It's A Setup

I close the glass door of Mr. Chekhovsky's office and activate the shield, turning all the glass walls one-sided. Now, no one can see inside from the outside.

Standing just outside the office, I listen carefully to the conversation happening within. Yes, I planted a tap inside. Being responsible for Mr. Chekhovsky's private security makes it easy to do so.

"You have to trust me, Artur. I'm not the one who stole the weapons," Mr. Sternov pleads.

"I have all the evidence that says otherwise," Mr. Chekhovsky replies coldly.

"Artur… I've been nothing but loyal to you for twenty years. Why would I turn my back on you over some stupid weapons?" Sternov argues.

"You tell me… why? Why, Valentin? After everything I've given you?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you! There's no way I would betray you!"

"Unless you want to start your own empire behind my back."

"No! That thought has never even crossed my mind!"

"You know everything about my business—every trick, every connection, every operation. And I am old now."

"No, you're still healthy—"

"You know I'm sick in the mind! My paranoia is getting worse."

"That's it, Artur! You're just being paranoid. That's all."

"I thought it was paranoia, too… until I had the evidence."

A click. A recording plays.

[What do you want?] Johnson's voice.

[I want the name and contact of the person who ordered you to steal weapons at the port almost a week ago.] My voice.

[Not a chance.]

[I know you've already used some of this. It's good stuff, isn't it? I can tell by the color and texture. But you used too little. You do know the harder you exhale, the harder you inhale, right? You wanna talk?]

[Sternov.]

"That man was lying!" Mr. Sternov screams.

"Then why did my men find the weapons in one of your warehouses?" Mr. Chekhovsky's voice turns sharper, colder.

"No! That's impossible!"

"I am so mad at you, Sternov. I can't believe you betrayed me!"

"I am NOT! It's a setup! Please, Artur, you have to—"

Pfft. Pfft.

Two muffled gunshots cut off his words.

I shut my eyes, feeling a brief pang of pity for Mr. Sternov. But what had to be done… was done.

"Chang!" Mr. Chekhovsky's voice calls out.

I take a deep breath, then open the door.

Mr. Chekhovsky stands behind his desk, casually cleaning his gun. Mr. Sternov's body lies sprawled on the white carpet, blood slowly seeping from the hole in his forehead.

"Y… Yes, Sir," I answer, keeping my voice steady.

"Call the cleaner," he orders, stepping over the corpse. "Then prepare your men for guest protocol at the east tower. I need to talk to my lawyer."

"Yes, Sir."

I pull out my phone and dial the usual cleaning service—the one that specializes in murder cleanups.

I slowly close the door to my apartment. Jennifer stirs awake on the couch and instantly points a gun at me.

"Oh, it's you!" she exhales in relief, lowering the gun. Fear lingers in her eyes.

I walk over and kiss her. "You're safe here. The door can only be opened by you, me, and Andy. It's secured by retina recognition," I remind her, gently taking the gun from her hand. "Where's Andy?"

"Buying dinner," she answers.

"He didn't check his messages. I already got Thai food." I lift the package in my hand.

"He did check. He just doesn't like Thai food," Jennifer says, taking the package and plating it.

"And who said he was invited to our dinner?" I mutter, texting Andy to take his food home.

"Don't be so cruel. Andy's a really nice person," Jennifer says, setting the plates on the coffee table.

"Should I be jealous?" I tease.

"What?"

"You like Andy."

Jennifer laughs. "You're the one who told me he's gay. Why would you be jealous of him?"

"I'm not," I say, picking up the pad thai with chopsticks and offering her a bite.

She takes it, then asks, "So, how was your day?"

"My ID is finally done. Andy's taking me to the bank tomorrow to handle my cards," she says.

I nod, chewing my food.

"How was work?" she asks.

"Still in progress. Nothing much."

"Andy said you're working alone on this project. What kind of projec—"

I sneeze.

"Bless you."

I sneeze again.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Must've gotten pepper in my throat," I say, heading to the kitchen to grab a beer. "Want one?"

She nods, so I bring back two bottles and sit beside her.

"I've been thinking about another theory in your case," I say.

"What is it?"

"We've looked at the defendants… but not the victims."

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

"It's a long shot, but… what if this is being done by a relative of a victim from one of your lost cases?"

Her eyes widen.

"But… but that wouldn't be my fault! Right?" Her voice trembles.

"Of course not," I assure her, pulling her into my arms. "But maybe… just maybe, someone with a sick mind is blaming you for it."

"That can't be…" she whispers.

"I know. But we need to check." I run my hand in slow circles on her back.

"If that's true… that's horrible," she says.

"Don't worry. I'll find the person who did this, okay?"

She nods, then kisses me softly. "Thank you."

I drop onto the bed beside Jennifer, breathing heavily.

After tossing the used condom in the trash, I pull her into my arms.

"That was… fantastic," she murmurs sleepily, resting her head against my chest.

"Are you tired?"

She nods.

"Let me wash you up," I offer.

She shakes her head. "I'll shower in the morning. Right now, I just wanna snuggle with you."

I chuckle, kissing her forehead. Within minutes, her breathing slows, turning soft and even.

A vibration sounds from my phone on the nightstand.

[Everything good? – YC]

[As planned.]

[Good.]

[Next week. Prepare yourself.]

I turn off my phone and exhale heavily.

Yvette Chekhovsky.

Daughter of Artur Chekhovsky.

Do you remember the woman who confessed her hatred for her father? The one I kissed in front of the church after her execution was called off?

Yes. That's Yvette—the one who ordered Rocky Johnson to steal her father's illegal weapons.

She despises her father for supplying arms to terrorists. She once planned to expose him to the police, but her older brother, Mikhail, found out. He threatened her by hiring an assassin.

So, she turned to sabotage instead.

That's her story.

And somehow… I believe her.

So, we made a deal.

I set up Sternov, making the paranoid Mr. Chekhovsky believe his own men were turning against him. Now, he'll start suspecting his son.

In exchange…

She'll let me kill her father.

A simple trade.

Kill or be killed.