43. Alexei
Alexei
Despite the careful planning, and UN levels of diplomacy, I’m still fucking tense as I stand with Renata and Pavel in the salon of my Miami compound, watching people in evening wear file into the fundraising dinner on the bank of temporary screens.
There’s a hell of a lot that can go wrong—and no room for error.
“Him.” Renata nods at one of the few men on the screen wearing a suit rather than a tux, standing unobtrusively by the rear wall. “Frank Ball. He heads up the Miami FBI office, the rotten fuck. The woman next to him is his sidekick.”
“Is she rotten too?” I ask.
“Guess we’re about to find out.” She presses the button on her radio. “You got eyes on Ballsack, Jenkins?” she asks her partner.
“Oh, I see him,” his voice crackles back. “There are two unmarked cars out front—we’ve got them, too.”
“Stay on them.”
“Copy that.”
“Ballsack?” I give her a side glance. “Should I ask?”
“The official title for the FBI office head is Special Agent in Charge,” Renata says. “Abbreviated to SAC. First day on the job, he was literally introduced as Ball, SAC, Miami. You have no idea how much Miami PD love calling him that.”
Pavel and I are still laughing as Roman arrives with Kristi Hunter on his arm, while Dimitry escorts her vacant-eyed mother.
They take a seat at the mayor’s table, right at the front, receiving her effusive greeting with the same insouciance they do the fawning admiration of the donors, which only makes most of the table double their efforts.
Except for one man.
“So that’s Silas Thorne.” I lean forward, studying the mediocre figure onscreen.
As far as villains go, it would be easy to dismiss Thorne as unimpressive.
And therein lies the real danger, I think, taking in his pale, puffy face and watchful eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
Though he’s seated in the place of honor next to the glamorous female mayor, everything from Thorne’s hunched shoulders and lanky hair to his fixed expression gives the impression of a man who believes he deserves more than he has received.
He responds to the mayor’s conversational efforts with curt monosyllables, his small eyes measuring the room and the people in it in the resentful way of a man who wonders where he ranks and catalogues every slight.
Thorne is dangerous not because he is impressive, I think, but precisely because he is not.
“Terrible tuxedo,” Pavel says disapprovingly. “Do they not have tailors in Miami?”
I grin. Pavel, like most of the European team, is strictly a made-to-measure, carefully styled kind of guy.
By contrast, Silas Thorne wears an almost comically ill-fitting tux that is clearly off the rack. Perhaps, given his Cartographer Club eccentricity, the dishevelment is intended as some kind of protest against convention, but instead of rebellious, he just looks unconsidered.
It’s blatantly clear that he is utterly out of place amid Kristi Hunter’s glamour and the tailored self-assurance of Roman and Dimitry, who are playing the part of gangsters on the loose to perfection.
But instead of insecurity, Silas affects an air of barely concealed contempt, disdaining his neighbors’ attempts at conversation and sitting with his arms folded, as if to make it clear that his presence is strictly under sufferance.
Oh, he’s dangerous, all right.
Nothing is more unpredictable than a mediocre man convinced the world has underestimated him.
Renata and I are still sitting in the control room monitoring the screens when Mickey’s voice crackles through the comms.
“Everyone is in place,” he says as Hunter finishes his less than impressive speech and dessert is served in the ballroom.
“We’ve cracked the safe in the mayor’s office and gotten what you need.
I’m in the nightclub VIP area with eyes on Novikov and his men.
We’ve got the Cardenas brothers watching the feed from the riverboat casino we shut down, so they’re not going anywhere.
We’re good to go the minute you give the order. ”
“Copy that.” I nod at Renata. “Safe’s open. Tell your boys it’s a go.”
Her grin almost splits her face as she picks up her phone. “We got it, boys. Time to drop the word in Ballsack’s ear.”
We watch her agent cross the room and lean down to murmur into the mayor’s ear.
“Oh dear,” Renata says as the mayor’s face falls faster than a Jenga stack. “Did someone just find out that the safe in their office isn’t so safe after all?”
Pavel shoots her a wary glance. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
Her mouth twists grimly. “Then don’t ask corrupt FBI agents to steal evidence that took people like me months to collect.
And if you are bent enough to give that order,” Renata says, glaring at the mayor as she excuses herself from the table and exits the ballroom, “don’t be dumb enough to store said evidence in your office safe, just so you have leverage over your newly elected governor. ”
“Ha.” Pavel raises his eyebrows. “Noted.”
I’m still grinning as I send a text message to Roman’s phone: Mayor’s off and running. Go time.
