Free The Boy From Reactor 4 by Orest Stelmach Page B

is no place for a woman on her own,” Victor observed.
    “I’m sure you’re right,” Johnny Tanner said. “But Nadia is her own woman.”
    “You guys got nothing to worry about,” Misha said. “She’s not on her own. She just thinks she is.” He leaned over to Johnny Tanner and lowered his voice. “Tell her I’m disappointed she wasn’t here like she said she would be. And tell her I’m on the seven o’clock from JFK tonight.”
    Misha left the diner with his men. Johnny Tanner followed shortly afterward.
    Victor’s stomach growled. All of a sudden, he couldn’t remember ever having been so famished. He called the waitress over and ordered a bowl of hunter’s stew and a bottle of Obalon beer.
    Misha was on his way to Kyiv. It was the best possible news. Although Tara was safe for the moment, she and her unborn child would always be at risk until Misha was killed.
    Victor considered that prospect. Getting away from New York would be good. His old stomping grounds would provide Victor plenty of opportunity to make sure Misha never returned home.

CHAPTER 20

    N ADIA COULD SLEEP on planes at will, but not this time. She bolted upright every ten minutes, convinced someone was watching her. Yet when she walked the length of the coach cabin, no one paid attention to her. She even stumbled into business class, pretending to need to use the restroom, before getting kicked out by a flight attendant. She didn’t recognize anyone. Still, she couldn’t sleep.
    She landed at Boryspil Airport after a twelve-hour flight with a stop in Amsterdam. As the plane taxied down the runway, Nadia adjusted her watch. It was 1:30 p.m. on Tuesday, April 20, seven hours ahead of New York City. She checked for e-mails from Johnny on the GSM cell phone she’d rented.
    Meeting as planned , Johnny wrote. Wolverine a no-show. Victor quiet. Misha headed your way. You have 7–8 hour head start. Phone is on 24/7. Call if you need me. J.T.
    Misha was en route to Kyiv?
    Nadia grabbed her suitcase from the stowaway bin and raced to Customs and Passport Control. The scene at Terminal B was reminiscent of any American airport, except the people spoke Ukrainian instead of English. Although Nadia had studied and spoken the language her entire life, she’d never been among so many native speakers. It was exhilarating.
    The local process for queueing, however, was not as pleasant. People didn’t wait in orderly lines. They jumped and jostled for position. Nadia channeled her innermost New Yorker to conform. It took her twenty minutes to get to the head of the line. A suspicious young man interrogated her, searched her bags, and motioned for her to pass.
    When she burst into the arrival area, a gang of gypsy-taxi drivers tried to rope her into their cars. Nadia ignored them and continued to the taxi stand. The sun shone on a mild day, but the air smelled of diesel. Peugeots, Fords, and Mercedeses purred in line. While twenty people waited for a ride, five men argued loudly in the yellow hut.
    A thirtysomething driver with dirty-blond hair and cynical blue eyes stood beside his cab at the end of the line. “For every three Cossacks, there are five Hetman,” he said in Ukrainian, shaking his head with disgust. “Welcome to Ukraine.”
    Nadia checked out his cab. Rust dangled from the body of a filthy white Fiat with Soviet stories to tell. Nadia couldn’t see through the indigo tint on the windows, but the phone number stenciled on the side of the door and the license on his dashboard confirmed he was a legitimate operator.
    “Hotel Rus. How much?” Nadia said in English. She rubbed her fingers together in the international sign for money.
    He put up four fingers and answered in Ukrainian. “Four hundred hryvnia,” he said. Fifty dollars. Should be closer to thirty , Nadia thought.
    Nadia switched to Ukrainian. “I need an honest Hetman. One who’ll take this Cossack’s daughter to her hotel for two hundred hryvnia.”
    His lips formed