Chapter Fifteen
Leonid
That girl is finer than French wine.
Smoking body. Crazy sex drive. Insatiable appetite.
But I already knew these things about her. None of them surprised me. I enjoyed them until the crack of dawn. There was something else before this that blew my mind even more than hours and hours in bed with her.
The care she offered me. The care I received from her.
Especially on that couch. Clare touched me with love and thoughtfulness. It was like she and I were old lovers and had reunited for one last night of passion together. We touched each other like we had been missing the closeness between us for years. It was crazy. She didn’t feel new to me, even though we’d just been together once. She felt like my lover from long ago.
Once she’d fallen asleep next to me, I began wondering how this had been possible. I watched her eyes flicker, remembering the women I’d been with. Well, most of them anyway. It was impossible to recall every one-night stand I’d had so far. In any case, none of those women had acted like Clare. Some of them had big mouths on them, but that was just about the only big thing about them. By that, I don’t mean their breasts; I mean their heart. Their will to show some affection to someone who needs it. They just didn’t have any. All they wanted from me was sex, money, and more sex.
My Pakhan’s father had been dead for well over ten years, but one of his quotes had stayed with me to this day.
“A woman who can be bought is not worth having.”
Oleg might have been rough around the edges—much like Ivan—but he was a wise man, God rest his soul. When it comes to relationships, Oleg’s quote is my favorite. That’s probably why I haven’t kept a girlfriend in so long—because they all knew who I was and prioritized spending my money.
The shitty thing about the next morning was me leaving early. This time, I had a reason to get out of bed, which had nothing to do with any awkwardness. It was a text I’d gotten from Ivan:
“Rurik says he’s got the name of that prick. He’s been running his image through facial recognition software since I gave him the surveillance footage of your security cameras. It took him some time, but he got a hit just a half-hour ago. I’m heading over to his place.”
It’s a good thing Rurik thought of doing that on his own.
This thought runs through my head at the end of Ivan’s message. I don’t remember ordering him to do that. Knowing my brother, I doubt he did that, either. So, once again, I realize just how bad I’ve fucked up. I was so consumed by the urge to hunt down the Armenians that I failed to do something so basic.
Don’t go down that road again. No point in doing that—what’s done is done. Why did Rurik take more than a week to track down that prick?”
It’s this question that drives me out of my house and sends me right back to the city. Rurik is by far the most skilled hacker in the Bratva. He can hack into someone’s computer with his eyes closed. This kind of delay is strange. I’d understand it if it took him a day or two, but it’s actually been ten days since Ivan gave him that footage. I need a word with him, and I want to do that before my brother gets there.
Rurik likes to keep a low profile. Although the Bratva pays him well, he doesn’t live near the beach. He lives well within the city and rents a ground-floor apartment. The first time I was there, I asked him why. His response was:“Because all my neighbors will think I’m just a nerdy Russian immigrant who struggles to make ends meet. Plus, the basement is ideal for my computers. They don’t fit in any other room.”
I’m not good at understanding computer geeks like him, but I wasn’t going to argue his decision. He was the one who’d have to live in that dark, medium-size apartment, not me.
I’m in for some disappointment once I get to my destination. Ivan’s green Ford is parked outside Rurik’s building. He may have remembered not to use a fancy car to get here, but his presence here complicates things. I don’t keep secrets from him, but it’s obvious that Ivan’s been convinced as to why that search took ages to yield results. I’m not, and I didn’t want him to try and discourage me from asking.
I find them in the basement staring at a screen while Rurik points at it. I interrupt Ivan’s series of nods as he looks up from the screen.
“Good morning,” Rurik acknowledges me with a small smile. “A word first?”
I come to a stop just five yards from our man, curious as to what he means to discuss with me.
“Morning,” I murmur, my brother’s smile fading. “What is it?”
He exhales hard, shaking his head in frustration. “I’ve been kicking myself since Viktor mentioned what we should have done in the first place. Why the fuck didn’t we think of that first before capturing Kevorkian?”
I snort in half-amusement, half-frustration. “I know the feeling. I’ve been doing the exact same thing. We fucked up, Ivan. Plain and simple. Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Rurik,” I call out our associate’s name. “Nice to see you again. Thanks for running that punk’s face through your software and all, but...” I pause and purse my lips. “Normally, you work pretty fast. Why the delay this time?”
“Because I had to be thorough, Leonid,” he explains, maintaining calm in his expression as he faces me. “We didn’t know if the bomber had a record or not, so I couldn’t limit the search to federal databases only. There was also the issue of computer power. The Bratva’s computers were fried during that lightning storm last month, and we haven’t replaced them yet. My own computers aren’t nearly as powerful as the organization’s.”
