Ulysses fires off a text message. A moment later, a notification pings on his phone.
“I sent him the photo we pulled from the internet.” Ulysses turns the screen my way, showing me a photo of a bald man with a round face and a ruddy skin tone. “He knows the guy, all right. Says he’s been a frequent client of Naomi.” He pauses to read something as another ping sounds. “He asks if he should be worried.”
He obviously saw the news about Naomi Foster’s death on the news.
I turn at the intersection, taking the road that leads to the outskirts of the city. “Tell him he doesn’t have to get his panties in a knot. None of this reflects on him.”
The bar stands in the middle of a parking lot. At this hour, the lot is empty except for an old Buick and a Chevy parked at the back. The numberplate of the Buick corresponds to the one registered in Gavril Dmitriev’s name.
I grin as I park near the back exit. “Bingo.”
Ulysses pulls his gun. “Backup?”
I cut the engine and lean over Ulysses to take my gun from the glove compartment. “That won’t be necessary. This isn’t bratva territory.”
Sav and I have established clear boundaries. As long as we keep off each other’s territories, we don’t bother them and they’re not stupid enough to bother us. This guy may be moving drugs for them, but he’s not part of their organization. If he conspired against me, they won’t stand in my way when I deal with him just as I won’t stand in their way if the situation is reversed.
We get out and cock our guns. The place seems quiet. There’s no music or signs of activity.
I tilt my head toward the door. Ulysses goes ahead and positions himself next to the door to cover my back as I go over and knock. I keep my gun behind my back, not wanting to give the guys the wrong impression. I’m here to ask questions first. I’ll only kill if necessary.
A tall man in a wife beater and jeans with tattoos on his face, neck, and arms opens the door. He drags a gaze over my suit. “You’ve got the wrong address, man. This is a private bar.”
He starts to close the door, but I press a hand on the wood. “I just want to talk. Do I need to introduce myself?”
He squints, taking a better look at my face. Recognition registers in his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “No.”
“Good.” I smile. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”
At us, he stretches his neck to look around the jamb.
Ulysses salutes him.
He clenches his jaw but opens the door wider and stands aside.
The somber interior smells of smoke. A bar built from crude logs runs along the back wall. Tables and chairs are scattered across half of the floor. Pool tables take up the other half.
I step inside.
Ulysses motions for the guy to follow me.
A few empty beer bottles are lined up on the bar counter. I quickly take stock of the doors. One leads to the back, which I presume to be a store and cooler room. The second one has a WC sign above it, and exit written in fluorescent letters lights up the third door.
I’m about to move toward the bar when, from the corner of my eye, I spot movement behind one of the pool tables. A fraction of a second later, the glint of a blade catches the dim ceiling lights as a knife barrels through the air.
My reflexes are fast. I duck to the left, barely missing the blade that was aimed at my heart. Instead, the sharp point grazes my upper arm.
The man sandwiched between us reaches for a knife strapped to his belt, but Ulysses presses the barrel of his gun against the back of the man’s head.
Gavril Dmitriev jumps out from behind the pool table with a gun in his hand. He aims for my chest, but I fire before he has time to pull the trigger. The bullet hits him right between the eyes. His body folds in on itself before it goes down to the floor.
“Don’t move,” Ulysses says. “Do not fucking blink.”
I walk over to where Dmitriev lies with blood pooling around his head. Going down on my haunches, I check his pulse.
Dead.
Motherfucker.
