Hollow's End

by Hannibal Adofo

  “Ask me again some other time,” he said. “We have more important things to do.”

  Stone straightened up. “So when is the deal going down?”

  “Viktor said he’d call me tonight to arrange the details.”

  “Kosinski has a location picked out. It’s on the South Side. He said the AR-15s are en route as we speak. We’ll need to meet up together soon and finalize our plan. We’ll also have to bug the location in advance, so we can get Viktor on the record.”

  Vincent shook his head. “No dice. He’ll do a sweep of the location beforehand. He’ll also post snipers to make sure he has a contingency plan. He’s done it before. Two guys from a while back got capped on a botched deal with Viktor. Cops are still trying to figure out where their bodies are buried.”

  “Kosinski doesn’t seem to think it’s going to be all the complicated,” Stone said.

  Vincent huffed. “The man is a fool. He’s the reason Viktor got away the last time he tried to nail him.”

  The waitress came back around. Vincent ordered eggs, toast, and bacon, and once he got it, he scarfed it down in a couple of minutes. “I need to get some rest,” he said. “Hang by the phone and wait for Viktor to call. We shouldn’t meet again in person until this is all finished.”

  “We’re making sure no one is being tailed,” Stone said.

  Vincent stood as he wiped the crumbs off his face with a paper napkin. “Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t even leave the safe house until the deal is ready to go down. Too risky.”

  Vincent walked toward the door as Stone produced a few bills and paid for the meal. “Vincent,” she called out. “Wait up.”

  Vincent turned and motioned for her to stop. “I just want to finish this,” he said. “We’ve got a perfect shot teed up. We don’t need to compromise that.”

  As the bell over the door jangled when he walked in, a pimply-faced kid behind the counter, wearing a vest with the store’s logo on the chest pocket, looked in Vincent’s direction. “Help you?”

  “Yeah,” Vincent said as he took out a hundred-dollar bill. “You sell prepaid phones?”

  They did.

  Vincent was back in his motel room a few minutes later, the bathtub filling with hot water as he went about unpacking the phone and punching in a number from memory. It rang twice, then his daughter answered.

  “Hello?” she said. Vincent sensed caution in her tone. It was an unknown number. He was lucky that she’d answered the call at all.

  “It’s me,” he said sheepishly. “How are you holding up, kiddo?”

  A long pause from Claire. “Fine.” The caution in her voice turned into agitation as she said, “I went to Big Bear.”

  “You did? By yourself?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t that hard. I have a driver’s license, remember?”

  “No, that’s—I mean, that’s great. I’m glad someone is making use of that cabin.”

  Nothing from Claire.

  “Do you have food?” Vincent asked. “Enough money?”

  “Yeah, Dad. I think I have it covered.”

  Vincent felt the scorn in his daughter’s voice. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it, honey.” He rubbed his temples as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I wouldn’t have left if this wasn’t extremely important.”

  “You do realize that was the same excuse you would give me when I was little, right?” Claire said. “You said it every time.”

  “I know, Claire, but—”

  “No, Dad! No, I’ve had enough. My whole life has been spent trying to build a relationship with you, to try to have some shred of a connection with a father who’s gone more often than he’s around!”

  Vincent didn’t know what to say. His daughter had struck a chord of fear in him far beyond any violent criminal he’d ever encountered. His heart was beating at nearly triple its normal speed.

  “I just…” Claire continued. “I can’t talk to you right now. Okay? I need some time to myself.”

  She hung up.

  Vincent sat there with the phone still pressed to his ear and began to feel worse than he ever had in his life. It was undeniable that Claire was right, that Vincent’s commitment—or addiction—to being a detective had been his priority. It was the thing that had robbed him of so many memories with his daughter, so many hours lost that he could never get back.

  And right now is the moment all those mistakes have caught up to me.

  As Vincent remained on the bed, deep in thought, the bathtub continued to fill, and the water slowly cascaded over the side.

