Chapter Forty-Six Enzo
Chapter Forty-Six
Enzo
The Camorra never did arrive at the port on Wednesday, at two in the morning, like Slava had hoped.
But you know what did? A cargo ship with a fuckload of drugs.
It docked exactly where Slava’s girlfriend had informed us it would.
The dock was dark, cold, and scarcely populated by longshoremen. Ship horns blared in the distance.
Twenty minutes after the vessel’s anchor, Bratva soldiers and dockworkers began unloading what looked like sacks of birdseed down the ramp and into containers.
I parked on a cliff overlooking the operation, my motorcycle still running, my full-face helmet intact.
Slava lumbered up the ship’s deck with heavy steps, prattling away on his phone. He was bundled in a puffy coat. It was possible he was wearing a bulletproof vest underneath. Luckily, I was going to make his death a lot more personal than a few bullets. Oh, no. I had big plans for the guy.
“Where’s the dock lift?” He slammed his phone into his pocket, the echo carrying his scream. He looked flushed and disoriented, even from a distance. “This is going to take all night!”
He glanced around, frantic and on edge, wondering where the fuck we were.
Achilles was home, probably balls-deep inside his wife. Luca was in the office of the Forbidden Fruit club catching up on two weeks’ worth of work, and I was getting ready to drain the last drop of Slava’s blood.
Slava stopped on a ramp connecting the ship and dock, pulled out his phone again, and called someone. He pressed the phone to his ear, exchanging words.
He looked scared, worried, and royally pissed off. I cut the engine off to try to hear his conversation. Snippets of it rang through the air.
“All right…davai, davai…get your ass going.” He waved a hand, condensation trailing from his mouth. He was rushing his soldiers. He let loose a chain of Russian curses, digging his fingers into his eye sockets.
He knew we weren’t coming.
Placing my elbows on my bike’s handles, I watched as, again and again, he peered around, wondering where everyone was.
Four Lenco BearCats pulled onto the tarmac with a screech, and SWAT teams rushed out.
Two unmarked FBI SUVs parked behind them, and the world came crashing down on Slava all at once.
I could see it all playing out across his face. First, the confusion—why was the FBI taking action when the Camorra wasn’t there? Why had they brought four SWAT teams along?
Then—realization as sacks of birdseed were slashed apart, and firmly wrapped drugs were handed from one gloved hand to the other.
They weren’t there for us.
They were there for him.
The Bratva soldiers who’d unloaded the ship dropped everything and went for their firearms, their gazes skittering to Slava in a panic. They had semiautomatic weapons and probably a shit ton of spare clips, but nothing as tactical and precise as what the SWAT teams had brought along.
Arrests of soldiers began, and that was when Slava made his final decision to flee.
He was still being overlooked—intentionally, of course—by the FBI.
He grabbed his duffel bag, hurled it over his shoulder, and started running.
I revved up my engine and zipped down the dirt road on the cliff in his direction, keeping my eyes on him the entire time.
I slowed down about thirty feet away from him, watching as he slipped into an old Toyota in a parking lot—probably one of the longshoremen’s vehicles—and fiddled with the cables to bring it to life.
I waited. I wasn’t some newbie. We had to go somewhere secluded so I could finish him off.
I wasn’t letting him out of my sight, though.
Slava ignited the vehicle and floored it.
Just as I’d hoped, he didn’t take a main road.
That was too dangerous. The entire NYPD was probably patrolling every marked highway leading to the port.
Instead, he veered into the moors bracketing the port, the Toyota bobbing and straining over the uneven ground, coughing loudly.
Oh, this was gonna be too easy.
No matter. I’d still make it fun.
The Toyota mowed down wild weeds. There was no clearing in sight on either side of the field. He was headed toward the heart of a forest, probably intending to ditch the car and escape on foot once he arrived at the first line of trees.
Can’t fix stupid. But sure can relieve him of his oxygen duty.
Smoke plumed from the exhaust as the car pushed through, with my motorcycle trailing closely behind. I no longer bothered concealing my presence. Let it be known he didn’t have long to live.
The night cloaked us with a sheet of star-spangled ink, and everything felt good and right. I was in my element.
The vehicle was beginning to slide from the knoll, a combination of its old age and the struggle of fighting the terrain working against it. He slammed the accelerator and killed all the lights in the vehicle in a desperate bid to lose me.
I shook my head. It was pitiful, really.
I was now twenty feet from him, closing in.
