I take a deep breath. And then I roar out, “I’m coming for you, uncle. Do you recognize me? No, how can you—when I barely recognize myself? My name is not Artem Kovalyov. Not anymore. My name is death. And I’m coming for you.”
THREE MONTHS LATER—A SMALL TOWN NEAR TIJUANA, MEXICO
I balance the tray on my huge belly and try to sidestep Sara, the other waitress, as she rushes past me to the kitchen. There’s a mess at table three I need to sort out and a couple at table four who’ve been trying to flag me down for the last ten minutes.
I can see the annoyance on the couple’s faces but I really need to get table one their dinner. Jose got their order wrong the first time, so they’ve had to wait an extra half hour for the right meals. Which of course means they’re snippy and hungry.
And since