  8

  Time crept into the early hours of the morning. Viktor casually smoked a cigarette as he leaned against the Range Rover, watching Ivan Petrov’s private Cessna taxiing along the tarmac.

  He fought to keep his body’s trembling under control.

  Viktor looked over his shoulder at the tracksuited thug with the greasy locks that stood post near the tailgate. “Go help him with his bags,” Viktor ordered him in Russian. The guy jogged over to the plane.

  Viktor cursed under his breath as he tossed his cigarette to the pavement and stamped it out with his foot. He approached the plane and put his bravest face on as the Cessna’s door was opened by an attendant.

  Ivan stepped forward in a black leather jacket, broad-shouldered and towering to an almost inhuman extent. With gold rings on his fingers and even more gold on his chest, he seemed insurmountable.

  “Romy!” he called Viktor from the steps in his native tongue. “Come here! Come, give your friend a hug!”

  Viktor forced a smile and approached the plane as Ivan descended the steps, his almond-shaped face coming into clear view, his eyes icy and blue, his crown topped off with a set of raven-black hair licked with gray, and a sinister and demonic smile that made even the most seasoned criminal cringe.

  Standing a couple of steps above him and towering over Viktor, Ivan extended his arms and waited to be embraced. Viktor hesitated, then hugged his boss.

  “Good to see you,” Ivan said.

  Viktor managed a smile. “You as well.”

  Viktor escorted his boss down the steps of the plane as his tracksuited thug took Ivan’s bags and hustled them over to the Range Rover. “Where is the product right now?” Ivan asked.

  Viktor furrowed his brow. “The weapons?”

  Ivan lowered his voice. “Nyet. The women. Where are they?”

  “Oh, yes. I have Peter watching them at a safe house on the South Side. They’re cooperating. We’re just waiting for the doctor to give them their final exams before we put them on the boat.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Eight a.m.”

  “Good. Very good. I’d like to see the merchandise myself before it departs for the next country.”

  “Of course. Whenever you’d like.”

  “How about tomorrow morning at eight? I’d like to spend some quality time with the product after the doctor gives them a clean bill of health.”

  Ivan then flashed a cringe-inducing smile, Viktor knowing full well what the sick bastard was hinting at as Ivan laughed and shook his head.

  After stowing the bags, the thug held the passenger door open for Ivan.

  Ivan hopped inside as Viktor started the engine and waited for the thug to hop in back. “Where to, Ivan?” Viktor asked. “The Comrade?”

  Ivan shook his head. “I need something a little more…engaging,” he said before looking at Viktor with a predatory gaze.

  Viktor knew what Ivan was implying, and he didn’t care in the slightest. He was too vile and ruthless to give any thought to Ivan’s sick nature and tendencies. He only cared and showed concern when those tendencies were directed toward him.

  Viktor put the Range Rover into gear, did a one-eighty, and drove off toward the heart of the city, their destination a sultry and smoky establishment in the heart of Chicago’s underground.

  Chernobyl was a two-story warehouse that had been gutted and turned into a hangout for Chicago’s more s
inister Russian criminals.

  Music blasted and reverberated through the walls as Ivan and Viktor arrived and were taken to one of the VIP tables in the back. All heads turned the moment Ivan and Viktor walked inside. Everyone knew of the Ghoul of Serbia and tried not to stare at him for long.

  Viktor and Ivan sat at their table, and a bottle of the finest vodka was placed in front of them by the manager of the establishment. He wore a dark suit and a smile that he seemed to display out of fear. “Everything is on the house tonight, Mr. Petrov,” he said. Ivan waved him off like he was insulted that the man even needed to tell him that his drinks were comped.

  “Tell me about the guns,” Ivan said, glancing around the packed club and the denizens cutting up the dance floor.

  “It’s a good product.” Viktor poured them shots. “The aftermarket modifications give them a nice kick.”

  “You said we’d be receiving one hundred of them?”

  “At one hundred and fifty thousand. Yes.”

