18. Alexei #3
Dima lights a cigarette. “This won’t make you like it any better.”
It takes me a moment to realize the social media posts all feature me—and that none of them are positive.
“The Pakhan’s Plan,” screams one headline, beneath a clear image of my face. “Is Petrovsky’s Playbook a Plot to Conquer the Keys?”
There are a hundred variations on the same theme.
“Ballot Box Boss.”
“Polls, Politics, and the Pakhan Poisoning the Process.”
And it doesn’t stop at the political conspiracy shit. The posts dredge up old scandals along with the new.
“The Biscayne Butcher,” beneath a gruesome carousel of homicide images of corpses. “Blood, Bodies, and the Brutal Bratva Boss.”
“Sunny Isles Slaughter,” with a picture of Ron Watkins’s face.
“I like that last one,” I say lightly, ignoring the cold creep of revulsion spreading through my body. “But this has to be my personal favorite.” I click on another headline, highlighting it. “Draining the Dade County Swamp: Can Florida Finally Free Itself from Petrovsky’s Payouts?”
“It’s got a ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yeah.” Lars gives me a loopy grin. “That’s the thing about AI.
Endless fucking creative possibilities.” He clicks into a diagram.
“I’ve reverse engineered a stack of the social media accounts and so-called news outlets behind the headlines.
All of them lead nowhere, off into the ether.
Bot accounts spreading AI bullshit news sources, but the fuckers are smart, Lex.
I can tell they’re fake, but I can’t track them.
Whoever is running the campaign against you has one hell of a disinformation machine.
We’re talking content farms and high-level media manipulation. ”
“This shit is all over every screen in Miami, Lex.” Dima isn’t smiling. “And when I tell you it’s fucking us, I mean like a reverse pineapple up the ass, without lube to smooth the passage.”
“Interesting visual,” Lars murmurs, earning a dark glance from Dima. “But true, unfortunately. I ran the numbers after Dima asked me to check. Earnings are down, deeper than that fucking swamp you love so much.” He clicks, and the revolting headlines disappear.
Unfortunately, the sick churning in my gut doesn’t.
“The reason I’m so sure there’s a connection,” Lars says, “is because the same social media accounts that are painting you black are busy whitewashing Marty Hunter Jr. and his family to American dream perfection.”
“Owens did say that was his plan.” I scroll through the links Lars sent through, all showing Marty’s white-toothed smile dazzling the camera, his arms around his perfectly groomed blonde wife and daughter.
“They must be doing photo shoots before eleven in the morning, if the wife looks that sober. The facade will crack sooner or later,” I say dismissively.
“Hunter’s so deep in the swamp he’s barely breathing, and the public knows it. ”
“The public,” says Lars dryly, “know what they’re told to know.
And the people behind Hunter have used this thing with you and Ron Watkins to recast you as Miami’s villain and him as a modern American crime-fighting hero.
They don’t mention who is actually doing the crime fighting, mind you.
And that’s where this shit gets interesting. ”
He clicks on an aerial shot of the crew of a Cardenas narco-sub surrendering to a force of armed men in black military fatigues. “Have a look at the uniforms worn by the military guys who boarded the sub and tell me what you see.”
I zoom in, frowning at the gun-toting figures on the deck. “Unidentifiable,” I say. “Except for that horizontal arrow. Mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing,” Lars says. “Doesn’t belong to any law enforcement agency, nor any private security firm we can identify.”
“Private militia?”
“Got it in one,” Lars says. “These images were plastered all over social media barely minutes after the sub was detained. Hunter immediately gave a press conference taking full credit for the operation, saying that he and the Miami Drug Enforcement Agency had been working with senior federal officials to combat the drug trade. Only problem, according to your friend Renata, is that neither the Miami DEA, the US Marshals office, or the FBI even knew of the narco-sub’s existence, let alone that they’d supposedly been working with Hunter, of all people, on some secret operation.
Whoever these guys in black are, they’re not government.
Not that they’re admitting that publicly, of course.
It’s much better for them to just take the win. ”
“It’s the same with the guys who shut down our casinos, and the nightclubs,” Dima adds. “Not only are they not on our payroll—nobody in Miami law enforcement seems to know who they are. No uniforms. No badges. Just masked faces, heavy weaponry, and shut-down notices.”
