Chapter 30
Maximo
The two men I had stationed outside Constance’s hospital room are now waiting by the curb when we step out into the morning sun.
They have a black Escalade idling, doors already open.
Lathan moves quickly to help Constance in while I slide in the other side of the vehicle, the leather creaking beneath us.
“Where to, Mr. Luciani?” the driver, Collin, asks.
“Breakfast,” I say without hesitation.
Constance makes a face, and I catch it in my peripheral. “The hospital food was awful,” she mutters. “I didn’t want to touch those limp strips of bacon or the runny eggs.”
I chuckle, since I had thought the same thing when I saw what they offered her. “Then we’ll find something better. You’re not going to do any cooking today.”
Ten minutes later, we’re sliding into a booth at a corner diner with peeling red vinyl seats and the smell of frying butter in the air.
It isn’t luxurious, but the laid-back ambience puts me at ease.
Constance smiles when the waitress sets down a plate of pancakes, and I know this is exactly what she needs, something normal and comforting.
Watching her lift the fork with her bandaged arm sends a slow, unwelcome burn into my chest. The image of her bleeding on the concrete keeps replaying behind my eyes, no matter how hard I try to bury it.
The guards sit a table away, keeping their heads on a swivel and watching our backs even as they work on their own plates. It’s almost peaceful at the diner, except for the fact that my phone won’t stop buzzing. Enzo keeps feeding me updates, each one dragging my eyes back to the glowing screen.
My plan worked. The plane’s grounded at Teterboro, exactly where we wanted him pinned.
Volkov has gotten spooked, just like we expected, and is trying to get out of town. The police are already on the scene.
I set my fork down and look across the table at Constance. “Do you want to see them get taken down?”
Her brow arches, cautious but curious. “You mean right now? Is that what all the commotion is on your phone?”
I nod. “We’ll have the men drive us over once you’re done eating. It’ll take the police some time to search the airplane, but hopefully Volkov is carrying enough contraband for an arrest.”
“Seeing him handcuffed would certainly go a long way to helping me feel better,” Constance agrees.
When we arrive at the airfield almost an hour later, the flashing lights of half a dozen squad cars add their own glare to a blinding midday sun.
From where we stand, I see a group of half a dozen men lined up in handcuffs, their expressions stony as the police shove them toward a transport van. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
My pulse kicks up, hungry for the sight of Alexei or Kirill in chains, and furious when they’re nowhere in sight.
I scan the faces, and with a grim smile I notice my absentee chef, Francis, in the back of the line. Our eyes meet, and he pales noticeably before steadfastly looking down at his feet. He should. Betrayal is a luxury I don’t allow to live long. There’s no sign of Alexei or Kirill Volkov.
“Look there.” I point out our mole to Constance before he’s shoved into the waiting van.
“Was that Francis?” she asks as she shades her eyes with her hand to block out the sun.
“It certainly was,” I confirm. “It looks like he’s going to be taken to the county jail for processing. I’ll make some calls later and arrange a warm welcome for him.”
I assume Constance will ask for more specifics, but instead she raises a finger to point to a man quickly approaching our small group.
It’s Terry Holden, the maintenance technician who works on my own plane and who made the call to us regarding Volkov.
He’s hustling over from the hangar, wiping grease from his hands on his coveralls before sticking one out for me to shake.
“Mr. Luciani, sir,” he begins nervously.
“I was able to ground the plane with a ‘maintenance issue,’ but as soon as that old Russian fellow heard there was going to be a delay, he loaded up and bolted. The pilot said that he’s supposed to call Volkov once the repairs are finished.
He left those men the police have in custody to finish loading up their cargo. ”
I curse under my breath. Snakes like Kirill are always hard to catch and he’s slipped the noose yet again.
“He’ll happily let his men take the fall for whatever contraband the police find.
Is the plane registered to Volkov directly?
” I ask Terry, hoping for some angle the police could use to charge the Russian gangster.
“Nah. Registered to some shell, ‘The French Connection.’”
“Probably a shell company, the same way I registered mine. Thank you, Terry, for all your help today. I’ll make sure arrangements are made to compensate you for your assistance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Luciani. If you need anything from me, don’t hesitate to call.” Terry gives me another nervous smile and then dips his head as he turns to walk away.
Constance is nearby but only paying partial attention to my conversation with Terry. She’s absorbed in watching the officers work over the plane.
The police have just pulled open the cargo hold, and I can see the flash of cameras as one of their technicians takes pictures of the scene.
The haul is fairly predictable for a Russian gangster leaving in a hurry—cases of rifles and pistols, along with a briefcase packed with stacks of cash bundled tight with rubber bands.
Nothing illegal to transport on a private jet, at least not on the surface.
Then they roll out a large suitcase that’s obviously heavy from the way the officer struggles to lift it from the hold.
My smile is sharp when the officer unzips the suitcase and the bricks gleam up at him, white, pristine, and stamped with that red devil the Russians think makes them untouchable.
Cocaine. Several dozen kilos of it at least.
The officers swarming the plane actually cheer, slapping each other on the back as if they just won the lottery.
Reporters are already gathering just outside the fence around the airfield, where more uniformed officers are holding them back from the scene.
Before sundown, the headlines will sing of a major bust in the Russian drug trafficking ring.
“This is good,” I reassure Constance as I put an arm around her, being careful not to touch her wound. “That much of his product being seized, along with more of his associates being detained, will help us corner the slippery bastard.”
Constance’s shoulders sag. “It looks good for the police, certainly, but Volkov got away again,” she whispers. “He’s still out there, and this is just going to make him even more desperate.”
I wrap her hand in mine, warm and comforting.
“For now. This was his chance to make a clean exit, and we ruined it. He’s rattled, on the run, and his people are fucked.
We’ll keep pressing until there’s no room left for him to breathe in this city.
Either the police get him… or I do. And I won’t miss. ”
Her eyes meet mine, and I see the steel there again, that resilience that both worries and amazes me. She isn’t like any of the woman I’ve ever dated. Constance Monroe is a hard ass, every bit my equal.
“Then we keep pushing,” she agrees. “Until we get these bastards.”
I nod, though the ache in my leg and the tightness in my chest reminded me how worn we both were. “But not today,” I murmur. “Today we breathe.”
The war isn’t over. But the Volkovs are on their heels, and I intend to break them before they can recover.
A moment later, the Escalade swallows us up, the doors shutting out the chaos of the airfield. Constance leans lightly into me, warm and alive, and the promise settles like steel in my bones.
They hurt her once.
They won’t get a second chance.
Not while I still draw breath.