.
“Sorry, the transaction was declined,” the waitress mumbled apologetically, handing him the card.
The mood instantly soured. Mike took out another:
- Try this one.
He froze tensely, expecting that the second credit card would not work either. Fortunately, the device beeped, confirming the successful operation. The waitress tore off the check:
– We hope to see you again!
Mike himself hoped that soon he would not have to wonder every time whether there would be enough money in his account when he decided to have dinner.
It became even colder outside. The wind still did not subside, trying to get under the clothes, whistled and rushed through the narrow streets of Beacon Hill. In the blue twilight, the sidewalks paved with red brick merged with the red brick of the buildings, the octahedrons of ancient lanterns exuded a diffuse glow into the space, giving the surrounding environment a mysterious, almost mystical look.
The unwary pedestrian touched Mike with his shoulder and apologized profusely.
“It’s okay,” he waved it off and quickened his pace.
Vicky approached him first. She took a napkin from the holder and wrote down her number. Mike was flattered by such attention, especially since the girl was bright: short black hair, long neck, slender figure. And the eyes are unrealistically green, half-faced. He didn’t realize at first that these were lenses.
“You’ll call me when you want to have fun,” Vikki said without prelude.
Mike took out his cell phone and immediately called her. She answered.
– I have a desire to have fun. When does your shift end? – he asked into the phone, looking at Vicky point-blank.
Without saying a word, the girl turned her back to him, walked up to the club manager and whispered something in his ear. He grimaced and nodded reluctantly.
Vicky returned to the table where Mike was sitting:
- My shift is already over.
He walked up Revere Street, which ran up the hill, and fiddled with the lock for a long time - the key just wouldn’t turn. There was a dull silence in the apartment, which only happens in uninhabited or abandoned rooms. Mike washed his face, took off his sneakers and, without undressing, collapsed onto the mattress. For a while he lay with his hands behind his head and staring blankly at the ceiling, then he remembered that he had not set the alarm clock. In the hallway, he took the phone out of his jacket pocket, and a white envelope folded in half fell out with it.
Mike automatically picked it up, returned to the bedroom and turned on the only wall sconce. An ordinary white envelope, without inscription, sealed.
He carefully tore the paper. Two sentences were printed on a blank sheet of paper:
“I'm waiting at the intersection of Park Street and Tremont. I’ll explain everything.”
Mike reread the message several times, trying to figure out what it meant. When he got out of the taxi, there was no envelope in his pocket, that's for sure. He remembered because he took out the cash. This means that the envelope was placed later. At the bar, several customers passed by him, and the waitress was constantly spinning around. Purely hypothetically, they could well have slipped the envelope into the jacket hanging on the chair. But why? If this is a prank, it's a pretty ridiculous one. Or was it the plump waitress flirting with him, Viccan style? Just deja vu.
Mike turned the paper over in his hands. Most likely, someone simply made the wrong recipient. He crumpled the paper and threw it through the open doors of the arch. The lump hit the wall and bounced off into the darkness. Nolan turned off the light and closed his eyes.
He had just dozed off when out of the corner of his ear he heard a noise on the staircase. The walls are thin, audibility is excellent. He closed his eyelids again, but not for long—he couldn’t relax. Something in the movement on the stairs irritated him, as if it did not fit into the standard pattern, as if it was out of tune with the usual sounds.
Mike sat down on the mattress and listened. A barely perceptible creak of a step, silence. Again the creaking, and again silence. It was as if someone was carefully climbing the stairs, trying to remain unnoticed, pausing. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed this, but Nolan's military service taught him to notice the slightest inconsistencies in everyday scenarios.
– Be vigilant and trust your intuition. Intuition works faster than the brain. Sometimes this is your only chance to survive,” their drill instructor liked to repeat, driving the soldiers around the parade ground.
On most issues, Mike disagreed with him (for which he got into trouble more than once), but on that particular aspect he agreed. If some thought is annoyingly rattling in the subconscious, it would be better not to ignore it. Ninety-nine percent out of a hundred that this will turn out to be stupidity and a trick of the imagination. But there is still one percent left on which someone’s life may depend.
Mike reached for his phone and looked at the time: 00.09.
He put on his sneakers and walked into the kitchen without turning on the light. He stood there, trying to catch sounds outside the door, but heard nothing. Probably some couple was going upstairs, stopping every now and then to kiss, and he was already imagining God knows what. He took a glass to pour water and had already put his fingers on the tap valve when the entrance lock clicked quietly but clearly.
Obeying instinct, Nolan pressed himself against the wall. In the dimness of the hallway, a black-gloved hand rested on the door frame. A dark male silhouette smoothly filtered into the apartment and froze, studying the situation. In his right hand the stranger held a pistol with an eloquently elongated barrel.
