Chapter 6
6
J AMES
“Pull over there,” I say, pointing to the next block.
Thomas stops the car by the sidewalk.
“Wait here,” I say as he turns the engine off.
I slip out of the car and walk briskly, looking up and down the street.
The road is empty, and so are the sidewalks, and everything is sunk in darkness.
I check the name of the street and the numbers. I’m only a couple of blocks away.
Feet away from the address, I check the building.
The place has two levels and eight apartments, and the lights are turned on in some of them. A courtyard looks up at the sky in the space carved out at the center of the building.
Metallic stairs crawl up the exterior walls, connecting the floors.
I turn left, and instead of walking past everybody’s window, I opt for a service stairwell that takes me to the second floor.
My eyes are trained on the windows that must be Tiago’s. A faint glow comes from one of the rooms. I stop a few steps from the door and peek through the window.
Has Thomas left the lights on?
My gaze slides to the main door before I wrap my hand around the doorknob and slowly shift it.
The door opens.
Silently, I step back and peel off my jacket.
Holding it with one hand, I quietly push the door open and step in.
A small hallway sprawls out in front of me. The door to the kitchen looms on the right, and the light I spotted earlier comes from the left.
That’s Tiago’s bedroom, I suspect.
I hear some noise inside, and whoever is there doesn’t seem to care. He pulls the drawers open and shoves them back in, muttering shit on his phone.
He has a thick Russian accent.
A louder noise travels across the corridor as he slams his fist into a piece of furniture and curses at it.
“No, no. I checked again. There’s nothing in here,” the man says, his tone heavy with frustration.
Quietly, I reach the bedroom door.
“I looked everywhere twice,” he says, his irritation growing.
I press my back against the wall, peering through the cracked door.
Slowly, I push it open more, hoping it doesn’t creak.
Luckily, it doesn’t.
The back of a male fills my view. Buffed up and shorter than me, he gestures widely, barking words I can’t make out.
He wears crappy jeans and a leather jacket that has seen better days and is relatively young, yet older than me.
His head swivels as he glances around, searching for something.
A moment later, he hangs up and spins around.
I pull back and wait.
Unsuspectingly, he turns off the lights, swings the door open, and walks out of the bedroom.
He’s inches away from me, his back turned to me, a faint light coming from outside when with a swift motion, I grab his neck with my left hand and clock him with the fist clutching the leather jacket, pulling him down at the same time.
My jab spurs a groan in his chest, his arms flailing in the air as he struggles to regain his balance.
He fails and falls.
His back hits the floor before I pin him down with my knee and put my weight on his chest.
His bones creak as I lock his neck and push him down.
Squirming, he claws at my neck, trying to grab me.
I clock him again.
A Russian curse rips through the air.
“English, motherfucker,” I bark.
He freezes.
And magically sags in my hands.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“You first,” I say, immobilizing his right arm with my left leg.
“Let go of me.”
I smash his head against the floor.
He grunts again.
“Do I look like a sucker?” I say.
“All right. All right... Oleg. My name is Oleg.”
“Who sent you here, Oleg?”
He stays mum.
I lose my patience.
“Who sent you here, motherfucker?” I thunder, slamming his head against the floor again.
“The Azarians.”
“Who are the Azarians?”
“The people I work for.”
“And what are you looking for?”
He stays quiet and only groans from time to time.
“Don’t make me lose my patience, Oleg.”
“A man. I’m looking for a man. Tiago Rossi.”
I let go of him and push to my feet.
“Stand up,” I order, taking a step back.
He pulls upright.
Dazed, he touches the back of his head.
“Stand up,” I shout.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Up.”
He shifts his position and slowly pushes up.
“American?” he mutters.
“What was your first clue?”
He swings his eyes to the door.
“Don’t even fucking think about it. My men are waiting for you outside.”
He lifts his eyebrows, surprised.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Your worst nightmare. Now get in the fucking kitchen,” I say, motioning to the room at the end of the hallway.
Dragging his feet, he heads that way.
Moments later, we enter the room.
I kick a chair away from the table and gesture at him.
“Sit,” I order as I turn on the light above the table.
He crashes into his seat, his eyes flying at me as I pull a cigarette from the pack inside the pocket and toss my jacket on the second chair.
His eyes peel wide, his mouth falling open as the cone of light glows over me.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks, looking at me dumbfounded.
His eyes move slowly over my face, taking in my features.
“You’re not him...” he mutters, staring at me as I bring my cigarette to my lips, light it, and take a drag, narrowing my eyes. “But, you look like him.”
“What happened to him?” I ask in a low, paced voice.
The man pushes his shoulders up before letting them slump.
“I don’t know. He’s gone.”
“Why the hell are you here looking for him if he’s gone?”
“They sent me here.”
Something doesn’t add up.
I flick an eyebrow at him.
“The brothers,” he offers.
“Why did they send you here, Oleg?” I ask menacingly.
“He owes them money.”
“How much?”
“I can’t tell you.”
My fist hits the table before it bounces straight to his neck.
“How much?”
He pushes back, fighting me and grabbing my neck as well. I kick the chair from under him, pressing his face against the table, and twist his arm behind his back.
He groans in pain.
“All right,” he shouts. “Let me go.”
I lift him up and toss him into the chair.
“How much?”
He looks at me with vacant eyes.
“I don’t know. A lot, I guess,” he says.
I read his face.
We’re getting nowhere with this.
