Prologue #2
Or was this some test of Jordan’s manhood or loyalty in order to climb the rungs in the Bocharov organization?
Bocharov had done similar things in the past. Including making him play a round of Russian Roulette, while blindfolded, with an old Colt .
45 that was supposed to have belonged to Clyde Barrow.
Jordan knew enough about weaponry to believe the gun was unloaded but pulling that trigger had almost made him piss his pants.
Another guy had chickened out—Jordan had never seen that guy again, and the Feds had put him on a missing person database.
Bocharov was a master of manipulation and torture.
Jordan wasn’t about to fail now.
“Up to you, boss. More is great.” If Ana wanted more. “Less is fine.” None is better.
Ana’s cheeks paled as Bocharov’s hand went under the table. Her eyes met Jordan’s and for a moment he saw a flicker of panicked fear before she blinked it away and shifted positions, twisting so she straddled Bocharov’s lap. She gyrated over the gangster. “Is this what you want, baby?”
Jordan swallowed. He’d seen her fear, and yet he could do nothing about it that wouldn’t either get them both killed or jeopardize the case. Plus, witnesses would say she was into it. Hell, Ana would swear an oath on a Bible in a court of law to say she was into it too.
No one went up against the bratva, not in this part of town. Not if you wanted to live. And Jordan had family nearby. Family CPD were moving to a secure location in the early morning, just before they started rolling up Bocharov’s entire organization.
Konrad bent his head to one side but didn’t stop the woman giving him a very thorough lap dance.
Jordan stood before the Russian forced Ana to do anything else.
Konrad had a mistress and always said he didn’t like to share. The man disappeared sometimes for days at a time, and there was a rumor of a wife and child secreted away somewhere, but no one knew for sure, and even after months of looking, the FBI had never tracked them down.
So why was Konrad looking as if he were about to have sex with Ana in this very public space?
Was he simply demonstrating his power and superiority in case Jordan was getting cocky and thinking about maybe skimming the profits or cutting Bocharov out all together?
Or was the bastard simply jealous and horny, and Ana was handy?
She was a beautiful woman.
Jordan suppressed his anger and the desire to arrest the motherfucker.
They didn’t want Bocharov for “penny-ante shit”—as if assaulting women wasn’t a felony—but, as the guy was selling black-market weapons to criminals and suspected terrorists, the DA wanted to make sure that when he went down, he stayed down.
“Call me when you get there.” Bocharov twisted around to watch Jordan walk out. Ana’s gaze met Jordan’s as she kissed Bocharov and silently told him to get the hell out of there.
He was making it worse.
He turned away and walked down the narrow corridor, past old movie posters of old Hitchcock classics, past the changing rooms the strippers used, past Bocharov’s office, the rudimentary kitchen.
Jordan hated leaving her. He was an FBI Special Agent, and the FBI was supposed to help people, not turn away.
But as much as he wanted the law to make sense, it didn’t always. Tomorrow, he’d make sure Ana, and the other women, were treated as victims, not accomplices.
The back of Jordan’s scalp prickled as Micky and Dmitri followed him out and watched him with expressions that told him nothing.
Shit.
Was he about to get a bullet in the back of the head?
He climbed into a red mustang he’d never seen before—probably boosted—and slid the keys into the ignition, wondering if this was going to be his last act.
According to their intel, Bocharov had a penchant for car bombs.
But the car didn’t explode, and Jordan crawled down the poorly lit back alley and out onto the street.
He headed north toward I-90 and O’Hare, the roads glistening with a fresh fall of snow that melted the moment it touched the asphalt.
He probably wouldn’t take the toll road if he was really selling arms for the Russian Mafia, but he wanted this delivery done quick, so he could meet up with Stork and Granger, and figure out what his part, if any, should be in tomorrow’s arrests.
He inserted a special FBI designed wireless earbud into one ear and called Stork’s cell via a proxy number that FBI had backstopped in case the Russians were listening in.
He had no idea if this car was bugged or not, but he had to assume it was.
“Hey, babe.”
“Where are you?” she sounded agitated.
“Have to do a little errand for my boss, but I was hoping to meet up later. Maybe I could come over to your place, you know. Have a little drink?”
“Everything okay?”