Nolan quickly picked himself up. My nerves clenched like a spring, my heart began to beat heavily, and my hands involuntarily formed fists. There was no time to think about the reasons for what was happening. Who, why, why - became absolutely unimportant. All emotions disappeared; the instinct of self-preservation blocked them, like a concrete dam blocks a deep river.
The silhouette in the hallway swayed and moved into the room. Nolan had two options - fight or run away. If the enemy were unarmed or at least with a knife, Mike would have chosen the former. But throwing yourself bare-handed at a gun is a trick of Hollywood screenwriters. Mike understood perfectly well how things would end in reality - he would not have time to cover even half the distance separating him from the armed bandit - he would shoot him like a clumsy turkey.
The seconds stretched out; Time, having slowed down, became almost tangible. Mike will not have time to run out the door: it is clearly visible from the bedroom, the bandit will only have to turn around and shoot in a straight line. His gaze fell on the kitchen window. Pull back the latch, lift the glass up with a sharp movement and jump onto the protruding canopy of the house opposite. How many are there? Two meters? You need to push off well, otherwise you will fall down to the bottom of the well - and then, consider it the end. He will be trapped.
Mike rushed to the window and pulled the frame with such force that chips almost flew. He threw his leg onto the windowsill and grabbed the edges with his hands. A dull, swift slap hit the wall a centimeter from his ear. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw the hole left by the bullet and, bending over, he pushed off as hard as he could. The second bullet pierced the frame exactly in the place where his head was half a second ago.
The soles landed with a crash on the metal ledge. Crushing shards of glass with his feet, he rushed forward towards the fire escape crawling along the wall, and almost fell, tripping over rags lying under his feet. He grabbed the iron bar with his fingers and pulled himself up, quickly climbing up. Most of all, he wanted to look back to assess the situation, but he understood that now a second’s delay could cost him his life. He felt the gun pointed at him on his back. The bullet knocked sparks out of the rusty rod of the stairs. Mike gathered all his strength, tensed his shoulders and fell over the wooden fence.
A wet gust of wind hit him in the face. He looked around, wondering which way to run. On all sides, as far as the eye could see, multi-tiered roofs stretched, the mosaic canvas of which was furrowed by the gorges of the alleys. To the right stood an ornate tall building, illuminated by street lamps, and the abyss in front of it was insurmountable. Mike ran to the left, to where the roofs of the houses were at the level of the fifth floor and almost adjacent to each other.
He passed a flirtatious white fence in an open area, walked around small yew trees in square tubs, jumped to the next roof and noticed a booth with a door leading into the house. He tried the handle, but the locked lock did not budge. Mike turned his head, wondering how best to get down to the ground, and noticed the figure of his pursuer. Nolan managed to hide behind the corner of the booth when another bang was heard.
Jun 27, 2017Club for the elite Tatyana Kogan
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Title: Club for the elite
About the book “Club for the Elite” Tatyana Kogan
Tatyana Kogan is a modern Russian writer, specializing mainly in detective prose. Her acclaimed book, A Club for the Elite, is a gripping story about the amazing coincidences and intertwining of human destinies. He is an ordinary young man who arrived in Boston with the goal of finding a good job. She is a Russian girl undergoing treatment in a psychiatric clinic. What could they have in common? How might their life paths intersect? And what does this have to do with the scraps of an unknown diary that we see every now and then in the pages of the story? Before us is a truly fascinating action-packed novel, which will certainly be interesting to read for all lovers of dynamic stories full of intriguing and unpredictable turns of events.
In her book, Tatyana Kogan tells that, unlike numerous other patients in a psychiatric hospital, the main character named Lesya is in this terrible place of her own free will. After the girl is cured, she can return to normal life. One day on her birthday, one of her longtime fans takes Lesya from the hospital and proposes marriage to her. Our heroine does not have romantic feelings for this man, but she accepts the proposal because he is a loyal, reliable man and will definitely take care of her. She has no doubt that she will feel safe with him. But why, after Lesya’s marriage and return to the hospital, did her newly-made husband, as well as the girl’s own father, refuse to answer her calls? And the doctor announces the start of a new course of treatment, as a result of which our heroine loses her memory and suddenly discovers traces of unknown origin on her own body. Without realizing until the very end what she is doing, the girl dares to escape.
Tatyana Kogan in her work “The Club for the Elite” presents to our attention a mind-stirring story, full of mysterious plot intricacies that we have to unravel as events in the narrative develop. Many unexplainable things happen every now and then on the pages of the novel, but it will not be possible to put all the pieces of the puzzle together until the reader reaches the very last pages. With each new chapter, the emotional intensity increases, the intrigue increases, and there are more and more unsolvable mysteries. The book’s intricate plot, filled with eerie secrets, the bewitching atmosphere of the narrative and the inimitable literary style do their job, motivating us to read and reread it more than once, constantly discovering something new for ourselves.
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