  Viktor offered Ivan a glass. Ivan swirled the contents, sniffed it, and chucked it back before shaking his head. “Talk him down to one hundred.”

  “I had a handshake deal with Brody. It’s finalized. We’re getting a bargain for the price he is asking.”

  Ivan slowly turned his head and leered at Viktor, his eyes filled with fire. “I said I wanted the guns for one hundred.” Then he shouted in Russian, “Did you not hear me?”

  Viktor felt the tension gathering like bile in his throat. “No,” he said, hanging his head sheepishly. “No, I heard you.”

  “Is it going to be a problem?”

  “No, Ivan. No, of course not.”

  Ivan shrugged and looked around like he had ordered a meal that had yet to arrive. “Then what are you waiting for? Do you think I came here for the music or the underage trim around this shithole?”

  Viktor squinted. “I…I don’t understand.”

  Ivan leaned in. “I want to meet this Brody. I have nothing but a name. I need to look into the eyes of this lowlife American before I give him my money, Viktor.”

  Viktor refilled their glasses, cursing on the inside as he found himself, again, trying to keep up with a boss who made it a game to know, anticipate, or keep up with what he was thinking.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Ivan said, “the deal is off until I meet Brody. His loyalty needs to be…tested.”

  “I trust Brody,” Viktor said. “He has yet to let me down.”

  “Yet the man was arrested ten years ago during his last deal. That doesn’t raise any alarms to you?”

  Viktor ceased speaking. He knew that Ivan had already made up his mind.

  Ivan looked around for the manager, the slick-haired kid still waiting a few feet away like a studious maid and then rushing to the table when he saw that Ivan caught his eye. “Yes, sir?” he said jovially.

  “Is the back room open tonight?” Ivan asked.

  Viktor closed his eyes. He knew damn well what went on in that back room.

  “Of course, sir,” the manager said, lowering his voice like they were exchanging secrets. “We are setting up the mats as we speak.”

  Ivan displayed a toothy smile, pulled out a billfold, peeled off a couple of hundred-dollar bills, and shoved in the manager’s pocket. “We have someone that we’re going to put on the ticket tonight.” He then looked at Viktor. “What’s his name again?”

  Viktor dug into his pocket and pulled up a number. “Ethan Brody,” he said with a dull tone.

  Ivan laughed. “Tell him to wear comfortable shoes,” he said. “And make sure he brings a towel.”

  Ivan grinned and continued drinking as Viktor called Brody and let him know that his night was about to get a whole lot worse.

  9

  Vincent’s head had barely hit the pillow when his second burner, the one he used strictly for doing business with Viktor, came to life.

  He buried his face further into the pillowcase as he reached out, grabbed the phone, and put it on speaker.

  “What?” he asked.

  “It’s me. Come to 433 North Second Street. Knock twice then once on the door.”

  “I’ve had my fill of vodka for the night, Vik.”

  “Just get here,” Viktor said. “Now.” He hung up.

  Confused, concerned, and fatigued, Vincent sat up and debated his next move.

  What the hell is going on? Why the hell is Romy calling me up at three a.m.?

  Vincent couldn’t back down. As long as the deal was in place with Viktor, he couldn’t risk a last-minute foul-up that would endanger the bust.

  We’re too close.

  I’m just going to have to play ball.

  Vincent slipped on his clothes, laced up his boots, and checked the rounds in his piece before he stuffed it in the back of his pants.

  Vincent arrived at the address Viktor had given him with a watchful eye and a cautious calculation in his walk—on edge, on guard, ready for a blitz. It was getting close to 4 a.m., and the dark and secluded alleyway he was walking through felt like something straight out of noir novel: the damp pavement with the moon shimmering across the oil-laced puddles, and the forbidding and somewhat overwhelming nature of the fire escapes around him felt like they were closing in more with each step he took.

  Vincent, his hand inching near his gun, moved toward the red door with no windows and the single glow of a bulb over the top at the end of the alley.

  “Knock twice then once on the door,” he said as he balled up a fist and rapped it on the wood as Viktor had instructed.

