Chapter 20 Stellan
STELLAN
“Took me longer than I like to admit, but I traced that plate back to here.” Frankie takes a drag on a cigarette and gestures at the rental car place. It’s one of those off-brand companies with dirt-cheap vehicles. “What should we do?”
“We’ll talk to the owner.” I head inside, hands shoved into the pockets of my jacket. Frankie follows and pauses only to put out the cigarette before flicking it away.
The lobby is shabby and in terrible shape. The few chairs are dingy, and their cloth seats are universally torn. The guy behind the counter looks bored and seems startled to find two big men suddenly waiting for his attention.
“The manager around?” I ask, glancing toward the back, but I don’t see anyone nearby.
“That’s me tonight.” The guy clears his throat and gestures at his name tag. It says Tim, Store Manager. “What can I do for you folks?”
“We need your help finding my cousin.” I slip a piece of paper across the desk toward him. It’s resting on top of a couple hundred dollar bills. “He rented the car with this license plate number. I was hoping you could tell me what address he gave you or anything else that might be helpful.”
Tim the manager frowns at the hastily scrawled plate number and glances at the money. He doesn’t touch it. “You said you’re looking for your cousin?”
“That’s right. My cousin. His parents are worried. He’s never done anything like this before.”
The look on Tim the manager’s face suggests he thinks I’m full of shit.
“Right, well, I can’t give out any customer information. It’s against store policy.”
“Huh. I see.” I take another hundred and place it down. “He’s a good kid. But he’s a little lost.” Frankie lurks behind me, looking bored, but I know that’s an act. He’s on high alert.
Tim shakes his head. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t.”
“You sure?” My heart picks up. I would’ve been disappointed if he had taken the cash. This will be more fun. “You definitely positive?”
“I’m very sorry, sir.”
“Okay. I understand.” I take my money back before vaulting the counter and kicking Tim the manager right in the face.
My boots crunch into his chest. He grunts in shock as I knock him back. Tim yelps, letting out a piggish squeal as he tries to crawl away from me. I grab his ankle and pull him back, tutting as I do it, and stomp down hard on his knee.
Another scream of pain.
“Frankie, take our friend in the back and make him show you the security cameras. Let’s do a little erasing, shall we?”
“Gladly.” Frankie climbs over the counter, gun in hand, and waves it at Tim. “Come on, big guy, you’ll be okay.”
“Please, don’t hurt me.” Tim’s sobbing, face white with terror.
“Jesus, man, did you piss yourself?”
He moans, a dark stain spreading out across his jeans. “Please, I’m sorry.”
Frankie makes a face. “Fucking pathetic.” He hits Tim and I can’t even blame him, but now it’s almost like beating a puppy. “Come on, you stupid bastard, stop crying and you might survive this.”
Tim gets to his feet, sniffling, and limps after Frankie, gun shoved in his neck.
What a disappointment. I had hoped Tim the manager would’ve put up more of a fight, but, oh, well.
I type the license plate number into the company software manager. It whirs for a second, thinking real hard, before returning the last ten customers who rented the car.
At the very top: Bobby Smith.
The fakest fucking name ever.
But underneath that is a real address on a small street near South. I write it down and call for Frankie. He returns a minute later, whistling like he’s out for a casual stroll.
“Our friend?” I ask.
“Hiding under his desk.”
“Footage?”
“Cameras don’t even work.” He shakes his head. “Pathetic.”
“Come on. We have one more stop.”
The address takes us to a boring row house on a packed residential block. There’s nothing special about it. Black bars over the windows, but those aren’t all that unusual in the city. There’s no decoration on the door and no indication that anyone lives inside, but still, also not that surprising.
Frankie goes around to the alley behind. I give him a twenty count before I head to the front door. I’m not sure what to expect, but I’ve got my gun ready, just in case. I knock and ring the bell before standing with my back to the building so whoever’s inside can’t see my face.
I hear shuffling around beyond the door. There’s definitely somebody inside. I knock again, still not turning around, just rapping my knuckles behind me, until a voice calls out.
“Who’s that?”
“Food delivery.”
“I didn’t order anything.” He sounds annoyed, but I noticed he didn’t say we. Which means he’s probably alone.
“Look, man, I don’t care. I got Chinese out here. You can send it back or keep it, but this is the address in the app.”
“Like I said, I didn’t order shit, so fuck off.” Another lock clunks into place.
I sigh, already thinking I’m going to have to break my way through, when there’s a sudden yell of panic. Glass breaks, something hard thuds, and a few seconds later the door yawns open.
Frankie looks very pleased with himself.
“Took you long enough.” I push past him and step into a musty, simple house. The living room is furnished with thick rugs, old furniture, and dozens of photographs on the wall. Old radios fill the shelves and there’s a bunch of soccer memorabilia scattered all over.
I close the door and face our friend.
He’s dark-skinned. Blood trickles down his face where he slammed into the edge of the entertainment console. The TV’s cracked and pieces of the screen glitter on the floor. He’s glaring up at us, hate in his eyes.
“Let me guess.” I crouch down in front of him. “You’re Bobby Smith.”
