Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
ARTEM
W hen Viktoria left, I pulled out my phone and tracked the car that was taking her back home. There was no reason to.
I trusted my men to do as they were told, especially with such a simple errand. Still, something compelled me to sit and watch the blinking dot on the map get further and further away.
Something burned in my gut, an unfamiliar feeling of possessiveness.
I had to resist the urge to call the driver and have her brought back.
It wasn't until they were in her neighborhood that I closed the app and got to business.
I'd forget her soon enough.
My mind needed to stay focused on the matter at hand.
I was under no illusion that Viktoria didn't know exactly what would happen to her brother and father.
Ivanov men tried to shield their women from the realities of the family business to keep them safe.
Zaitsev clearly hadn't cared about his daughter's safety or peace of mind.
Why protect her when he could use her?
No, Viktoria knew a lot, but that didn't mean that she needed to be here while I got to work.
I headed down to the basement of the cabin, each step taking me deeper into the damp chill that clung to the walls.
I stepped into the room where both Zaitsev men were being held. The senior was sitting in a collapsible metal chair with his hands tied behind his back and his lip bleeding. Junior was on the floor, bleeding from a few different places, his eyes darting wildly around the room like a cornered rat.
"Problems?" I asked.
"The younger one got a little mouthy." Vladan, my second, shrugged. "When the old one came in, he had an issue with it, but it was resolved rather quickly."
"Good," I said, signaling one of the other men.
Immediately, he moved a small metal table in front of the senior Zaitsev and placed a chair across from him for me. The scrape of metal against the concrete floor echoed through the basement.
I took a seat and nodded for him to be untied. Zaitsev may be a dirty pig, but I was not. I was going to face him like the man he pretended to be.
"I hear Solovyov likes to play poker with his men. Did you know modern poker is an American game?" I said.
"The bitch was lying, I would never work with?—"
A simple lifting of my hand was all it took to silence him. I didn't know what made him more of a coward—the way he shook in front of me, or the way he treated his daughter.
"I am not American. Though I see the many opportunities this new world provides, I am Russian through and through," I continued.
"As am I." Zaitsev banged his fist on the table and tried to stand. My men put heavy hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down into his seat. The chair legs scraped against the floor with his struggle.
"Good, then let's play a Russian drinking game, shall we?"
Vladan set a bottle of Russian Standard down on the table, the bottle still coated with frost, and Zaitsev's eyes widened as his lips twisted in a grin. It wasn't my preferred brand, but this greedy pig clearly didn't care about quality so much as quantity.
"We drink to our health and business," he boomed, like he was calling the shots. Vladan lowered a single shot glass in front of him. The glass clinked against the table, Zaitsev flinching at the small sound.
He looked at me with a line of confusion forming between his eyes.
I reached into the leather holster under my jacket and pulled out a .44 Magnum revolver. The weight of it was familiar in my hand, comforting even. The overhead light caught on the polished metal, sending a flash across Zaitsev's face.
He stared at it, and his confusion turned to understanding and horror as I pulled out six bullets from my jacket pocket and lined them up on the table. They rolled slightly on the uneven surface, coming to rest in a perfect row.
"I assume you are familiar with the rules of Russkaya ruletka ?"
"You only need one bullet for roulette," he said, his body shaking as he stared at the bullets.
"I say we make our own rules. We are going to start with an empty barrel, and then I am going to ask you some questions. If I don't like your answer, or worse, I think you are lying to me, I will place a bullet in the barrel."
"I—"
"See, the rules are simple," I said, sitting back in my chair.
He still stared at the bullets all lined up, sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. A single drop ran down his temple, leaving a clean streak through the grime on his face.
"What is the vodka for?"
"That is for you. I'm not asking simple questions, and you may need some encouragement." I touched the tip of each bullet, watching his eyes bounce between them. The brass casings gleamed under the harsh light.
Vladan picked up the bottle and poured the first shot. The clear liquid splashed into the glass, the sharp scent of alcohol cutting through the basement's stale air.
Zaitsev didn't touch it. He would need it soon enough.
"First question. Did Solovyov send you to make a deal with me?"