  Seconds later, the door flew open, a bushy-bearded bouncer in dark clothing laying a beady set of eyes on Vincent. “Name,” he growled.

  “Brody,” Vincent said. “Ethan Brody.”

  The bouncer smiled. “You’re on in five.”

  Vincent felt a tug in the pit of his stomach as he moved inside. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  “Turn around,” the bouncer said as Vincent slipped inside.

  Vincent complied and put his hands up. He was pressed against the wall and frisked before the bouncer located his gun and removed it from the back of his pants.

  “You get this back after,” the bouncer said.

  Vincent offered no objections. There was no turning back. The ride had started, the safety bar was down, and the roller coaster was slowly going up to start the first drop.

  The bouncer led Vincent through the hallway and into the club.

  The music grew louder with each step he took before they emerged onto the main floor and became engulfed in tobacco smoke, the stench of alcohol, and loud and obnoxious dance music accompanied by strobe lights that could induce an epileptic seizure.

  “Backroom.” The bouncer pointed toward a pair of double doors to the left. A pair of criminal-looking gentleman led the way. Vincent weaved through the people on the dance floor and followed them.

  He passed through the doors and was shown a narrow staircase to the left by a guy in a suit, the staircase evoking an eeriness that made Vincent recall a scene from a horror movie.

  He walked down the stairs, arrived at a door, knocked twice, then once, and was greeted by yet another man in a suit who asked his name.

  “Ethan Brody,” Vincent said.

  The guy turned around and shouted to the group of men creating an ungodly amount of noise to his left. “Brody is here!” he announced.

  Shouts and cheers erupted from the left side of the room.

  What.

  The.

  Entire.

  Hell.

  Is.

  This?

  Once more, he reminded himself that there was no turning back.

  The door opened. The guy guarding the door stood aside, and Vincent walked into what looked like a windowless basement, with wrestling mats lining the floor and a group of twenty-odd men gathered in a circle as they traded cash and placed bets. Smoke clogged the air and gathered toward the ceiling as harsh grunts, loud laughter, and trash-talkin
g in Russian was passed around the room like mints at a garlic festival. Vincent had broken up enough bar fights as a rookie cop to know what was coming next.

  “Brody, my boy!”

  Vincent felt the sharp slap of someone patting him on the back. He turned. “Romy,” he said, looking at Viktor’s hand on his shoulder like it was a parasite. “What the hell am I doing here?”

  Viktor looked around the room. “I think that’s obvious.” The stench of alcohol wafted off him in thick waves.

  “God damn it. Are you kidding me, Romy? I don’t have time for this Fight Club shit.”

  Viktor shook his head and forked a thumb over his shoulder. “Not my call, friend.” He looked back. “It’s his.”

  Vincent turned around to look at the man that Viktor was referring to. His stomach turned into a knot when he saw his face.

  “You must be Mr. Brody,” a ghoulish-looking man with raven hair said. “I’ve been waiting all evening to finally meet you.”

  A mountain of a man stood before Vincent, his presence and composure evoking a sense of authority wrangled by a violent nature. Vincent’s instinct of self-preservation rang like a bell.

  The man stared at him with a fiery gaze, like he was holding back a secret that he was waiting until the very last second to tell.

  Play it cool, Vincent.

  “Who are you?” Vincent asked.

  “Ivan Petrov.” The man extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Vincent’s hand sank in Ivan’s as they shook. He felt a cold shudder travel up his spine. The handshake was firm and threatening, like the two of them had unfinished business or Vincent had somehow slighted Ivan, and he didn’t know how.

  “How do you know Vik?” Vincent asked.

  Ivan hooked an arm around Viktor’s neck. “I’m this poor excuse for a man’s boss. If not for me, he’d be back in Russia locked up in a cell somewhere fighting for scraps.”

  So this is Viktor’s boss.

  I’ve never even heard of this guy before. What the hell kind of intelligence did Kosinski give me?