Despite a growing suspicion, I can’t determine with certainty who he is, but tell myself to be patient. Well, what other choice do I have?
After all, this I know: Medical examiners can get fired if they release the wrong decedent. To prevent this, they place not only a toe tag or an ankle band on the corpse, but also a tag on its body bag. The names on these tags must match each other when the body is conveyed to the funeral home. So, once this man extricates himself from here—clearly, that’s what he intends to do—I can examine the tag left behind on his body bag.
Well, no. Too late for that. The man has just loosened his tags—from both his body bag and his big toe—and is scratching his head, perhaps figuring out how to use them to his advantage, how to cause the most mischief. His footfalls are coming closer.
Thud, thud, thud, he swaggers across the floor, stepping over this body bag and that, until—oh no!—stumbling over mine. He lands on top of me, hard. I clump my jaws together so as not to utter a cry. Then, regaining my presence of mind, I give myself a pat on the shoulder.
Mentally.
He spits something out loud. Sounds like a juicy Russian curse.
I don't even comprehend the language, but what else can it be but shit?
Just the word I was looking for.
The man rolls over to the floor, dusts off his knees, and unzips the body bag lying just next to mine. Inside is a wrinkled human carcass with black toes. Speaking about toes, I’m so glad—did I say this already?—that the software that supports this virtual simulation has not been upgraded to a version that includes smell.
Bending over the carcass, the Russian replaces both of its tags—the one on its toe as well as the one on its bag—with his.
Then, he straightens and stretches over to the air conditioning control panel mounted on the insulated panel. To my astonishment, he turns it off. This guy doesn’t like frigid temperatures. And why should he? He’s not in Russia anymore.
In Los Angeles county, the season makes a big difference in the speed of putrefaction. During the summer, a corpse starts bloating within two days. It is facially identifiable for only one. So when the wrinkled carcass is prepared for burial, the only evidence of its identity will be these tags. The wrong ones, now dangling from its body bag in plain view.
I know the name printed on them all too well.
Vlad Komarov. Age 37.
Her bullet grazed his head, but the leader of a Russian crime organization is still breathing. One way for Vlad to avoid paying the price for his crimes is to play dead; another is to play dying. For Ash, this is not a game. She must learn his secrets. Only one problem: because of the raging pandemic, she must put her plan on hold.
Vlad slips away from the hospital in a body bag, then develops a brazen fraud scheme that will bilk health insurance companies out of millions of dollars. If not caught in time, he will drive victims to suicide, rob Ash of her identity, and slit her throat.
Will Ash manage to stay one step ahead of him and at the same time, protect her loved ones from contagion?
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"This novel has it all! Mystery combined with murder, mayhem and so much more....including the Russian mob...Wow...doesn't get any better than that for me as a reader. Toss in the Virtual Reality scenes and this author has a home run with this novel..."
~Serenity
