Chapter Thirteen
Leonid
I took some time to reflect on Ivan’s statements when we left Surfside.
I agreed with him.
The Armenians I’ve known for more than a decade are not capable or even willing to get into high tech. They’re not dumb; they’re just old fashioned. They believe in the power of the old ways and refuse to use anything new. So, the scenario of them sabotaging my car by hacking into it sounds far fetched.
I could think of a way for them to blow me and Clare to pieces. They would ambush me somewhere outside the city. No witnesses; those can pose issues. They would wait for me to come close enough and use a rocket launcher. Yes, this would be a pretty sensational event. It would draw a lot of media attention and cause quite a buzz around the city, but the Armenians don’t mind that. They have no problem being in the spotlight; some of them enjoy that. That’s why so many of their people are in prison. Because they’re stupid enough to do something that crazy, without considering the consequences.
In spite of my suspicion, though, there’s not much we can do. To me, they’re butt-hurt about losing those women, and it’s enough motive to make them seek retaliation. Perhaps they think that blowing me to pieces would be a proper response to their loss.
While I was recovering in the hospital, Ivan mentioned that the Bratva had been trying to find more information about the bombing. My organization had even been considering kidnapping some high-ranking members of the Armenians, but had had no luck so far. They’re too well-guarded for anyone to consider snatching them. Tonight, four of my men, my brother, and I will try to change that.
We’re in Key Biscayne, near a mansion of an Armenian captain, Hrach Kevorkian. My boys have been staking him out for the past four days, watching his house from a safe distance away. According to them, there’s just one thing he does without his men following him around: walking his tiny dog to a nearby grove in the dead of night. So, we’ve parked at the far end of that grove. Dmitri and Vasiliy are outside, watching the mansion through binoculars, while Boris, Vladimir, Ivan and I are waiting for their signal in a white van.
“You shouldn’t be here tonight,” Ivan says, fidgeting in his seat. “I get it; they came after you and you’re pissed at them, but—”
“What would you do if you were me?” I interrupt him. “If you thought you were going to spend the night with a beautiful lady but ended up in a hospital bed fighting for your life?”
“I would rip the fuckers to pieces,” he admits. “But we’re not talking about me. Please, try not to lose your shit. I know I would.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I tell him, my tone softer. “You should worry about Kevorkian. That old-timer’s been a gangster all his life. He won’t crack easily.”
“He’s on the move.”
Dmitri’s muted voice on the intercom puts an end to our discussion. I turn to Vladimir and Boris and snap my fingers, an air of anxiety blowing through me. Kevorkian is almost sixty years old. He wouldn’t still be alive if he ratted out his comrades. He would have been long gone and branded as a traitor.
With my men jumping out of the van, I keep my eyes to the right. Ivan and I are looking out the passenger window, tall bushes on either side of a footpath. Sure enough, a white dog on a black leash emerges just seconds later. Its owner is in a red robe and sandals, strolling behind his dog.
Having moved around the trees, Boris and Vladimir fill my view. Much taller than our target, they’re onto him fast. Boris throws his arm around Kevorkian’s neck from behind and locks him in the crook of his elbow. He presses the barrel of his Beretta into the older man’s temple, the leash falling from his grasp. The dog runs away from his boss and into a nearby bush. Vladimir jogs up to Boris and holds his gun against our target’s stomach.
Ivan and I kneel behind the driver’s seat, my friend just inches from me. Neither of us wants that Armenian bastard to identify us, so we’ve come prepared. We pull black ski masks down over our faces before I click a small flashlight on. Boris tosses Kevorkian into the cab. The van’s back dips for several moments as my men settle back in. Kevorkian rolls across the floor; he squints and groans under the beam of the flashlight.
“Relax, Kevorkian,” I taunt as Vladimir yanks the backdoor shut. “I’m sure you’ve been in this position plenty of times.”
“Who the fuck are you people?” he squeals, raising his hand to shield his eyes. “What do you want from me? My Rudy is going to get run over if I don’t get back to him!”
Ivan presses his knee into the Armenian’s chest. He produces his pistol and jams it into Kevorkian’s cheek. “I wouldn’t worry about my dog if I were you.”
“I’ll ask nicely once.” I speak in a stiff tone, leaning over towards him. “Someone put a bomb in Leonid Kovalev’s car the other day. Did you give the order?”
“Ha!” Kevorkian exclaims, smiling with his eyes shut. “I enjoyed that, although those losers fucked it all up.”
“My friend asked you a question,” Ivan snarls, jerking his free arm back. His fist meets Kevorkian’s face, and our enemy’s cry rings in my ears.
“I didn’t give the order!” he claims with a shout. “Car bombs are not our style anyway.”
“Maybe you decided to evolve,” I say, spotting a small cut across his cheekbone.
“Bullshit,” Kevorkian grumbles. “I told you. We don’t blow up cars. Let me go, you assholes!”
Ivan looks at me, and I can see the doubt in his eyes. He’s torn as to whether we should believe him or not.
Frankly? So am I. A beating and a few threats won’t crack him; I’m sure of that now. Kevorkian needs the special treatment reserved for every enemy of the Bratva.
“You’re going for a little ride with us, motherfucker,” I tell him, lifting my gaze to Dmitri. “Tie him up.”
At that, I click the flashlight off and turn around to resume the driver’s seat. Normally, I leave this to one of my men, but I’m just too upset to stay in the cab. I’m much too tempted to beat the shit out of Kevorkian. Ivan had a point earlier. I could lose my temper just by being close to this son of a bitch.
I turn the key in the ignition, the diesel engine roaring into life. I slam on the gas, causing the rear tires to screech. I bang my fist into the steering wheel in my frustration, understanding that we didn’t make any headway. We may have an Armenian crime lord, but we don’t have what we came here for. A name. The name of the man responsible for the attack against me and Clare.
