That Time in Moscow
A Wolfgang Pierce Novella
Logan Ryles
Contents
Also by Logan Ryles
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Ready for more?
About the Author
Also by Logan Ryles
End Page
Copyright © 2021 by Logan Ryles. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
THAT TIME IN MOSCOW is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Control Number:
Published by Ryker Morgan Publishing.
Cover design by German Creative.
Also by Logan Ryles
The Wolfgang Pierce Novella Series
Prequel: That Time in Appalachia (coming soon)
Book 1: That Time in Paris
Book 2: That Time in Cairo
Book 3: That Time in Moscow
Book 4: That Time in Rio (coming May 21)
Book 5: That Time in Tokyo (coming June 4)
Book 6: That Time in Sydney (coming June 18)
The Reed Montgomery Thriller Series
Prequel: Sandbox, a short story (read for free at LoganRyles.com)
Book 1: Overwatch
Book 2: Hunt to Kill
Book 3: Total War
Book 4: Smoke & Mirrors
Book 5: Survivor
Book 6: Death Cycle (coming soon)
Book 7: Sundown (coming soon)
Visit LoganRyles.com to receive a free copy of Sandbox.
The Wolfgang Pierce Novella Series is dedicated to:
Abby and Naomi, my original super fans, and two of the coolest people I know.
Thanks for keeping me inspired.
“I would wake up in Moscow…my heart beating fast, feeling bitter and helpless.”
- Alfred Schnittke
1
November, 2011
The inside of the dealership smelled like the interior of a country club—or, at least what Wolfgang imagined a country club smelled like. Truth be told, he’d never set foot inside a club of any sort, or even a restaurant fancier than a Longhorn Steakhouse.
But Elite Motorcars of Kansas City had that ambiance—that sort of low-light, vaguely smoky, even-if-nobody-was-smoking vibe that brought to mind images of men in suits sitting around a poker table and swapping jokes about compound interest while deciding the fate of the world. It was the kind of place where Wolfgang expected to be offered a snifter of bourbon, not a bottle of water. The kind of place that he never in his wildest childhood memories imagined he would set foot, let alone set foot with a wad of cash in his pocket the thickness of a Bible.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Shoes snapped against the polished tile floor to his left as Wolfgang glanced around the glistening showroom at an array of expensive cars—Maseratis, Mercedes, Jaguars, Land Rovers, and Porsches. He indulged in a boyish grin and turned to the approaching salesman.
“Hey, there. I’d like to buy a car.”
The salesman—maybe he called himself an automotive concierge—wore a suit that cost ten times the value of Wolfgang’s entire wardrobe. Pinstriped, with an understated tie, and shoes with leather soles. The man was tall, bald, and carried himself with the attitude of somebody who was accustomed to addressing people by their last names and was comfortable doing so. He wore narrow glasses with metal frames and squinted at Wolfgang with a gaze that was both pitying and condescending, all at once.
“You’d like to buy a car . . .” the man said, then stared at Wolfgang’s feet.
Wolfgang nodded, then glanced down to see if there was gum on his shoe. He looked past his washed-out jeans from Walmart to his scuffed sneakers from the sneaker warehouse in Chicago—buy two pairs, get a third pair free.
Wolfgang looked up and nodded. “Yeah, a car. I was thinking a two-door, maybe a convertible.”
“A convertible.” The man said the word as if it were an ancient racial slur he was only semi-familiar with but still offended by. “You mean a cabriolet?”
Wolfgang shrugged, looking back at the cars. His eye was drawn to a sleek coupe in bright yellow. It was a Mercedes coupe, small and agile-looking, with a retractable hard-top. “Sure, whatever.”
The salesman sighed, at once a patient and exhausted sound. “I’m not sure we have the sort of motorcar you’re looking for, young man. I feel compelled to say that the vehicles we stock are in the moderate to significant price bracket.”
Wolfgang frowned. “Huh?”
Again the salesman stared at his shoes. Again Wolfgang checked for gum.
“Our cars are expensive,” the salesman said, lowering his voice as if he were divulging nuclear launch codes.
“Oh, yeah.” Wolfgang dug the stack of hundreds from his pocket and ran his thumb over the end, then tossed it to the salesman. “I’m not sure if that’s a moderate or a significant amount. What do you think?”
The salesman’s eyes bulged as he caught the wad. He blinked, ran his own thumb over the end of the wad, then looked up with a smile bright enough to overload a solar panel. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
Wolfgang offered his hand. “Wolfgang Pierce. Tell me about the yellow one.”
Ten minutes later, Wolfgang sat in the plush leather seat of the coupe and hit the start button as Stanley—his name was actually Stanley—slid in beside him, adjusting his glasses and talking faster than an auctioneer on crack.
“Brand new from Mercedes, this is the 2012 SLK55 AMG, featuring a special-order paint finish that the Germans call Streetfighter Yellow. I have to tell you, Mr. Pierce, it’s an exquisite machine. Truly a work of art. Crafted leather interior, a deluxe entertainment system, and suspension designed to make every trip a path carved through the clouds.”
Wolfgang was barely listening as the car rumbled to life and the dashboard lit up with enough lights to shame a Christmas tree. He grinned, feeling the rumble of the coupe shooting up his spine. Everything around him felt premium. His mind flashed back to the
