by Samson Weld
It all comes back to Sokolov, he thought. Keeping me down.
His men formed a semi-circle around Osorio when he stopped before the big Russian mobster. Sokolov chose not to acknowledge him for a long moment. It was his American girlfriend that addressed him first.
“Hi, Ozzie,” Kennedy said, giggling.
Osorio leaned over the table, catching and holding her surprised eyes.
“If you call me that one more time, I will nail your tongue to the floor and kick you to death.”
“Pyotr?” she cried.
Sokolov stood up, towering over Osorio. The Russian was a good two, three times Osorio’s body weight. The Mexican wasn’t worried. He was in better shape, confident in his ability to take down larger men.
The other Russians all had their hands inside their coats, watching warily. Osorio’s men kept their hands on their weapons as well. The tension proved so thick that even the drunken partiers around them took notice and began filtering away. Some moved out with all due haste.
“What is wrong with you?” Sokolov demanded.
His slow speech rubbed Osorio wrong. Just spit it out! He was worse than an American southerner.
“I’ve had a bad day and I heard things that I didn’t like,” Osorio said, eyes narrowing.
Sokolov snorted and then sat back down. He threw an arm around Kennedy, pulling her in close for a kiss. She giggled and snuggled up close.
Osorio watched their disgusting public display of affection, right hand twitching. The Russian replaced his hostile gaze with a cool, dismissive one.
“I heard Wexler broke through your defenses and almost killed you,” Sokolov said. “One man against a small army.”
“We caught him.”
“And then you lost him,” Sokolov said, now looking angry. “My bosses were very disheartened to hear about your failure. I am disappointed in you, too. Maybe we were wrong backing you.”
“Maybe I was wrong trusting you,” Osorio snarled. “Everyone knows Russians can’t be trusted. You backbiting bastards.”
Sokolov tensed, eyes getting fierce. That was an emotion Osorio could understand.
“And you can’t even handle some lone wolf vigilante, Osorio,” he sneered. “I am warning you, if you don’t get your house in order, we will.” He turned away and kissed Kennedy again. Then he looked at Osorio with utter disgust. “You may leave now.”
Osorio couldn’t breathe for a second. Heart pounding. He dismissed him? Just like that?
The Russians began moving closer. Osorio and his men were surrounded, but he noticed most of the Russians couldn’t fire at them without endangering their boss. He caught Consuelo’s eyes, gave him a little nod.
“Wexler confessed,” Osorio snarled. “He’s working for you.”
His men tensed. The Russians moved even closer. Sokolov looked incredulous.
“You believed him?”
“I didn’t need him to tell me what was obvious,” he said. “You clearly want to take over here in Dallas.” He grinned viciously. “Not going to happen.”
“You are a bigger fool than I thought,” Sokolov said. They glared at each other a long moment. “Get out while you still can, amigo.”
“I am through with you,” Osorio said, reaching for his weapon.
His hand wrapped around the heavy Desert Eagle’s grip. Sokolov cried out a warning as he began to pull the pistol out. Osorio saw his men and the Russians all pulling their weapons at the same time, but he only had eyes for Sokolov.
“Die!” Osorio shouted, aiming at his foe’s chest.
Sokolov grabbed Kennedy, pulling her in front of him. Osorio pulled the trigger, aiming at the Russian mobster’s heart straight through the woman.
The .50 cal bullet ripped through Kennedy to slam into Sokolov’s chest. Osorio fired three more times into Kennedy, hitting the Russian every time, too. And then he stepped forward and shot him in the forehead.
Blood and brains splattered the floor, walls, and patrons behind him.
Gunfire erupted all around Osorio. The air filled with terrified screams as the crowd surged for the exits. Russians were swept away in the onrush.
Osorio felt alive as he fired left and right at Russians. There were only a few left alive by the time he turned from Sokolov, and then there were none. Of his bodyguards, Arturo, Roberto, Jorge, and Benito lay dead. Consuelo took a bullet in his left arm and Marco had a gut wound.
