Dragusha Revenge ✓Completed✓

MIRA

IT’S five in the morning, nearly dawn, when we reach Glenpines Grove. The guys pull off at a townie gas station, talking between cars about how to approach the house, studying satellite images from Google Maps. The town is tiny, and our cars—a shiny Hummer, a slick SUV and a vintage souped-up Jaguar—are way too obvious here, not to mention how they’ll stick out in the driveway of Kiro’s adoptive family.

Aleksio decides to have the two backup vehicles orbit on the main road while he, Tito, Viktor, Yuri, and I take the Jaguar and scope out the scene at the home. We start back up and head off the main drag onto a small road that runs alongside the river, lined with run-down homes on either side and lots of huge trees. This is an old neighborhood. River neighborhoods usually are. It’s hard to make out the addresses, but we don’t need to—the red lights flashing in the treetops tell us where the Knutsons’ home is. Emergency vehicles.

It’s a bad sign. Aleksio slams a sideways fist into the door. Viktor slows the car. The blue and cherry lights intensify as we near; there’s a fire truck, an ambulance, and three marked police cars in the Knutsons’ long driveway. Two empty stretchers are lined up near the door. Personnel all around. “Bloody Lazarus.” Viktor pulls the flask from his pocket and drinks, angrily wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Aleksio’s face is bathed in red from the lights, steely gaze fixed on the house.

“Fuck that. Kiro is not dead.” I’m blown away by Aleksio’s faith in his own gut, his own heart, whatever you want to call it. Aleksio sees himself as such a twisted person, but he’s not. He has heart like I’ve never seen, and he has no idea how beautiful this quality of his is. We pass by. A cop eyes us from afar, but we probably aren’t the first to have driven by. There’s a light on at the next-door neighbor’s place. “Pull in here,” Aleksio says. “Into this drive, and right into the garage.”

“Seriously?” Aleksio texts, face lit underneath by the garish phone light. Probably telling the guys up on the road what’s up. “Small-town neighbors, they know each other’s business. Konstantin and I learned that pretty fast when we were on the run. Pull it in. Now.” Viktor shuts off the headlights and heads into the yawning mouth of a garage. We get out quietly. It smells like lawnmower and turpentine.

A door on the side leads into the main house. Viktor strolls up, shoves something into it, and pulls it open. Aleksio signals the rest of us to wait in the cool, dank garage. Moments later there’s a scream. “Damn,” Tito says, heading in after him. Aleksio tightens his grip on my arm. Tito comes to the door. “Mira. You keep these oldsters feeling calm, okay?” “They better not be hurt.” I wrench my arm from Aleksio’s. And I’m thinking I could find my chance to escape soon. We enter a cozy little kitchen. Viktor leans on a counter holding a revolver on a couple sitting at the kitchen table. The man wears a dark blue Atari T-shirt; he’s bald on top, with strands of longish gray hair in a ponytail. You can tell from his skin he used to be a redhead. The woman is slim, with bright white hair—very short, very beautiful—contrasting with her turquoise robe. A mug lies broken on the floor in a puddle of coffee. A tray of muffins is cooling on the electric burners of the goldenrod-toned oven..

They don’t know what happened,” Viktor says. Aleksio and Tito go upstairs, probably to see what kind of a view they can get of the Knutsons’. “We’re not going to hurt you,” I say, eyeing Viktor. Aleksio comes down. “Can’t see shit. Who was home over there?” “Donald and Shauna Knutson.” “How old is Donald?” The woman holds a napkin in her trembling hands. “Maybe sixty-five?” Aleksio and Viktor exchange glances. Aleksio sends Tito and Yuri upstairs to monitor the scene. “We’re not here to hurt you,” I say. “We think somebody attacked your neighbors and that they’re really after one of their kids. We need you to help us find him first. What’s your name?” “Ronson,” he says. “This is Lila. You’re not the ones—” He nods at the Knutsons’ home. “No, no, I swear,” I say. “Which kid are they after?” Ronson asks. “An adopted son. He’d be around twenty now.” “No son like that,” Ronson says. “Mike’s twenty-eight, and Glenda is nineteen.”