Pushing my glasses up my forehead, I pinch the bridge of my nose. A few minutes later, we’ve taxied to the tarmac in front of the private hangar.
“Sir,” the cabin crew member says in a squeaky, thin voice. “We’ve landed.”
“No shit,” I sigh. “Is the car waiting?”
I don’t get an answer right away, so I look up, finding the flight attendant staring at me with wide eyes. Have I suddenly grown another head? Oh, right. It must be because I cursed. Maintaining people’s perceptions of me requires a certain decorum and a manner of speaking. I can count on one hand how many times in my life I’ve sworn out loud while in the presence of anyone I do not trust. Which is pretty much everyone. Today, though, the incessant pounding in my right temple began long before I opened my eyes. That left me a bit short on the mental dexterity required to maintain my tact.
“Well?”
“Um… Yes.” He nods quickly. “The limo is waiting for you. I’ll let the driver know you’ll be disembarking shortly.”
Grabbing my jacket from the leather seat next to me, I head to the plane door, but pause at the top of the stairs. This earlyin the morning, the suburban landscape is gray and dreary. Surrounding the small private airfield, the bare tree branches reach skyward like gnarled fingers stretching toward warmth. I’ve never liked Chicago, with its frequent wind and smoggy air, especially late in the fall and in the winter. Unfortunately, the sneaky Russian asshole picked his backyard for today’s face-to-face.
As I descend the stairs and proceed toward the car, my phone rings in my pocket.
“We discovered the source of the leaked list,” Brahms says. “It was our fleet manager.”
“Considering I am not hearing him choking on his own blood and begging for his life, I assume there is abutcoming.”
“He’s disappeared. His landlord said he drove off to work a week ago and hasn’t been back since. HR reported he called in sick the same day. Appendicitis, apparently.”
I slide inside the limo. “Let me know when you find him. I will see if Petrov can shine any light on this situation.”
The drive to the Bratva-owned nightclub takes almost an hour. I spend the entire time mulling over the information leaks and security breaches we’ve had in the past. Since all the bullshit with the text messages started, particularly. The list of license plates was the most significant one thus far. There have been other instances of sabotage, all seemingly unconnected to any one particular operations area. Which meant the list of potential culprits was long and wide. This latest incident proved to be an inside job. But, I can’t shake the feeling that there may be more than one person involved, and all of this is somehow related.
I reach into my jacket pocket, taking out the remnants of the cookie and rolling the cellophane bundle between my fingers. It’s been a long time since anything but crumbs occupied thewrap. I continue carrying it around, though. Feeling completely stupid about it, but unable to make myself throw it out. Physical contact seems to lessen the throbbing pain in my temple. Nothing about that makes sense. It’s not some hocus pocus. Not magic. I don’t know what it is. It’s just a thing, with the only distinction being its previous owner. So my gut tells me that my relief is not because of a disintegrated cookie in a bit of plastic wrap at all. It has to do withher.
What is she doing now?Is she warm?
Why the hell do I care when I’m almost a thousand miles away?
My car pulls up to the back of a granite-clad building in downtown Chicago. The sign on the corner—unlit at the moment—readsBaykal.
Two rough-looking guys, who I presume to be thepakhan’ssecurity, are hanging out near the side entrance. When the limo stops, one of them approaches and opens the car door for me. It’s not out of courtesy, which is made clear when he scans me from head to toe with a handheld metal detector as soon as I exit. Checking for weapons. I’m not carrying any. The only time I do is when I intend to use them. This meeting is strictly business between former associates. Should shit hit the fan, Petrov’s boys are always armed aplenty. I’ll just help myself.
Previously, I’ve only been to Ural, the other club run by the Bratva. The ambience here is very different, but the place still possesses that sophisticated décor. As expected, at this early hour, the place is devoid of patrons, with all the booths along the left wall vacant except for one. There, two men occupy the table. The first—a pissed-off dark-haired fellow, working on a laptop while grumbling under his breath. The second—blond, laid-back, lounging with his arm extended along the back of theseat. His other hand is busy tossing a tactical knife into the air. He flips it, catches it, all while his eyes follow my every step. Sergei Belov.Pakhan’strigger-happy brother.
“Hey, Ruffo!” he calls from across the dance floor. “I heard you lost something! I’m glad we managed to find it for you!”
“Shut the fuck up, Sergei.” His buddy shoves him with his elbow without looking away from the screen.
“Whaaaat? I was just being friendly.”
The dark-haired guy groans, then meets my gaze. “Mr. Ruffo,Pakhanis waiting for you. He’s in the office; first door to the right of the bar.”
“Thank you.” I nod as I pass them, then briefly glance at the “welcoming committee.” “I hear your latest shipment of hand grenades is held up in customs, Belov.”
“It is! Assholes been sitting on them for two weeks. How’d ya hear that?”
“Investing in information is more lucrative than spending your cash on toys,” I say as I approach the office door and knock. “I will make a call and have them released for you on Monday.”
“Fuckin’ A! Thanks, man! See, Pasha? I told you our buddy Ruffo is one of the good guys. We should…”
I don’t hear the rest once the door softly clicks shut behind me.
The room isn’t overly big. There’s a desk and a couple of visitor chairs on one side, while the other has a wall of filing cabinets. If one overlooks the massive red stain in the middle of the floor, the space pretty much resembles any other office. Aside from the occupant, that is.
The head of the Russian Bratva is sitting behind that desk. Cleaning his gun.