He’d left a woman being assaulted by a vicious gangster, and he was on his way to drop off $40K-worth of guns with God knew who. If Jordan failed to deliver, he’d either be dead by morning, or he’d have blown a seven-month-long undercover operation to smithereens.
“Come on, babe. Don’t be pissy and weird.”
Stork was smart enough to read his simple code.
“We’ve been watching him all day. No reason to believe he knows anything.
He hasn’t been anywhere or met anyone unusual.
Chicago PD have people watching the front of the club from a nearby apartment and another unmarked unit on the girlfriend’s apartment.
That’s all the manpower the police commissioner would spare tonight, but”—he heard the frown in her voice—“we assumed you’d be with him all evening.
Takedown is planned for five a.m. tomorrow morning.
” Considering Bocharov’s crew rarely went to bed before 3 a.m., that should catch everyone asleep.
“We’ll have units on all of them and at the bakery by then. You didn’t warn them, did you?”
She meant his family.
“Of course not.” Months ago, he had told his family that they needed to be ready for any eventuality and to put together go-bags, which they should keep in the storage closet by the back door.
They knew what he was doing was dangerous, but they were willing to do anything that helped keep him safe.
They’d faked an estrangement, but Jordan had figured out a way to sneak into his childhood home without anyone else knowing.
His grandparents, mother, and sister were the only people in the city who knew he was an FBI undercover agent, except for Special Agent Stork and a couple of CPD detectives and the brass.
When he’d agreed to this operation, it had been on the condition that the safety of his family, and their home and business, would be everyone’s top priority.
“I have you on the tracker. Might wanna slow down there a little, Krychek.”
“Slow down?”
“I’d hate to have to bring Highway Patrol into the fold at this late stage in the game.”
He checked the speedometer and saw he was going more than a hundred mph. Even though he wanted to press his foot harder to the accelerator and get this over with, he forced himself to ease off the gas. He’d have time to scope out the place before the arranged time anyway.
“Baby, I’ve been told I’m a fast mover in the past and never had any complaints.” He was trying to get her to laugh, but she was a serious woman, wound up and tense.
“Get as much info on these buyers as you can. I’ll see if the SAC will spare some manpower to pick them up in the morning. Last thing we need is more illegal arms on the streets.”
They’d amassed quite the list of bad guys over the months, and Jordan hoped every one of the fuckers shat themselves when they heard Bocharov had been snatched up in an undercover op. Let them sweat. Let them scatter. Bocharov certainly wouldn’t show any loyalty to them.
“Okay. Can I see you tonight anyway, just to talk? Pretty please?”
Stork gave him an address of a late-night diner in Englewood. “Ding me if you have any problems.”
“Can’t wait.” Jordan wouldn’t have minded backup on this, but the time crunch meant he couldn’t wait. He deepened his voice. “Hey, so, what are you wearing?”
He grinned as she hung up on him.
Thirty minutes later he turned south onto North Arlington Heights Road and then west on East Higgins Road. He checked the map and realized it was a nature reserve. Quiet. Remote.
He didn’t like it.
Not even a little bit.
He pulled to a stop in the shadows of the parking lot and got out. Looked around but there was no one here. It was 9:55 p.m.
The cold wind whistled through the trees and made his ears sting.
He walked to the trunk and opened it, checked the large duffel bag full of automatic weapons and stolen munitions. Didn’t look like 40-thousand dollars’ worth but hopefully the buyer would disagree.
He closed the trunk. Walked the perimeter of the parking lot. Took a piss. Checked his watch again as a creeping sensation that something was wrong started to hit him.
He was about to call Stork when he realized there was no cell service.
Fuck.
He didn’t like this.
Not at all.
He bounced on the balls of his feet to try to restore circulation.
It wasn’t uncommon for people in these situations to turn up late.
Buyers often suspected a trap and wanted to get the lay of the land before they moved in.
The last thing an illegal arms dealer liked to do was dick around in some parking lot waiting for a skittish buyer.
They didn’t want the shit? Plenty of others would.
Hanging around invited trouble from the cops, and no bad guy wanted that.
But if Jordan left, he risked Bocharov getting pissed with him, or worse, with the buyer. Leaving too soon risked Bocharov starting a war with whoever failed to show up, and that might disrupt Bocharov’s usual routine and put tomorrow’s arrest timetable in jeopardy.