Reluctant Psychic by Dima Zales

Author:Dima Zales
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mozaika Publications
Published: 2018-10-08T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

My foot bellows in pain from the impact.

The cops on TV shows make this look too easy.

The door doesn’t break or fly off its hinges, but there is a thud of a body hitting the tiled floor outside.

“Go.” Yaroslav drags the body of the unconscious admiral into the room. “Keep an eye on the time and do exactly what I said.”

“Thank you.” As though possessed by an evil spirit, I lean in and peck him on the cheek.

He stares at me like I kicked him in the face again.

“It’s time,” I say and jump over the body as I bolt from the room.

The air-conditioned air outside the parilka is the most refreshing thing I’ve ever experienced. Behind me is the thud of Yaroslav kicking the admiral in the head to make sure he doesn’t come to his senses anytime soon.

I rush down the corridor and stop next to the wooden door of a parilka with a window.

Plastering myself against the edge of the door, I attempt to even out my breathing.

There are vague muscular shadows in the vapor inside the room, but I hope they won’t see me.

Four more seconds like this.

An armed guard rounds the corner.

He’s about to turn my way.

Did I already mess up the bannik’s vision by thinking about Chester (and thus courting bad luck)? In a moment, the guard will see me standing here like an idiot, and after that, Baba Yaga will no longer play Mrs. Nice Witch.

The door next to me opens at the exact moment it’s supposed to, blocking me from the guard’s view.

I allow myself a quiet sigh of relief.

“S lyohkim parom,” the guard says to the guy opening the door.

According to Yaroslav, that means “with a light steam”—a traditional banya greeting that roughly translates to “hope you had a great time at the banya.”

I look at my phone and swiftly walk sideways with my back pressed against the wall, heading away from the speakers.

The guy who exited the door expresses gratitude to the guard in a deep voice.

Someone from inside the parilka complains in Russian about something. Maybe about the door being open and the heat getting out?

I move faster, glance at my phone, and leap for the next corner.

If I’m off by even a second, the guard will spot me.

Given the lack of shouts, I assume he doesn’t.

I don’t have time to congratulate myself, though, because I have to implement the next step of the plan—disguise.

Walking as softly as I can, I approach a shower stall.

The shower is running, as Yaroslav said it would be, and I hear a deep voice humming some Russian song over the running water.

The large bathrobe Yaroslav mentioned is on the wooden hook, as is the towel.

Shoving aside concerns about hygiene, I grab the robe and put it on over my sweat-dampened clothes.

The guy must be a giant because the thing covers me to my feet.

I then grab the damp towel and wrap it around my head.

I count two seconds in that spot and run for the door at the end of the corridor.

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