"No," Zaitsev answered immediately. "Viktoria is a lying bitch like her mother. She doesn't know what she is talking about."
I clicked my tongue in disappointment as I loaded the first bullet. "I had it on good authority he did, even before meeting your daughter."
"Fine, but I would never betray you. I was going to double-cross him."
I slid another bullet into place. The metal-on-metal clink sent a visible shudder through Zaitsev's body.
"I'm not lying," he all but shouted.
"I didn't think you were, but I don't like hearing that people who want to be in business with me are so untrustworthy."
Zaitsev opened and closed his mouth several times before reaching for the shot and knocking it back. His throat worked as he swallowed, a grimace twisting his features. Vladan refilled the glass as Zaitsev wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, wincing when the vodka burned his busted lip.
"What are Solovyov's plans?" I asked.
"I don't know the details."
I picked up bullet number three, rolling it between my fingers. The weight of it so satisfying. He started shaking, his knees knocking beneath the table.
"I swear I don't. He never told me shit, only that he wanted to take American territory, and he thinks the best way to do that is to separate you from Gregor. He says the American family is too weak to stand on its own without the Russian side."
"Those would be details." I shook my head and clicked the third bullet into place. "Try to answer my questions the first time I ask."
Zaitsev picked up the shot glass again, his hands shaking so badly that vodka sloshed over the rim, spilling onto his fingers and over the table, forming small, clear puddles that reflected the overhead lights.
"Who else has Solovyov hired?"
"No one else like us. Only hitmen from back in Moscow, and I think he has a few senators who are on the take, but I swear I don't know which ones."
I tapped the fourth bullet on the table, letting the metallic clink shake Zaitsev's nerves even more.
"What happened to Dima?"
The eldest Zaitsev son used to keep his lunatic father and brother in line, but I'd heard he was killed a few years back. Since then they had become hazardous liabilities. Unfortunately, until now, they had not done anything overt enough to warrant Gregor sanctioning a hit on them.
"He died in a deal gone bad." Zaitsev's hands shook even more as he reached for the bottle.
Vladan pulled it out of his reach before he refilled the shot glass.
I slid bullet number four home. The cylinder rotated with smooth, well-oiled precision.
"That's how he died. I swear it. I don't know who did it, I could never get anyone to talk about who?—"
His words stopped as I slid bullet number five home. The click all but a death sentence.
"It's the truth. It was a drug deal gone bad. I had him picking up coke from the Colombians and?—"
I picked up the last bullet and slid it in place before spinning the barrel and flicking it closed.
The sound was final, definitive. The air in the room seemed to still, as if holding its breath.
"No, no. I'm telling you the truth. He stepped out and was working for the Colombians and I–I didn't know. They killed him before I could get him back in line." He was rambling now, and it was all bullshit.
That meant his fear wasn't strong enough, yet.
It was easy enough to change that.
I stared Zaitsev in the eye as I raised the gun to his face.
He was a sweating, swearing mess. Pleading for his life like the pathetic little man he was. Spittle flew from his lips as he begged over and over, his words tumbling over one another in their rush to escape.
Without breaking eye contact, I swung my hand around and fired, putting a single bullet in the head of his youngest son.
The sound was deafening in the small space. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air, mingling with the coppery scent of fresh blood. Junior's body slumped to the side, a dark stain spreading across the concrete beneath him.
"No," Zaitsev screamed. He tried to get up, but my men held him in place, their fingers digging into his shoulders. "You'll pay for that."
Flecks of white gathered at the corners of his lips as he screamed, veins bulging at his temples. Perhaps putting him down tonight would be the more humane thing to do.
Vladan opened the door behind me and two other men in suits stepped in, picking Junior up by his feet and dragging his body out of the room, leaving a thick, wet red trail across the concrete floor in their wake.
Zaitsev continued to scream threats until Vladan poured him another shot and he realized our game wasn't over. His face went from rage to horror in an instant.
Now it was time for me to get the information I needed.
"Round two." I smiled as the blood drained from his face and his eyes fixed on the revolver in my hand.
Five bullets remained.