Chapter 20 Lucien
Lucien
“God I’m tired of the rain.”
I glance at Daniel, but don’t answer. The man is a valuable second in command, always there when I need him, but he also complains an awful lot for someone who gets paid as much as he does.
I turn my eyes back to the rooftop in front of us and focus on what’s going on across the parking lot from us.
Through the rain–which isn’t as bad as Daniel’s pretend–I see two figures in the shadows next to the wall.
They’ve crept away from the glare of the fluorescent lights around the edges of the place, trying to take advantage of the night time gloom, but it’s far too late for that.
I clocked Mikhail Morozov the moment he reached the rooftop parking in his dark sedan. He parked and waited for his contact for several minutes before he got out of his car and dragged the man over to the shadows where they’re now talking.
The other man is a no one, of course. Just a local courier in charge of taking messages and goods back and forth for people who don’t want to transport them on their own, and I wonder, not for the first time, what Mikhail is telling him.
And who that message is going to. I know enough of Mikhail to know he has some very elevated contacts in the Russian Bratva, but I’ve already decided that’s not who he’s working for down here.
These Russians don’t feel like mafia to me. If they were, there’s no way they’d be working with someone like Dom Landry. Real mafia–real Bratva–would have found the hardest, most cynical gangsters in New Orleans. Not the soft lizards like Dom and his crew.
Rich Russian businessmen, on the other hand, who like a man that’s going to compliment them and do whatever they say for the right amount of money...
That feels a more more possible.
“I want to get closer,” I grumble. “I want to know what they’re talking about.”
Daniel snorts. “So let’s get closer. No reason to stay out here when we could go get a first-row view.”
This catches me by surprise, because Daniel’s usually very straitlaced. He’s never approved of my riskier plans, and I know he doesn’t want to mix with the Russians. I glance at him, surprised, and he just shrugs.
“The quicker we get information from him, the quicker we stop having to sit in the rain on the roof of some parking lot.”
I actually laugh. “It’s not a sexy answer,” I say. “But it is an answer. And you’re right.”
I didn’t come here for a shootout; I came on a tip from one of the guys we have planted at Dom’s mansion. But I do want information, and we’re not going to get it sitting here peering through the rain at a meeting we can’t hear.
I hit the engine of the car and grab the wheel, then slam my foot down on the accelerator and peel out of the parking place, heading right for Mikhail and his little friend.
When they run, I swerve in front of them, forcing them to turn back, and by that time Daniel is already out of the car and dashing after Mikhail.
I put the car in park and jump out , my feet already taking me toward where Daniel is struggling with the Russian.
I don’t bother with the courier, who isn’t important enough to chase after.
Mikhail is the one Jacky told Luke about.
He’s the one we need if we’re going to get information on who’s pulling Dom’s strings.
When I arrive, Mikhail has almost struggled free of Daniel’s grasp, but I grab him by the jacket, spin him around, and throw him against the wall. By the time he shakes off the blow, I’ve got him by the collar and have my knife against his throat.
“Mikhail Morokov,” I mutter, by way of greeting.
“Lucien Boudreaux,” he snarls in return.
I am surprised now, because I wasn’t aware he knew me. I’ve never dealt with the Russians because I don’t trust them, and he has no cause to know my name.
“You know who I am.”
It’s not a question.
He sneers. “Of course I know who you are. You’re the heir to the richest family in the city.”
It’s a strange way to label the Boudreaux house, but it does tell me exactly what he’s thinking of. Money. The richest family. Not the most powerful or even the most deadly, but the richest.
Typical Russians.
They always follow the money.
Which brings me quickly to my point.
I pull him out and slam him back against the wall, satisfied when I hear the hollow thunk of his head against the concrete. “Who are you meeting with, Mikhail.”
“I’m sure you already know,” he says, shaking his head. “No one. A courier.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s taking a message to someone for me. I thought you were supposed to be smart, Boudreaux.”
That earns him a slice across the cheek with the tip of my knife, and I wink when he hisses at me.
“Smart enough to know that I’m the one with a weapon here,” I reply. “And that you didn’t bring any of your men with you. Now tell me what I want to know or you’re going to regret both of those things.”
His eyes narrow as he considers this, but I know enough of his reputation to know that he’s not an actual thug.
He’s a gangster, yes, but one that only deals in money and rumors.
