36. Maksim
Maksim
We hit the first house at eleven-fifteen. A row house that’s been running product for Arlind’s people for the better part of six months. I’ve been sitting on the information, waiting for the right moment to use it. Patience is a weapon. I learned that from watching my enemy.
Tonight feels like the right moment.
Four of us are going in. Damien on my left, with two of my best men behind us. We don’t knock.
It goes fast. A quick strike that takes them by surprise. They never saw us coming. We kill everyone except for one. Someone needs to carry the news back.
I crouch in front of the guy. He’s young; maybe twenty-two. He’s got the look of someone who thought he was untouchable five minutes ago. That’s how quickly life can change.
“Tell Arlind that Maksim Sokolov says hello,” I say. “Tell him I’m not bleeding out. Tell him I’m just getting started.”
He stares at me, smart enough not to speak.
Two women are in the back room, sitting on a mattress on the floor with nothing but a burner phone between them and a bag that probably holds everything they own. They’re young and scared.
The women are payment for the men who are moving the drugs. I’ve seen it too many times. They’re promised free drugs and a place to stay, and then they’re made into sex slaves. They’re used until they have nothing left to offer. Their bodies are rarely found.
I pull a thick envelope from my jacket and set it on the mattress between them.
“That’s enough to get out of the city,” I say.
“Doesn’t matter where. Go somewhere else and don’t come back.
” I look at them. “If anyone tries to stop you, you tell them Sokolov gave you passage. Anyone gives you trouble; you call this number.” I set a card on top of the envelope. Cinder’s number. “She’ll handle it.”
They stare at me like I might be a different kind of threat wearing a friendly mask.
“Go,” I say.
The younger one grabs the envelope first.
We move to the second location by midnight. Damien takes a hit across the jaw from someone’s elbow. He spits blood on the floor and looks almost pleased about it.
“You good?” I ask.
“Fantastic,” he says.
There are no women in this house, just product and money. We take the money and destroy the product, leaving a mess that needs no explanation.
The third location is a club on the south end that’s been laundering for the Albanians under the guise of a legitimate bar.
I don’t burn it this time. I love the symbolism of burning his shit down, but I can also be strategic.
Burning is more fun, but I’ll save that for another time.
Instead, I use coercion. Manipulation. A very powerful threat.
The owner picks the option where he’s still breathing by morning.
Smart man.
It’s not enough to end the Albanians; I know that. It’s not the death blow. I’m still planning that. Angry men make mistakes. I’ve spent weeks watching Arlind chip away at my business.
It’s my turn.
He will react. He won’t be able to help it.
“You think he’ll move fast?” Damien asks.
“Within forty-eight hours,” I say. “He’ll want to answer this before word spreads that he didn’t.”
“That’s a tight window.”
“We won’t be sleeping.”
He leans his head back and closes his eyes.
I’m not losing. Not to the Albanians. Not to Arlind. Not to anyone.
The house is quiet when we pull through the gate. I expect it to be. It’s almost three-thirty in the morning. I didn’t tell her what we had planned.
I’m exhausted. I won’t be sleeping much for the next couple of days. Right now, I want to crawl into bed and hold my wife for a few hours before I get back to work.
I walk into my bedroom and see her sitting up in bed with the bedside lamp on.
“You’re up,” I say.
“I am.”
Immediately, I know something is wrong.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing happened.”
“Lila.”
“How’d it go?” she asks.
She didn’t ask me about the club. My shoulders sag. I feel like a kid who just got busted with my hand in the cookie jar.
No point in lying.
“Fine. We hit three locations. No serious injuries on our side. We made our point.”
She nods. “Good.”
I pull off my jacket and drape it over the chair before kicking off my shoes. She’s pissed. I feel the tension in the air.
“Did you get your note?” she asks softly.
“My note?”
“The one I left on your desk.”
“I didn’t go to my office.”
She’s staring at me, waiting for me to say more.
And that’s when I realize she knows.