We’ve hacked the security cameras, but Roman and Dimitry are also wearing wires and mini cameras, so Pavel and I have a close-up view of everything that is said at their table.
“Sweetheart,” Roman says in a caressing tone as the applause dies down, stroking Kristy Hunter’s bare arm, “if your father is done playing to the crowd, we’d like a word before we leave.”
Her eyes widen. “Of course,” she says breathily. “But—you’re leaving? There’s a whole party after this—”
His mouth curls suggestively. “Dimitry and I prefer our parties where nobody can see them.”
“That sounds like fun.” Leaning toward him, Kristi squeezes her breasts together to create a crevasse of perfectly tanned, surgically enhanced cleavage.
Roman gives her the kind of scorching look that made him top eligible bachelor’s lists for years before he married my sister. “Oh, so you like to party, sweetheart?”
Her eyelashes almost knock him out with their fluttering. “Uh-huh!” She clearly has her sights firmly set on becoming the next Mrs. Roman Borovsky.
“Then let’s get business over with,” Roman says, sliding his hand up her thigh beneath the table, “so we can head out to my yacht.”
Kristi looks like she might actually orgasm there and then. Even so, I don’t miss the way her eyes cut questioningly across the table to Silas Thorne, who gives a subtle, curt nod that makes her beam.
“Daddy!” She waves imperiously at Marty Hunter Jr., who is currently pressing hands.
“And look at how Daddy comes running,” I mutter as Marty bustles through the crowd, pumping hands on the way. If I’d had any doubts about who pulls both Kristi’s and Marty Jr.’s strings, that momentary exchange just eliminated them.
Not that it’s going to help either Marty Jr. or his surgically enhanced daughter.
Yeah, I think grimly, watching Kristi Hunter preen. I haven’t forgotten the way you stitched me up in my own club, sweetheart.
“Hey, punkin.” Marty Jr. kisses the inch-thick makeup on his daughter’s cheek.
“Daddy,” she says, leaping to her feet and pulling Roman with her. “This is Roman Borovsky.”
“Of course!” He pumps Roman’s hand enthusiastically. “Great to have you back in the 305, Roman. So glad you could make it on such short notice.”
“Sure.” Roman’s noncommittal response contains just enough disdain to make it clear that Hunter is not his priority. “I made time because I was reliably informed your major donors would be here tonight.”
“Oh, they are, they are.” Clapping Roman’s shoulder, he gestures expansively around the table. “I’ll introduce you around shortly. But first, why don’t you and I have a drink and—”
“I said major donors, Hunter.” Roman cuts him off, his tone low and glacial.
“So far all I’ve met are politicians and small-time Miami players.
I don’t have time to drink with you. I have a party to get to on my yacht—and besides, if I’m going to commit my considerable resources to restoring order in Miami on your behalf, I want to talk to the organ grinder, not the fucking monkey. ”
“Damn,” I say, grinning despite myself. “He’s good at this.”
“It’s not our first rodeo.” Pavel grins. “Look at Thorne’s face.” He points at it on the screen. “He did not appreciate Roman dismissing him as small-time.”
Sure enough, Thorne’s small eyes have narrowed, something mean shifting behind the wire rims, cold, quick, and dangerous. Hunter glances at him nervously. Thorne tilts his head slightly toward a side room.
“Why don’t we adjourn to another room,” Hunter says, his jovial mask not cracking at all, “and I’ll introduce you to the people you’re looking for.”
Roman glances impatiently at his phone as he stands. “This better not take long.”
“That’s the signal,” I say into my comms. “It’s go time. Flick the switch, Paddy.”
Going by the immediate deafening roar and the shaking of the ballroom walls, my second instruction was entirely unnecessary.
“Get down!” Roman yells, throwing himself at Kristi Hunter, shielding her from the supposed danger. “Dimitry,” he shouts. “Get Hunter and his wife. Where is all the fucking security?” he goes on as Dimitry tucks the terrified couple under his arms.
He’s clearly not the only person asking that question, although he is the only one who knows the answer—which is that by now Hunter’s security, like Thorne’s, are either dead or incapacitated.
Silas Thorne is crouched beside his chair, looking in horror at the side room he was about to adjourn to, which is now a pile of rubble.
“Who matters here?” Roman barks at Hunter. “We’re under attack, and we need to get the fuck out. Who do I need to protect?”
“Him.” Hunter nods shakily at Thorne.
“Seriously?” Roman does an excellent job of feigning incredulity. “That’s your money guy? Okay, fine,” he says, giving Silas a contemptuous look as Hunter stammers some kind of response. “I can get you out of here, but you have to do what I say.”
Thorne frowns, looking for a moment like he might argue.