Chapter 42
COLE
First thing Wednesday morning, Richardson takes a good run at Tarasov. She comes in before Bennett, just minutes after the Sawgrass men remove the hood and headphones.
The pakhan looks like a broken man before she starts. The bags under his eyes are so dark they could be bruises. His hair is matted. His beard seems thin on his cheeks. He looks like a drunk who’s spent the past month sleeping under a dumpster.
Richardson moves into the room with a soft, sighing sound. She puts her cup of coffee on the table, close enough for Tarasov to grasp. When she nods for him to take it, he guzzles the caffeine.
Shaking her head, she steps out to the break room, only to return with another cup and one of the glazed donuts Megan brought in for her team.
“This government crap isn’t as good,” she says, passing him the grounds-filled coffee.
“But it’s Sarah’s birthday,” she ad-libs. “So at least there are donuts.”
He polishes off both like he’s starving. Which isn’t that far from the truth.
Richardson sits on her side of the table. She’s a professional. She keeps her distance. There isn’t a chance Tarasov can get his chains around her neck. He probably can’t even land a gob of spit in her eye. But she lowers her head and softens her voice and sounds like she’s really pleading.
“You have to help me out here. Bennett’s a hard-ass.
He’s never giving in. If you can just give me something, some stupid detail about the bratva’s activities in Baltimore, I can go to our boss.
I can say you’re being reasonable. You deserve a real meal and a shower.
” She looks at his wrists with pity. “I can get you out of those things, at least for a while. Just give me something. Anything. So I can say you’re cooperating. ”
Cooperating.
That’s the word that loses him. He sits back in his chair, his mouth slamming shut like a snapping turtle’s. By the time Bennett arrives, he’s closed up tighter than a bank vault.
Bennett goes bad cop in the afternoon. He pulls a revolver and shoves it against the base of Tarasov’s skull. He announces he’s always wanted to play Russian roulette and he spins the chamber, Richardson screaming for him to stop.
But Tarasov has checked out.
He’s clearly counting the minutes. No legitimate government agency can hold him past seventy-two hours—not in DC, not without lawyers, not without a formal accusation and arrest. We’ll have to release him. He’ll walk away free.
Kate is counting too. Every time I glance at her, she’s staring at the clock on her computer screen. 4:30. The office starts to empty, all our grifters heading for home. 4:45. The last of the floor clears. 5:00. Megan leaves the receptionist’s desk.
5:01.
Our divorce decree is final. Kate is not my wife. I am not her husband.
And we’ve utterly failed at breaking Tarasov.
But that Russian motherfucker has a fundamental misunderstanding about the rules of the game we’re playing. MAJAT isn’t bound by the United States Constitution, or laws, or justice. Kate and I can do whatever the fuck we want to our prisoner.
And what I want…
I test a new idea inside my head. Richardson and Bennett can handle it; they’re trained Sawgrass operatives.
There’s plenty of time to collect the tools we need; we can take all night if necessary.
Tarasov will be at his most vulnerable first thing tomorrow, when he’s certain he’s about to be set free.
As Kate stares glumly through the two-way, I take out my phone. I’m grateful I had the foresight to insist Megan carry a burner for the duration of the game. She answers cheerfully, “Hey, Cocoa Puff.”
“Nut. Don’t come in tomorrow.”
Kate whirls on me as if I’ve lost my mind.
I tell my sister, “Call your people. Have them stay home too.”
“You’re shutting down the game?” She sounds incredulous.
I shake my head. “Exactly the opposite. I’m turning up the heat.”
Kate’s eyes narrow. She glances toward the break room, as if she’s considering having the Sawgrass men shake some sense into me.
“Think about it,” I say to Megan, but I’m staring at Kate as I deliver every word. I’m mindful of the fact that Nutmeg’s burner isn’t secure. “In the real world, we’d have seventy-two hours. But in this game, we don’t give a shit about actual due process. We can wait forever.”
Megan says, “All the more reason for everyone to clock in as usual. Keep the pressure on.”
I’ve already said more than I should have on an open line. But I chance sharing a few more details. “There are different types of pressure. And with an empty office…”
Megan has always been quick at filling in blanks. No one ever has to say words like witness or evidence or testimony. She says, “I’ll call off the team right now.”
“Until further notice,” I say.
“Got it, big brother.” She makes a kissing noise and ends the call.
The look Kate gives me is sharp enough to shred paper. “You’re going to torture the shitehawk.”
“I believe the preferred term is enhanced interrogation.”
Kate’s grin is feral.
“Twelve hours,” I predict. “Before he shatters like a bottle of cheap Karkov vodka.”