––––––––
Clare
I like my new surroundings.
The house may be old, but it’s been kept up. There are no creaking hinges on the doors. No faucets are leaking. The aluminum windows are fairly new. I enjoy the view out the window, unlike in the first safe house. Those rose gardens were nice to look at for a day or two, but after that, I got bored of them.
This particular view consists of the endless ocean, along with a few boats on the surface. I even caught a glimpse of sea foam yesterday due to the strong wind. At night, hundreds of city lights are sparkling in the distance.
In all honesty, being alone up here sucks. One would think that talking to my guards would be a good solution to my problem. It’s not. For some reason, they just won’t engage in conversation with me. I understand that they’re burdened with guarding me, but this is ridiculous. For instance, whenever I ask them when Leonid or Ivan will be coming, their answer is, “I don’t know.” That’s it.
I really thought I would be wasting my time if I asked them to bring Dr. Yuschenko over. They’re not up here to do me any favors; that much is clear. Happily, I was wrong. Mikhail, the guy I told this to, nodded and said something like: “In an hour or so.”
His prediction was quite accurate.
I never thought I’d be so excited to see someone I knew so little about, but in this case, I am just thrilled. Mikhail escorts Dr. Yuschenko in and then goes back out without even addressing me. Just as well; I’m eager to have a word with a man with manners.
“Good evening, Clare,” he says, offering me a polite smile as he removes his dark gray hat. “I hope you find your new accommodation comfortable.”
“I do, thank you.” I return the smile, gesturing to the couch. “Can I offer you a drink? Tea, maybe?”
“Some tea, please.”
“Sure thing,” I chirp and strut to the kitchen.
“Your relocation was quite unfortunate but necessary,” he comments, seating himself. “You must understand—the location of that safe house had been compromised.”
“Was it?” I wonder, filling up the teapot with water. “Because no one actually attacked us in that house, doctor. Everything happened outside, some twenty yards from the house.”
“Well, if Kovalev and Petrov made that decision, I’m not going to question it,” he declares, his tone a tad more serious. “How have you been, Ms. Jensen? I understand your injuries were quite severe.”
“It was pretty bad for three days or so, but I feel a lot better now,” I inform, pouring steaming lemon tea into a red mug. “Thanks for your concern.”
“May I speak freely?” he requests, tossing a quick glance over at the door.
“Of course you may, doctor,” I assure, a nervous smile forming on my face. “They won’t be bothering us.”
“Thank you,” he says in a polite tone the moment I set the mug down on the table in front of him. “Why did you ask to see me, Clare? Because, I doubt it’s my charming personality that prompted you to do that.”
“Look around you,” I urge, thrusting my arms out to the side. “What do you see?”
“Furniture, cabinets, two tables...” He ceases talking and cups the top of his head before pursing his lips. “Sorry. I just understood the meaning of your question.”
“Those Bratva men may be tough, but you wouldn’t call any of them warm and welcoming, would you?” I pose the question as I sit down in an armchair near his.
He chuckles. “No. Far from it.”
“There’s something else, too,” I warn him, cheer leaving my voice. “I’m really worried about Leonid and Ivan. They seem to be willing to start a war with the Armenians over that car bombing.”
“I beg to differ, dear,” he says, speaking his mind and lifting his gaze from the mug to look over at me. “If the Armenians were indeed the ones who sabotaged Captain Kovalev’s car, he and Ivan Petrov won’t be starting a war. They’ll be ending it. That sabotage was a despicable, cowardly act.”
“I won’t argue with that,” I interject my own opinion. “You don’t seem so upset.”
“I’m not,” he claims, interlocking his fingers over his stomach. “I have witnessed wars before, Ms. Jensen. Are they brutal? Yes. Are they violent? Yes. Alas, there are times when they are necessary as well. You don’t seriously expect the Bratva and the Armenian crime syndicate to sit down and come to some sort of an arrangement, do you?”
“Well, no, but an all-out war scares the crap out of me,” I confess, my voice wobbly. “The way I see it, Leonid and Ivan must find the one responsible for that bombing and punish him. Anything else would be unnecessary.”
“Then, you haven’t fully grasped how the Bratva works, Clare,” he concludes, reaching down for his mug once more. “You also don’t know the structure of that Armenian crime syndicate. Bratva is Russian for brotherhood. When a threat looms over one of us, it looms over all of us. And the Armenian responsible for that sabotage will have a security detail—men who would protect their boss with their lives. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but many of them will die in this war.”
“So, there’s nothing we can do?” I pitch my voice higher.
He chuckles at my question and takes another sip of tea. “Ah, the innocence of youth,” he says in a gentle tone. “It never ceases to amaze me. No, Clare. I’m afraid nothing much can be done to prevent this from happening. The Armenians targeted you and a high-ranking officer. Believe me when I say that they knew the repercussions of this act. It’s only fair for them to suffer those repercussions.”
“I see,” I mutter, staring into the void. “Thanks for the information, doctor.”
“Thank you for the tea, Ms. Jensen.” He assumes his polite tone again, rising back up on his feet. “No need to get up; I’ll show myself out.”
Putting his hat back on, he turns to the front door.
I frown and prop my elbows on my thighs, a long sigh escaping me. Dr. Yuschenko does have manners—there’s no denying that. He’s also realistic, which is only natural for a man who’s spent almost his entire adult life in the Bratva. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. He offered me cold, hard facts about the impending clash of the Bratva and the Armenians. It’s those facts that terrify me. The prospect of losing Leonid or Ivan in this stupid, unnecessary war...