His weapon is corruption and blackmail. He doesn’t know how to defend himself against a crazy New Orleans gangster wielding a knife.
And I’m guessing he has a very low pain tolerance.
I press the tip of the knife against his nose, testing the theory, and he immediately jerks.
“What do you want to know?” he asks.
God, this is easy. If I’d known it was this easy to get information from Russian businessmen, I would have started doing this years ago.
“Dominick Landry. He’s got a trafficking ring running out of his basement, but he doesn’t have the money to finance that sort of operation himself. I’ve heard there are Russians involved. Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” he says, too quickly.
I press the tip of the knife into his skin, drawing blood, and he jerks again.
“I don’t know them!” he shouts.
“And I don’t believe you. All Russians know each other. Maybe not personally, but at least by name. Especially in a town like New Orleans, where we don’t have a Bratva.”
His eyes meet mine and I can see him running through calculations, trying to figure out how much I might actually know.
“He has warehouses in the warehouse district and a club on Canal Street where the sells girls,” I say.
“Another dance hall on Canal Street where he runs auctions. A big yellow one. Keeps girls in the basement of his house. Likes to take them from his club in the catacombs. I know enough already to know I’m on the right track, Morokov.
I just want to know who he’s working for. ”
I take the knife from his nose and move it to the middle of his left eyelid, letting the tip rest there in threat.
“How much do you actually want to protect those guys? Assuming they’re not even your friends.”
“I don’t know them personally,” he gasps.
“Honestly, I don’t even care,” I reply. “I don’t need an introduction. I just need a name.”
“Sean Duhon could tell you,” he says quickly.
I shake my head. “I’m sure he could, but I’ve asked him before and he hasn’t been helpful.”
“He’s the one involved!” he shouts.
Now this takes me back a bit. Because I’ve known Sean a long time, and though I’ve never liked the man, I’ve never thought he would stoop low enough to work with the Russians.
Or get involved in sex trafficking. Though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; Duhon has always operated further outside the law than the rest of us.
“Is Dom working for Duhon?” I ask, jumping to the first conclusion that comes to mind.
“No,” Mikhail growls. “But Duhon is the one who connected him to our people.”
“Our people?” I ask.
When Mikhail doesn’t answer, I press down on the knife, putting more pressure on his eye, and he screams.
“I thought you said you weren’t involved.”
“I don’t have personal involvement!” he shouts. “But I know the men who do.”
“Well now we’re getting somewhere. My associate mentioned a Russian man staying at Dominick Landry’s house. There for a party. Do you know who that is?”
This time he doesn’t bother to lie. He opens his eyes to look at me, blood from his eyelid running down his face like tears. “Boris Volkov. The best assassin in our group, and the man who speaks for the boss. He’s been staying at Dominick’s house for the last week. Keeping an eye on things.”
“What things?” I ask, worried that I already know the answer.
Because a week is an awfully specific length of time. And it happens to coincide with how long Brooks has been in town flashing that bright red head around and making trouble for her father’s organization.
“Redheaded things,” he mutters. “Things that Dominick lets get away with too much.”
His statement is so close to my thoughts that I almost gouge his eye out in surprise, and he shrieks. I pull back quickly, but slam him against the wall once more.
“What does that mean?”
He grins at me like he’s clocked the panic and desperation in my voice, and knows exactly what it means. “It means that he brought his daughter home to train her in the business. But she’s not to be trusted. And the men who’ve put money into this operation aren’t willing to let her stay alive.”
I don’t wait for anything else. Daniel and I run for the car at the same time, our feet hammering on the wet pavement as the skies open up above us. I don’t know about Daniel, but I’m thinking several things at once.
The Russians are in the house. They know who Brooks is and don’t like her. Dom tried to sell Brooks once, and then did sell her to me, but only for a night.
I gave her back.
And now that looks like the stupidest mistake I’ve ever made.
Because I’ve been worried that her father might kill her or sell her again, but I’ve been barking up the wrong tree. Yes, Dom might be dangerous, but he’s also an arrogant, mostly lazy idiot.
The Russian in his house, on the other hand...
I’ve never met a Russian who didn’t mean business. And if they’ve decided they’re going to take Brooks out...
I just hope she’s smart enough to realize she’s in danger and lay low. At least keep her big mouth shut.
And dear Lucifer, try for one night to not draw any attention to herself.