Chapter 15
Y our hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under ‘t’. - William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Dimitri
I accepted the hot cup of coffee Vaska offered with a scowl. There were a thousand places I’d rather be than standing inside this cold, filthy warehouse. All of them with Emma.
“What has you in such a foul mood?”
Lifting the plastic lid to make sure the coffee was black how I liked it, I inhaled the earthy aroma before responding, “I left a warm bed to deal with these two morons.”
Vaska rubbed his hands together for warmth. His breath a frosty mist in the air. “At least yours wasn’t empty,” he grumbled.
“Karina mad at you again?” Vaska favored the volatile red-haired escort who had a tendency to throw tantrums… and knives… when she was drunk.
He shrugged. “I’m getting too old for this shit. At first it was fun but now… hell, I don’t know.”
I knew how my friend felt. Since Emma came unexpectedly into my life, my old ways seemed jaded and lackluster.
I couldn’t ever remember allowing a woman to spend the night in my bed.
Yet when I awoke with her curled up like a little kitten in my arms, I couldn’t imagine waking up any other way for the rest of my life.
I clasped him around the neck and met his eye. “If we are to get old, we will get old together, my friend, and thanks for overseeing that task this morning.”
“Actually I should be thanking you. That roommate of hers is something else.”
“You and she would probably get along. She shares your taste in cheap liquor,” I said, recalling the gasoline tequila shots from last night.
Vaska laughed as he clapped me on the back. “Let’s get this over with. There’s a rare steak and a bottle of Chianti with our name on it at Gibson’s.”
Pushing the sleeve of my wool overcoat up, I checked my watch. “They’re late.”
It was then we heard the roar of an engine. A metallic gold Ferrari Thunderbird roared into the loading dock of the empty warehouse where we were standing.
“Jesus Christ,” huffed Vaska under his breath as we exchanged an annoyed glance.
The Petrov brothers emerged from the vehicle, wearing matching white and red Adidas tracksuits.
Without turning to look at him, I asked Vaska, “You still carry that .30 caliber Tokarev with you?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Shoot me.”
He chuckled. “I’d rather shoot them, but this is a new suit.”
“Vaska Lukovich! Dimitri Antonovich!” the brothers called out in unison as they approached us.
Looking over their shoulders, I observed three more men in equally obnoxious tracksuits emerging from the back of the Ferrari. Vaska’s shoulders shifted as he widened his stance. He had noticed them as well.
Five against two.
Hardly seemed a fair fight.
For them.
“My friends! You are looking good,” said one brother. It didn’t matter which, they shared the same brain.
With a raised eyebrow, I pointedly checked my watch. Neither Vaska nor I had said a word yet.
The other brother pounded his chest. “We are the same! See! You look!”
He pushed up his tracksuit sleeve to expose his wrist. He had the same Ulysse Nardin Hannibal Tourbillon watch as me.
It was a gift from a high-ranking Russian official after I’d made him tens of millions of dollars selling off abandoned military weapons from Russia’s 14th Army in Transnistria.
Its watch face depicting the Hannibalic War made it strikingly unique.
It told me the Petrov brothers had no imagination; people who mimicked others rarely did. It also told me they could afford a half-million dollar watch and an outrageous status-symbol car. They must move more product than we originally thought.
I exchanged a look with Vaska. We didn’t have to speak for me to know he was thinking the same thing.
We had assumed the brothers had somehow stumbled upon the two crates of ORSIS-CT20s.
After all, how could these two morons possibly have the diplomatic and military connections to get them through the usual backroom channels?
Throwing his arm wide behind him, the other brother asked, “Do you like our ride?”
I nodded. “It’s a great way to spend twice as much as for a Mercedes SL550.”
Vaska chimed in, “With none of that annoying good engineering or sleek style.”
His smile faltered. His eyes clouded over with that empty, vapid look stupid people get when they are not quite certain if they’ve been insulted or not.
I took a sip of my coffee. “As much as I’d love to chat about cars and watches in a freezing warehouse all morning, I really do have other matters to attend to today.”
“Anatoly, Andrei, if you would be so kind as to show us the merchandise? We do have other matters to attend to this morning,” interjected Vaska with an annoyed look at his watch.
With identical smirks, the two brothers turned, gesturing wildly to the men behind them and shouting instructions to pull out the crates.
Two men struggled with a long wooden crate between them as they followed the brothers back to us. I turned to toss my empty coffee cup in a nearby metal trashcan before signaling for the brothers to proceed.
Anatoly or maybe it was Andrei, what the fuck did I care which one, grabbed a crowbar and attempted to unhinge the nailed-down lid without much success.
Since this would obviously be awhile, I turned my back and checked my phone, frowning when I saw no answering text message from Emma. I had already texted her twice and gotten no response.
Glancing over my shoulder to see that the second brother had yanked the crowbar out of the other’s hands and was now also struggling to lift the lid, I took a few steps away and called her.
It went straight to voicemail.
Hello! You’ve reached Emma Doyle.
I’m probably in the library reading, so please leave a message!
“Emma, this is Dimitri. Call me back when you receive this message.”
Trying not to get annoyed, I focused my attention back on the matter at hand.
The brothers were now pushing and shoving at each other, arguing like children.
Their overpriced sneakers squeaked on the cement floor as they shuffled back and forth, trading verbal and physical jabs.
Vaska reached into his coat pocket and drew out a silver flask. Unscrewing the cap, he took a swig before handing it to me. I took a swig. “Damn you and that rotgut Moskovskaya Vodka you like!” I grimaced as I handed the flask back to him.