“What were you thinking?” Consuelo cried. “His bosses are going to go crazy when they find out what we did!”
“Maybe,” Osorio said. “I’ll deal with them like I dealt with Sokolov.”
More shots rang out, one taking out Paolo. Osorio and his men opened fire on them, gunning down fleeing patrons as well.
Ducking, Osorio made for the bar along one wall. He used it for cover, rising up to pop off a shot as he raced for the front door. His men charged straight into the firefight and the club fell silent by the time he reached the door.
Consuelo didn’t allow him to stop and look around. His lieutenant rushed Osorio out to their waiting vehicles. The remaining men piled in and they tore out of there.
“Cagle’s not going to be able to help us with that one,” Consuelo cautioned. “Too many witnesses. And now we have to watch out for the Russians.”
“Watch your mouth!” Osorio snapped. “I am boss. I know what I’m doing. And I’m not afraid of any of them.” He ejected his empty magazine, slammed a new one in, and holstered. “I want you to deliver Wexler’s head in a bucket.”
Chapter 42
Club Wild Child proved easy enough to find. All of the red, white, and blue flashing emergency lights gave its location away. Bellucci pulled up in her personal car, having been awakened by the call to come over.
Texas Highway Patrol, Dallas County Sheriff, and city of Dallas police cars all filled the street. She spotted Cagle’s silver Dodge Ram 1500 as well.
Bellucci ducked under the crime scene tape, flashed her badge at the uniform, and made her way to the front door. No bodies or evidence markers out on the sidewalk or street, so everything had happened inside.
She found a carnage inside. Men and women lay everywhere. Most had been shot in the back. Patrons trying to escape the shootout? That’s what it looked like. Crime scene investigators were crawling all over everything. Bellucci had to pick her way through, evidence markers everywhere.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Detective Martha Johnston said. She worked the night shift. “Sorry I woke you.”
She was standing with Cagle, talking to a pair of Sheriff deputies. Johnston was a twenty-year veteran. The tall, husky African-American looked tough as nails, but Bellucci had learned real fast that she was a sweetheart under the gruff exterior.
“No problem. I was dreaming about a beach in Aruba I can’t afford to visit,” she said. “What do we have here? Is this the vigilante’s work?”
Her eyes locked on a couple still seated in death. A beautiful young woman in a metallic gold dress lay sprawled atop a much older man.
“Is that Pyotr Sokolov?”
“In the flesh,” Cagle said. “Or dead flesh. Either way, that’s why you and I were called in.” He grinned. “Looks like we might have a turf war.”
“Did Osorio do this?” she asked.
“No,” Cagle said. “It’s not his style.”
Johnston shook her head, giving Cagle an unreadable look. “That’s not what the bartender said.”
She indicated a pretty redhead in the corner, wearing a black leather bikini top, matching shorts, fishnets, and ankle boots. The poor thing still looked terrified.
“Brigette over there said Osorio and his gang marched in and got into a heated argument with Sokolov before all hell broke loose. She doesn’t know who fired first, just that both sides were shooting helter skelter at each other and into the crowd.”
“Helter skelter?” Bellucci asked.
“Those were her words,” she replied, shrugging.
“She also said some of the shooters were killed, too,” Cagle said. He swept his hand around to indicate all the dead. “I don’t see a single dead Mexican in the bunch. So, not Osorio.”
Bellucci studied him a moment. Was he trying to cover for his boss? And who said Osorio only had Hispanics in his gang? Charlie Cox was African-American, as was the man running the crack house down in Oak Cliff. She’d believe the eyewitness bartender before she’d believe anything Cagle said.
Man, what am I going to do about him?
Cagle had been around too long, was too popular, for her to accuse him of high crimes out of the blue. She had no proof, other than seeing and hearing him speaking with Pyotr Sokolov. And now the Russian was dead.