My bad feeling is going from bad to fucking catastrophic at lightning speed.
“Renata said her investigations into Hunter and his funding were being stonewalled,” I say slowly. “I take it whoever is doing the stonewalling is the same person running the guys you’re talking about?”
“Safe guess,” Dima says.
“Less a person,” Lars says. “More like an organization. A fucking big one, with a lot of coin.” A stack of documents appears on my screen.
“Renata said there was big money behind the Hunter campaign.” I run my eye down the numbers. “She wasn’t exaggerating.”
“Nope. And I’m not surprised she couldn’t trace Hunter’s funding.
It’s a fucking labyrinth.” Lars clicks again, and a list of names pops up.
“Political action groups. Shell companies. Small donations from mom-and-pop fundraisers. Money that’s incredibly hard to trace or pin down, coming in from so many directions it’s virtually impossible to follow. ”
“Organizations are still people. Whoever is running John Owens is clearly running this.”
“Clearly,” Lars says. “Which I know is Mak’s party. But given the circumstances, I wanted to talk to you before I gave him a full report.” He tilts his head. “So did Dima.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
“And before you ask,” Lars goes on, “I’ve kept Mickey out of it, too. Not sure how long that will last, though. Little fucker isn’t stupid.” I don’t miss the grudging admiration in his tone.
“No,” I say tightly. “He isn’t.”
And if he finds out that America’s newest favorite villain is sleeping with his sister, I doubt he’ll hold back on the retribution.
I need to get Ofelia out of here. Then I need to talk to Mak.
A favor is one thing. But shutting down my games and hitting my bottom line is crossing a line I can’t ignore.
I need to get back to the swamp and fix this shit.
“Don’t go anywhere near Miami.” Lars reads my mind with characteristic accuracy. “You need to stay way the hell out of this, Lex, until we work out who is behind it.”
“Fuck off,” I snarl. “Mak said the same thing, and look where that’s landed us.”
“And much as I dislike giving that smooth motherfucker props,” he says lightly, “in this instance, we happen to be on the same page. You told me that you’d given Mak carte blanche to deal with this Owens character.
Called it a favor, which Dima here tells me is taken seriously between you bratva boys. ”
“You could say that,” I say tightly, “yes.”
“Then give him carte blanche.” Lars sits back and runs his hands through his hair. “It’s not like Mak doesn’t have the resources and the balls to take care of business.”
“Fuck that—”
“I’m with Lars,” Dima cuts in.
I glare at him. “I thought you came to me because the favor is hurting us.”
“It is.” He gives me a dark smile. “But Mak wanted the favor. So make him work for it.” He shrugs.
“We both know he won’t let you down. And for once, I agree with both him and this fucker.
” He tilts his head at Lars. “That social media shit has done its work. You set so much as a foot on Miami soil, and some prick will recognize you. Right now, that’s the last thing the business, or any of us, needs.
Hunter’s team has made you public enemy number one, Lex.
We’re doing everything we can to keep our people safe and under the radar.
If you come back, it will only put a spotlight on all their backs. ”
“Not if I blow a fucking hole through whoever is holding the spotlight.”
“This isn’t the Orlov situation,” Dima says grimly.
“We don’t have half of Miami rooting for us to win.
Back then, law enforcement was on our side, unofficially at least, and Marty Hunter Jr. was campaigning for his first term.
They all hated the Orlovs as much as we did, and feared them, too.
You did law enforcement’s job for them and put Marty into Congress. Everyone won.
“But this is different. Owens is an enemy we can’t see. Take Hunter out, and more than likely another puppet will pop up in his place. This isn’t a Miami thing, Lex, or even a fucking Florida thing. The money and influence for this are coming from outside our house.”
I grimace. “Mak said the same thing.”
Lars shrugs. “He’s right.”
Unfortunately, I know he is.
Suddenly my mind is racing, lifting up above the swamp, trying to see past the horizon.
I need to outthink these fuckers.
And that means switching tack. Utilizing my keyboard skills, rather than my killing ones.
Which means there’s nothing I can do in Miami that I can’t do better from the secure room on this yacht.
“Tell Mak we’re going to shut down until he works this out.” Seeing them both look uncomprehending, I go on impatiently. “Shut everything down.”
Dima’s eyebrows shoot through the roof. “When you say everything, you mean—”