The brothers now each pulled out gold-plated Desert Eagle handguns and were pointing them at each other as they shouted juvenile insults. A more obnoxious I’m-a-wannabe-gangster gun could not be found, which meant it was fitting both carried one.
Vaska sighed. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“Gentlemen, if I may?” I said as I stepped forward.
I retrieved the crowbar from the icy floor and easily jimmied the lid open. Vaska tossed it aside. I reached past the straw packing and pulled out one of the large caliber sniper rifles.
Flipping the gun on its left side, I looked for the manufacturer’s markings.
It was the fastest way to see if I was dealing with a Russian-made gun or a much lower-quality Afghan knock-off.
Etched into the metal, where I would have expected to find a stamp with an arrow in a triangle that would have signaled the factory in Izhevsk, or a simple star that would have meant the other factory in Tula, I saw a string of serial numbers with Latin letters.
Without a word, I handed the gun to Vaska. He also looked to the left of the receiver.
We exchanged a knowing look.
The guns were cheap knock-offs from Afghanistan.
“So do we have a deal for both crates?” asked Andrei. “I need to know now. We have many interested buyers, but as a courtesy to the Motherland we are coming to you first.”
“A courtesy,” repeated Vaska. “Did you hear that Dimitri, the Petrov brothers were giving us a courtesy.”
In unison, we both pulled our concealed guns.
Vaska held his .30 caliber Tokarev to Andrei’s head. I held my Glock17 to Anatoly’s head.
Both started shouting and crying.
“Shut the fuck up,” I yelled.
Looking wildly from one to the next, their three henchmen took several hesitant steps forward as they raised their guns.
“Tell your girlfriends to leave,” I snarled.
“Get back! Now!” called Anatoly to his three men as he inched his hand to his waistband.
I reached for his gun first and tossed it aside. Vaska did the same with the other brother’s gun. Not that it worried us. I doubted the guns were even loaded, let alone that these two morons would know how to shoot such heavy firepower.
The three henchmen each ran from the warehouse.
“Looks like you weren’t a very good fuck in bed,” taunted Vaska.
I smirked. Vaska and I were never worried about extra men. Unlike in the movies, in our experience, hired hands were rarely paid enough to stick around for any actual violence. The moment they were expected to not just look tough but actually throw some lead, they usually fled.
“Gentlemen, you have jeopardized a lucrative business deal of ours.”
Andrei tried to speak.
Vaska cocked his gun. “Did we give you permission to talk?”
Andrei’s face crumpled as he whimpered, then his eyes grew round as he looked at the ground. Vaska jumped back. “Goddamn it! These are Italian!”
The warehouse now reeked of dirt, oil and piss.
This morning just kept getting better and better.
“As of today, you are no longer in the gunrunning business, have I made myself clear?” I threatened.
“But there’s enough business for everyone,” whined Anatoly.
Vaska shrugged. “I guess you weren’t clear.”
Moving the gun from Anatoly’s head to his knee, I fired. The man collapsed to the ground, screaming. His brother fell to his knees, crying over his wounded sibling.
Hunching down, I pressed my gun to Andrei’s head. He gaped at me, his entire body shaking.
“Have I made my point, or do I need to repeat myself?”
Vaska shook his head. “He really hates repeating himself.”
Anatoly continued to roll around on the ground, clutching his knee.
Andrei conceded. “Okay! Okay! No more guns.”
“And you’ll leave the city tonight.”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Good. Since I know you are sorry for the trouble and inconvenience you’ve caused, we’ll accept these crates as an apology,” I announced as I un-cocked my gun and returned it to the holster concealed under my coat.
“And the Ferrari,” chimed in Vaska.
I raised an eyebrow. He shrugged.
“And the Ferrari,” I finished sardonically.
Taking out my phone, I glanced to see if there were any new text messages from Emma.
None.
Dammit.
I then dialed the number for our associate who handled such things for us.
As soon as the phone picked up, I said, “I have a dog that needs to be taken to the vet. 117th and Parnell.” I hung up and looked at my watch. I would have just sufficient time to meet the shipment coming into Midway. “Call the general. Let him know the guns are knock-offs.”
“He’ll be satisfied to know none of the guns in his care walked off the base,” responded Vaska as he pulled out his phone to make the call.
“Hopefully pleased enough to look the other way when a few surface-to-air missiles do take a stroll.”
The moment our men arrived to clean up the mess, Vaska and I left. As we strolled the several blocks away where I had parked my Mercedes, I tried calling Emma again, then texted her.
I’m running out of patience, baby girl. Answer your phone.
“Woman problems?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snapped.
Maybe I’d pushed her too hard last night?
I had been a little rough with her. I had to keep reminding myself she was still an innocent.
It was difficult when her cute mouth was sucking my cock dry like a pro.
Jesus Christ, that woman would be the death of me.
She was so sensual and sexy as fuck. The biggest turn-on was how unaware she was of her own sexual appeal.
My gut twisted. I wasn’t used to caring this much about a woman, let alone giving a damn about how she spent her day away from me. Emma was different. It was driving me to distraction, not knowing where she was or what she was doing.
Rationally, I knew she was probably in class, but what if she wasn’t?
What if she disobeyed me and went back into that basement room to shelve books, alone and unprotected?
I called her again.
No answer.
Damn, the woman had me acting like a schoolboy.
“Can you handle supervising this shipment?” I asked Vaska after we’d pulled into the private hangar at Midway.
He got out of the car and leaned back in to say, “Sure, I’ll hitch a ride back downtown with David. Where are you going?”
“Hunting,” I growled.