The detective was relieved that Wexler hadn’t shot up the place. It had been a concern, since she’d foolishly warned him that the Russians were after him, too. But then, he was focused on Osorio and his operation.
“Any other witnesses?” Bellucci asked.
“Hundreds,” Johnston said. “But no one has come forward except the bartender. Kilgore and Tran are over at Baylor Hospital interviewing shooting victims coming into the ER.”
The Baylor Hospital was the closest medical facility. Bellucci couldn’t recall any others in the area, so they’d probably find all of the injured there.
“Interesting,” Bellucci said, and turned toward the door. “But not our case.”
“Where are you going?” Cagle demanded, watching her suspiciously.
Did Osorio tell Cagle she’d visited without him? Was Cagle supposed to watch her? Control her investigation? What were Cagle’s orders if she got too close to Osorio? She hated having all those doubts, almost as much as knowing he was a dirty cop.
“Back to work,” she replied. “Johnston has a handle on this. I need to find a cup of coffee and get back to work.”
Cagle followed her out, closing the distance rather aggressively. Would he challenge her in front of witnesses?
He grabbed Bellucci’s elbow, stopping her and forcing her to face him.
“Hey! Hands off, mister!” she snapped, glaring at him.
That got everyone’s undivided attention. Cagle threw his hands up and backed off a step. She gave him a warning look before turning back toward her car. He followed.
“We have to talk,” he said.
“We’ll do more than talk if you grab me again.”
“Any time, sister,” he sneered. That made her stop and face him, hands curled into fists. Cagle held his hands up. “Simmer down. What’s got you so hot?”
“You! Don’t grab me, or threaten me.”
“Okay, calm down,” he said. Then he moved closer, looming over her. “I have some demands of my own. Never pull another stunt like yesterday.”
“Stunt?”
“You know what I mean. Taking off before I got to work,” he said. “And going to interview Osorio without me. What the hell were you thinking? He might’ve killed you.”
“How do you know where I went?”
“Captain Perot told me.”
She’d forgotten about the e-mail to the captain. Okay, he had an excuse there, but she was sure Osorio had spoken to him about her as well. And she still couldn’t say a thing. Yet.
“Yeah, well, that was a lesson for you,” she said. “Get to work on time. See you back at the office, partner.”
Bellucci marched off before he could respond. He was still standing there, staring after her, when she got into her car and drove away. Heading back to headquarters, she pulled out her phone and called Wexler’s number.
She was sure he’d ditched that phone after three rings, but then he answered.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Mr. Wexler. I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“No, it’s four fifteen in the morning,” Bellucci said. “Where were you around one thirty last night? Staying out of trouble, I hope.”
He didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective. I’ve been in my bed all night. Whoever killed a scumbag has my gratitude, if that’s what happened and why you’re calling, but it wasn’t me. I’m just a law-abiding citizen trying to live my best life.”
Bellucci hesitated. Her thumb hovered over the “end call” button.
“I don’t know what your endgame is, Wexler, but I think you’ve stirred things up enough to start a gang war,” she said. “Stand down. Cease and desist. Let me deal with Mr. Osorio.”
“You don’t understand,” Ash said. “The police haven’t so much as filed charges against him in the four years he’s been in Dallas. Why should I believe that’s about to change?”
“It’s going to change because I’m on the case now,” she said, rather hotly. “I’m not supposed to call you like this. I don’t like vigilantes. It goes against everything I believe.”
She stopped, not sure what she wanted to say. Hell, she struggled to understand what she believed anymore.
“I don’t have enough to file any charges against you right now,” she said. “But if you continue, then I won’t have any choice. Let me deal with Mr. Osorio. I promise, he will pay for his crimes.”
Ash remained silent a moment. “Oh, he’ll pay.”
Chapter 43
Ash turned on the TV as he entered the kitchen. Bellucci’s call left him too wound up to sleep, so he might as well start his day.