“I see,” I tell him, a wave of regret washing over me. I shouldn’t have been curious. Rurik’s explanation makes perfect sense. He’s proven his worth plenty of times in the past. He wasn’t screwing around—his efforts were just hampered by things beyond his control. “Give me that name, please.”
I haven’t even finished my sentence when a sharp noise from the computer tortures my ears, a small picture in a red frame flashing in the middle of the screen.
“Say hello, you little piece of shit.” Rurik smiles, clicking on the picture. He enlarges the image, the person’s personal information in a tab right under it. He’s got short, dark-brown hair, a goatee and a small mark on his left eyebrow. It’s almost in the middle and runs an inch up his forehead.
Name: Sergio Juarez
Nationality: Mexican
Age: 24
Height: 5’5”
Weight: 143lbs
“You were wrong,” I remark, reading just the first couple of lines of his rap sheet. “He’s got a record. That son of a bitch’s rap sheet is as long as my arm. Look at that shit. Drug use, dealing drugs, possession of illegal firearm, petty theft.”
“So, a Mexican midget tried to blow you up,” Ivan interjects.
“Yeah,” I agree. “The question is ‘who put him up to it?’”
“Someone powerful,” Rurik states, hitting the keys on the keyboard in a frantic manner. Pressing the “enter” button, a picture of the laser cutter Juarez used to open the hood pops up on the screen. I pay no attention to technical specs, brand and country of origin, and go straight to the cost.
RRP: $32,500
“You’re right about that,” I comment, the amount serving as another clue. Feeling Ivan’s big hand on my shoulder, I turn in his direction. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“No Armenians,” he utters in a firm tone. “Nothing fits. I mean, nothing.”
“How can you guys be so sure?” Rurik asks, curiosity pitching his voice higher.
“Let me tell you a story,” I say, focusing on him. “Once, a collector named Arto Kalpakian, working for Emil Bagdashian, a loan shark at the time, tracked down one of his boss’s customers, a guy named Sean Walker. Walker owned a restaurant in downtown Miami and owed Bagdashian about a hundred grand. His first installment was ten thousand. Kalpakian collected the money—no problems there. On his way to his boss, he used twenty dollars of that cash to buy a hotdog. Bagdashian was outraged. He had his two other collectors break Kalpakian’s arm.”
“Jesus Christ,” Rurik sighs, slamming his palm into his forehead. “That guy had his arm busted over twenty dollars?”
“That’s right,” I affirm, wearing a smile of irony. “So, the idea of the Armenians spending over thirty grand just to plant a bomb is ridiculous.”
“That’s just a theory,” Ivan reminds me. “Let’s go get that midget to find out. Thank you, Rurik.”
“Good job,” I praise with a pat on his back. I pull a wad of cash out of my pocket. I count a thousand dollars and leave it on his desk. “Just a little bonus. More to come later.”
“Thank you,” Rurik nods, a big smile spreading across his face.
Ivan and I climb the stairs. I finally get the feeling that I’ve been searching for since the day I woke up in that hospital bed.
Purpose.
We are no longer in the dark. We have a target, someone who can actually help us get to the bottom of this. I thought I had that feeling, too, when we staked out Kevorkian, but in truth, I didn’t. I just had a fool’s hope. I hadn’t thought straight, and I managed to piss off my boss by being reckless and impulsive. Now we’ve got that prick by the balls. His fucking face on video while he plants a bomb in my BMW.
We wait for the cover of darkness. Keeping a low profile is important, just like the car we use to get to Hialeah, one of the main Latino hoods in Miami. In Ivan’s Ford, we’re just another couple of nobodies, cruising around. Sadly, when we mention the name “Sergio Juarez” to a few of the locals, nobody seems to have any idea who he is. After five attempts, I give the sixth guy we come across a clear description of our target. His height is quite common—most Latinos aren’t tall. The mark on his eyebrow? That’s unique. This middle-aged man responds with a long “oh, yeah” and then reveals Juarez’s street name.
“Razor.”
His nickname isn’t the only stupid thing about him. It seems Sergio is desperate to draw attention to himself. He’s been driving around in a modified black Camaro. According to my source, “the sound system on that damn car is loud enough to wake the dead. He just loves Essex Avenue because there are more posers like him over there.”
Ivan and I head to Essex Avenue, and we realize that this man wasn’t exaggerating at all. More than two blocks away, noises come through the open windows. Car engines revving. Another engine is roaring, as well as something that some street racers use: A shifter. It’s a lot like the sound of a handbrake on a truck, only much, much louder.
Ivan’s Ford rolls to a halt at a stop sign; I glance right. Two cars are weaving through the traffic, speeding down the road—a bright red Nissan and a white Honda with a flame mural on its side. Further up the street, people have gathered on either sidewalk, some of them punching the air and cheering.
“We need to act fast,” I advise, my gaze on the Nissan as it roars past a moving Cadillac. “This place is going to be crawling with cops in minutes.”
