Sergei's hand didn't shake. "Understood."
"You know what to do."
The call ended.
He put down his phone, stood up, and walked to the window. Outside, the birch forest rustled in the wind, the leaves not yet fully grown, tender green and translucent. He remembered when Grisha first came to this house, it was also May, and the birch forest had just sprouted. Grisha stood by the window, looked at the forest, and said, "Boss, this place is quiet. It's a nice spot for retirement."
Now Grisha had brought the Mexicans to find him.
He turned around, walked to the desk, and opened a drawer. Inside was a gun, a Makarov, nine millimeters, which he had taken out the year the Soviet Union dissolved. The gun barrel was polished brightly, and the magazine was full.
He placed the gun on the desk. Then he picked up the phone from the desk and dialed a number.
"Grisha."
There was a long silence at the other end. "Boss."
Sergei listened to the voice for three seconds. "You've lost weight."