The local news came on. The anchors, Theo and Lara, were talking to a reporter at some crime scene. He wondered if that crime had anything to do with why Detective Bellucci had called him at that ungodly hour.
“I’ve just been informed there will be a news conference at eight this morning, Lara,” Hannah said. The Arab-American beauty was all bundled up, despite the temperature displayed on the lower right corner being a nice fifty-five degrees. “They still refuse to officially confirm any names of victims, but I have it on good authority that Russian crime figure Pyotr Sokolov is one of the victims. Witnesses have named Mateo Osorio as the shooter.”
That got Ash’s attention. Reporters had to be very sure before they dropped names like that.
Hannah stood on a sidewalk, bright red, blue, and white police lights flashed behind her. He couldn’t tell her location by what he saw on screen, but there was a scroll at their bottom that said it had happened at Club Wild Child, in Deep Ellum.
“Did I cause that?”
He couldn’t help but grin. Osorio believed all that nonsense with speaking some Russian, and claiming that he worked for the Russians. And at the same time, he admitted he was trying to avenge his murdered family.
“Damn, I should’ve been a politician,” he said.
Osorio was a dead man walking. Even if he failed to kill Osorio, the Russian mob would finish the job for him.
If the news media was reporting it, then that meant the police had to be investigating Osorio. That’s what Bellucci had meant. They knew Osorio had committed Sokolov’s murder, and they could prove it. He hoped.
Yet, was that what he wanted? Was that justice for his family’s murder?
Picking up his phone, Ash pulled up an app. That activated his hidden cameras, with a list of screens displayed. He tapped on one labeled: Ranch front. Osorio’s ranch house appeared on his screen.
Three Escalades were parked in the circular drive and all of the lights were on inside the house. Even the vehicles’ lights were on. Men were moving back and forth between the front door and the Escalades.
“Looks like he plans to bug out. I’m running out of time,” he muttered, mind racing at a million miles a minute. “I have to act fast.”
Ash had plans for the day. More messing with Osorio’s head to force him into a mistake. Maybe he’s already done that, since the drug lord had killed Sokolov.
“Time to put an end to that shit heel, once and for all,” Ash said. “Right now.”
It didn’t take long to dress. Ash gathered any weapons he could possi
bly need, and loaded them into his ‘98 Chevy Camaro. It had a badass 320hp V8 and no one would outrun him.
Taking the back roads to Collin County, Ash pulled up next to the brown Chevy van. He quickly checked to ensure no one had robbed him of Osorio’s drug money in back. Then he stuffed several remote-controlled incendiary devices in and around the pile of cash, before dousing it all with gasoline.
Ash checked his app to ensure Osorio and gang were still at the ranch. They were, but several men were standing around by the vehicles. It seemed like Osorio was about to leave, so Ash quickly hopped into the van and drove it the short distance to the gate.
He backed it up to the gate, left it in reverse with a brick on the accelerator and abandoned it to run across the road, into the woods.
Returning to the Camaro, Ash pulled up the app and waited for Osorio to leave. He didn’t have long to wait. The drug lord came out dressed to the nines in a dark suit and tie.
“Already dressed for the grave,” Ash muttered.
Chapter 44
Men rushed around, shouting and cursing. Osorio rather liked organized chaos, though at the moment there was little organization involved. They were grabbing suitcases of money and drugs, weapons, and other necessities.
“They’re fueling up the jet,” Consuelo said, putting his phone away. “It’ll be ready to fly by the time we get to Love Field.”
Osorio nodded, standing in the middle of the living room and watching the morning news. Every local channel was reporting that he’d killed Sokolov.
How the hell did they know that? Sure, there were a lot of people in that club when it all went down, but only a handful of people knew what he looked like. Or at least that’s what he’d always believed.
“Everything that can go wrong, is going wrong,” he growled, fists clenched.
“What did you expect to happen when you killed Sokolov?” Consuelo asked. He indicated the TV. “This is what happens. The Russians watch TV, too. We have to get out of here before they show up.”