Recognition flashes across his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I gesture at Frankie. “Make sure we’re alone.”
He ghosts past me, gun out, to check upstairs.
I watch Bobby Smith, not saying anything.
Interrogations like this can be very delicate.
It’s best to let his mind do all the work.
I don’t know what scares him, and it would take me a while to figure it out the hard way.
Better to let him conjure a thousand different ways I can hurt him, all tailored to exactly what he hates.
Sometimes waiting really is the best torture.
Finally, he scrunches back from me. “What do you want?”
I wonder what he imagined. Broken fingers? Twisted joints? Maybe just some classic knife play. Doesn’t matter though.
“You work for Isak Vural.”
“I don’t know—”
I hit him. Nice and simple. The butt of my gun smacks him across the face. He grunts in pain and surprise.
“Try again. We’re just getting started here. You work for Vural.”
“Yes, I do.”
I knew it already. But the confirmation sends a shiver down my spine. “Why are you here? How long have you lived in this place?”
“Months. Because they sent me.”
“How many others are there like you?”
He smirks slightly. “Thousands.”
Bullshit. Definitely not that many. But a dozen? Maybe more? That wouldn’t surprise me.
There are too many implications floating through my head.
If Bobby Smith has been here for a while, and there are others just like him, that means Vural’s been slowly invading Philly without anyone even realizing.
He did it slowly and purposefully. He got his men into position, and now he’s beginning to use them.
My enemy is smart. He’s organized. And above all, he’s dangerous.
“Names. Addresses.” I put a knee into his chest and press my gun into his mouth. “Or I make sure there’s one less enemy to bother my family.”
He mumbles something, and I have to move the barrel away. “Fuck you.”
I hit him a few times. That wasn’t nice, but it also wasn’t a surprise. “Try again.”
“Fuck—You—”
I crack him hard enough to break a couple teeth. He moans, drooling blood. I stand, backing away, as Frankie descends the stairs with a shake of his head.
“Nobody. Place looks like he lives alone. Not even a girlfriend.”
“You alone in here, Bobby Smith?”
“I’ve got a dozen roommates,” he slurs at me. “And they’re all going to fuck you in the ass.”
“But I found this.” Frankie waves a phone in the air, swipes from the bottom, and turns it on our friend. He’s too slow to stop it from unlocking. “Here we go, numbers and addresses.”
“That’s helpful. You’re organized.”
Bobby Smith looks scared now. “You don’t know anything about us. We’re coming. Isak’s going to burn your houses, rape your wives, kill your children—”
I shoot him in the face. His blood splatters everywhere as his brain matter turns into hot jelly. Frankie steps away, frowning distastefully, and kicking one nice shoe to dislodge a piece of skull from his toe. “Warn me next time,” he grumbles.
“I didn’t feel like listening to his rant.” I hold my hand out for the phone, and Frankie passes it over.
I quickly copy over his address book and send it to myself. Then I change the passcode to make sure we can get in again. Lucky for us, Bobby Smith’s face remains intact enough to give us access.
“The miracle of modern technology,” I say as I step over his corpse and head out into the night.
I do my best to act like this is no big deal, but Frankie’s got to realize how bad this is.
I assumed we were under attack by an outside force that would have to come down from New York periodically if they wanted to hurt us.
Instead, Vural’s got fucking sleepers already in the city, waiting to activate.
It’s so much worse than I thought.
They’re not coming. They’re not on the way.
They’re already here.
My phone rings once we’re back in the car. Frankie’s driving and I sit in the passenger seat, glaring out the window, thinking black thoughts. Matteo’s voice doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Spoke with the council,” he says abruptly. “They’re not happy.”
“They’re never happy. What’d they say about Kira?”
“I told you, Stellan, bringing a damn Santoro girl into this is a mess. Half the council think you’re insulting them.”
“Good. I am. What’d they say?”
“Bad shit, mostly.” He sighs loudly. “But they’re going to approve it. This war might be working in your favor. The old bastards are all scared of trying to fight it on their own.”
“They’d rather I took care of their problem for them.”
“Yeah, and they might even hope you end up dead in the process. Two birds, one stone, that sort of thing.”
“That’s real comforting.”
“A Santoro girl! Come on, Stellan!”
“Tell the council I’ll handle the war. Tell them to stop delaying. Give me what’s rightfully mine.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get it done.”
I hang up. Around me, Philly flashes past, a series of quiet lives and miseries.
“They making you Don?” Frankie asks.
“Despite themselves, it looks like it.”
“Congratulations.”
“Strange how I don’t feel good.”
“That’s life in the family.” Frankie grins and shrugs. “Brutal and a pain in the ass. But a lot of fun too.”
I grunt in reply. I glare out the front windshield as the gears continue to turn in my head. Too many moving pieces. Too many ways to fuck this up. “You should know, we’re moving the book after they make me Don. Two nights after.”
“You need me for that?”
I shake my head. “No, I’ll take care of it myself. Just giving you the heads-up.”
Frankie shrugs and stares straight ahead. “Never gets easy, does it?”
No, it fucking does not.