The Toyota was making distressed sounds, much like the person inside it. It was still dragging along, but at an embarrassing speed. I hopped from the motorcycle and let it fall sideways on an open field, producing my gun from my waistband without removing my helmet.
First I popped the right-hand rear wheel. Then the left one.
The vehicle sagged and let out one final groan, as though losing its heartbeat.
The driver’s door flew open. Slava burst out, gun cocked and aimed my way, fumbling as he tried running backward with his eyes on me.
He shot at me once, but his aim was shit due to terror, the darkness, and his jerky movements. The bullet hit a rock behind me, shattering it.
Cracking my neck, I ambled toward him leisurely, aiming my gun at the hand that held the weapon. “That was rude, and honestly uncalled for.”
Pop.
I blew away the gun and everything south of his elbow in the process.
“Aaaahh!”
“Thought you’d say that.” I continued my journey toward him. “On your knees, bastard.”
“Fuck you.” He stumbled backward, clutching his mutilated arm to stop the blood loss.
“Please don’t make me be mean.”
He swiveled, running with his back to me.
I sighed and shot his right knee from behind.
He fell into the tall undergrowth, disappearing from view.
It was dark, but I didn’t want to give him the advantage of vision by turning on my phone’s flashlight.
I wanted him to be terrified. To be caged in the same darkness I’d been cloaked in when he sent Cash to blackmail me.
Trudging through the weeds, I followed the sound of his harsh, desperate breaths. Stopped when the tip of my boot touched his leg. I removed my helmet.
“You have to stop running away from me, Slava.” I pressed my boot against his junk, gradually applying more weight. “It’s like you don’t even like me. I’m starting to get a complex.”
“Get your filthy foot off my dick, you piece of shit,” he spat.
I waited for my father’s voice to penetrate my thoughts, for his derisive commentary, but it never came. He was gone. Or, at the very least, he didn’t have that kind of chokehold on me anymore.
“Why?” I asked conversationally. “You’re not going to use it ever again.”
“Huyesos,” he ground out, in pain. “Pidoras. I’m going to kill you.”
“Hmm. An optimist. What an admirable trait.” I kneeled, digging my knee into his gut as I loomed over him. I retrieved his phone from his jacket, pocketing it for later. “You really shouldn’t have sent Cash to blackmail me. And the drug shipment ploy? Bad idea.”
“How did you know?” he groaned.
“Surprise.” I grinned. “I’m not the only pidoras you know.
” I could only guess the meaning of the Russian word.
“Agent Rothwell is one, too. And let me tell you a secret, Slava.” I leaned down, straddling him, my mouth a breath away from his, so close that I knew he was losing the last shred of his sanity.
I put my mouth on the shell of his ear, whispering, “He fucks real good, real hard, and real nice. But when you fuck with his boyfriend? He tends to be a mean motherfucker, just like me.”
Panic swelled in his eyes, his chest moving like a hulking beast beneath my fingertips.
“You’re both perverts and creeps, and belong with one another!
” he choked out, hoping for a quick and angry kill to spare him my torturing techniques.
“Vello must be rolling in his grave, to see his son sucking dick.”
“One could only hope,” I drawled with detachment, unsheathing my tactical knife and running the pad of my finger over the edge to ensure it was dull, to cause extra pain.
“I pray his spirit is in the room every time Tom plows into me. He deserves the angst, after everything he put my family through.”
“Kill me,” he barked. “Get it over with, before my brothers find out.”
“Nice try. No one’s looking for you. Alex doesn’t know about the shipment—even if he did, he’d be glad I’m killing a traitor.
Jeremie…” I trailed off, frowning. “I’m not sure if he’s even Bratva anymore.
His loyalty is with Sofia, and by extension, with the Outfit.
No. It seems like I have you all to myself for a while. And I know just what to do with you.”
I jammed the knife into his right shoulder, pinning him to the earth to keep him immobile. He threw his head back and roared in pain.
“Are you religious, Slava?” I asked laconically.
He was still screaming his lungs off. I didn’t think he heard me.
“I don’t think you are. Shame. You could use God right about now.” I stuffed my whole palm into his mouth, pressing downward, applying pressure, and dislocating his jaw. A fitting punishment for a snitch in our world.
He tried screaming, but my fist muffled the noise. I wasn’t worried about being heard, either way. He’d chosen the perfect spot for our little reunion. Not a soul in sight in the dark woods.