“Sure,” Ivan agrees, checking his rearview mirror. Just then, I realize that we won’t have to go to Juarez. He’s going to come to us. A black Camaro emerges from behind a blue van and swerves left, rap music blasting from its speakers. The windows in Ivan’s car are vibrating so loud I wince.
He roars past our spot and Ivan follows.
I hate it when a situation isn’t under my control. As for car chases? I’ve only been in one and don’t want to do it again. Yet, this is our only choice. To get to that asshole, we have to pursue him through the streets of Hialeah.
“How do you want to play this?” Ivan’s question snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Don’t get too close,” I advise, the Ford speeding through a gap between two cars. “We don’t want him to suspect he’s being followed.”
“Not to mention we could get killed out here,” he groans, swerving out of the path of an oncoming truck. “Keep your eyes on him.”
“He’s five cars away,” I inform the moment we clear a green light.
“He just turned right.”
The rumble of the engine subsides, the car slowing down. Ivan moves over to the right lane and then takes the turn. To my relief, this side road isn’t as busy. There’s just one oncoming vehicle and Juarez’s Camaro at least fifty yards away. We get closer and closer. The Camaro’s taillights are flashing bright red as that rap music stops altogether.
A small figure exits the vehicle.
Ivan pulls over on the right side and steps on the brakes.
Anger simmers through me as I step out.
Razor steps on the sidewalk in front of an apartment building, and Ivan strides past me and I sprint to keep up.
“Razor,” Ivan yells as he lunges at Razor from the side. The two of them tumble down, their bodies hitting the small staircase that leads to the entry door.
His hands around the collar of the Latino’s jacket, Ivan yanks him up, their faces half an inch from one another.
“Shit?!” Razor snarls, jerking his arm back.
“More like hell, you little fucker.” Ivan’s fist slams into Sergio’s temple, rocking his head so much that it bangs into the edge of a step.
I reach into my pocket for my knife, bending down over them. Moonlight reflects off the surface of the blade. I grab him by the hair, my brother straightening himself up. I toss his light body forward, the back of his head bumping into the glass of that entry door.
I don’t give him the time to react. I drop down, my right knee making contact with the floor, my left one slamming hard into Sergio’s chest. Blood is oozing from the wound on his temple, a single drop passing his cheekbone.
“Look at me, asshole,” I grumble, bringing my knife to his throat. “Do I look familiar?”
“Kovalev!” he squeals. “Leonid Kovalev.”
“Right.” I smirk, jabbing just the tip of my knife into his skin.
He squeezes his eyes shut, more cries ripping from his throat.
“Who paid you to put that bomb in my car?”
“No one, man!” he shouts, his eyes open to slits. “I was just jealous of you, that’s all! You didn’t deserve that M3!”
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “So, how does a dumb fuck like you get hold of a high end laser cutter? Did you sell your kidney or something?”
“I borrowed it from a friend!” He lets out another squeal, squirming underneath me.
“Hold the bullshit, Juarez,” Ivan says through gritted teeth, yanking his gun out of its holster. He pulls back on the hammer and shoves the barrel into the Latino’s mouth, giving him a cold stare. “I’ll splatter your brains all over the fucking ground if you lie to me. Nod if you understand.”
Sergio nods ascent.
Ivan’s finger is tapping the trigger. “Good. My friend asked you a question,” Ivan states. “Was it the Armenians?”
This time Sergio shakes his head, his muffled groan betraying his fear.
“I’m going to pull out my gun,” Ivan says, his tone steady. “Think about your answer.”
“Shit,” Sergio groans, his body jerking back and forth as he coughs. “He didn’t give me a business card, man. He just gave me ten grand, that cutter and the bomb and told me to put it in Kovalev’s car.”
“Fuck,” I growl, biting down on my lower lip. “Where?”
“Little Italy,” he says on an exhale. “Mulberry Street, Giorgio’s restaurant. He looked like a hotshot. His friends call him ‘Tommy-No-Nose. I swear—that’s all I know.”
I can mutter every fucking curse I know. I can call this little bastard all the names that come to mind, and they still won’t be enough for me to express what I feel. I have been on Mulberry Street a million times. It’s home to the best Italian restaurants in Miami.
Italian...
This fact, along with that nickname, can only mean one thing. The Italians were behind the car bombing. There can be no doubt now. The Armenians never had anything to do with it, just like Ivan had been suspecting from the start. This sabotage had been planned by a much more sophisticated syndicate than those apes.
My brother and I rise back up. I can read the concern in his expression. As for me? I’m stunned. I can’t imagine why the mafia would want me dead. I don’t recall going anywhere near their businesses, much less hurting them. By the time I’m making my way back to Ivan’s Ford, I feel about five hundred pounds heavier. This is a complication that hadn’t crossed my mind.