“What about this?” I mutter, my cigarette dangling from the corner of my mouth as I pick up my jacket, slide my hand into my pocket and pull out a roll of cash.
All brand new one hundred bills.
I set it in front of him.
His eyes sparkle.
“10K. It’s all yours if you answer my questions.”
“I don’t know if I can––”
“You don’t know. Then my offer is off,” I say, sweeping the roll of cash off the table.
“Wait. Wait,” he says, his hands jerking up in the air.
“They’re gonna kill me if I tell you.”
“Not my problem. Besides, you might die at my people’s hands anyway,” I mutter around my cigarette, slipping the money back into my pocket.
His eyes linger on my jacket.
“Put it back on the table,” he says.
There’s nothing like a small-time crook.
“Try not to waste my time,” I say.
With one swift motion, I retrieve the money and plop it onto the table before spinning the other chair around, straddling it, and setting my elbows on its wooden back.
“Talk,” I bark, tipping my chin in his direction. “How much money?”
“Half a mil.”
My eyebrows tilt in surprise.
“How come he owes that much?”
“He’s fighting. For them,” he adds sheepishly, unsure of my reaction.
“What’s their cut?”
“Sixty percent.”
“Hmm...”
That’s a big cut.
Was he stupid? Or was he stupid?
He searches my eyes for a moment.
“That’s the normal cut,” he says. “All fighters pay the same percentage to the owners. He’s the only one who’s stopped paying it.”
“When did he stop?”
“A while back.”
“Why did they keep him then?”
“He’s made good money for them, brought in a lot of people, and drawn the prizes and payouts up.”
“That’s why they want him back?”
“Yes. And to recoup their fee.”
Hmm... So he’s not stupid after all.
“What made you think he was back?”
He studies my face.
I arch my eyebrows at him impatiently.
“I got word that someone was in his apartment yesterday morning.”
“Who told you that?”
He flicks his head, motioning to the hallway outside.
“Someone in the building?”
He nods.
“The landlord?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know the people you work for?”
He shakes his head.
“He thinks I’m his cousin. I may have interested him with some money. He kept his mouth shut and didn’t ask a lot of questions.”
“Uh-huh. Who else is looking for him?”
He ponders, his eyes dipping to the stash of money.
“There were other people interested in him. He’s made a name for himself...”
“I don’t have the whole fucking night.”
“He vanished after winning big the last time he had fought. He collected the money, went home, and nobody saw him after that.”
“Go on.”
“Several nights before it happened, a couple of Russians had come to see him fight. They run the same kind of business in St. Petersburg. The brothers suspected Rossi had cut a deal with them and left the country. They also think he’s left his money here.”
“What makes them believe that?”
“He’s stubborn but not stupid. He wouldn’t put his money at risk and made himself a living target.”
He looks down for a moment while I put the cigarette out.
“He’s already a target.”
He shifts his gaze back to me.
“The brothers will leave him alone if he comes back.”
“And pays his debt.”
He nods in agreement.
“Yes.”
“What happens if he doesn’t?”
“They’ll recoup it one way or another. They never let anyone get away with it.”
I have no doubt.
He pauses.
“They’ve already considered using a few people connected to him as a bargaining chip.”
I know a couple of them.
That woman, Abby Newtown, is one.
And then, my mother.
“What are they waiting for?”
“They want to find him first.”
“What makes them think they will?”
“Sooner or later, he’ll want his money or get in touch with someone and ask them to retrieve it. If he fights in St. Petersburg, the brothers will know. He couldn't be more wrong if he thinks he can get away with it. This is a small world in which everybody knows everybody. A fighter like him doesn’t go unnoticed, no matter how hard he tries to cover his tracks. And since he doesn’t have any money on him, his days in hiding are numbered, so in the end, it’s a matter of waiting for him to surface again.”
I keep my eyes pinned on him until beads of sweat pop up on his brow.
“Take the money,” I say.
He looks at me hesitantly.
“Take it.”
He sweeps it off the table and shoves it into his pocket.
“Why are you looking for him?” he asks.
“He owes me money, and it’s more than he owes them.”
He looks at me, puzzled.
“I want a meeting with the brothers,” I say.
The blood drains from his face.
“They’d know I talked to you,” he says, tense.
“You’re doing them a favor.”
“They won’t take it that way.”
“Leave that to me.”
He observes me.
“You’d get twice as much as you’ve earned this evening if you arrange a meeting with them within the next twenty-four hours.”
His expression changes as the scale begins to tip.
“And no word about the money that you’ve given me?”
“Do I look stupid?”
He bites back a retort.
“Good. We have a deal then,” I say, fishing out a card from my pocket and tossing it on the table.
“This is the phone number where I expect your call,” I say, pointing to the handwritten number.
He collects the card and slides it inside his jacket pocket.
“How did I meet you?” he asks.
“You ran into me on the street.”
His eyes glint with disbelief.
“Use your brain. I don’t care what you tell them,” I say.
He pushes his chair back and rises.
“Before you leave...” I say, flicking my finger up.
He turns to stone.
I pick up my phone and call Thomas.
“A man in a leather jacket will exit the building within the next five minutes. Let him go,” I say on the phone.
I hang up.
Oleg looks at me.
“You better hurry if you don’t want to spend some time with him.”
Without a word, he spins around and dashes away.
Within seconds, I hear the main door opening and closing before his footsteps trail away.