Viktor heard the pop, but he couldn’t figure out the source. He looked around the room, swiveled his head, and found that it began to feel…heavy.
Viktor swayed in place, a strange feeling of fatigue overcoming him as he looked down and saw a puncture wound drilled into his chest. Only one thought ran through Viktor’s mind.
Put your finger in it.
Ivan stood up as Viktor fell to his knees, the world slowly edging to a black void as Ivan tossed the .32-caliber revolver on the floor, discarding it like he’d discarded Viktor’s life.
“I knew,” Ivan said, “that you would be dumb enough to let this Brody back in your company, even after he claims he went to prison after a deal that saw ten of my best men put behind bars for life.”
Viktor looked at his boss, fear coursing through his veins as Ivan placed a hand on his shoulder and looked him dead in the eye.
“Do you remember that day?” Ivan continued. “The day my men went away for that deal with Ethan Brody?”
“I…I do.”
“Then you remember,” Ivan continued, “that one of them was my son. My son that was killed by five men and a rusty razor in a prison shower…”
Viktor closed his eyes in shame. “Yes.”
“I always blamed you for that.” Ivan stood up, his otherwise chill-inducing appearance now somewhat lax and saddened. “You and Brody…or should I say, Vincent. Detective Edgar Vincent.” A fire burned in his eyes at the mention of the name. “I just had to be patient while I organized my move for retaliation…”
Viktor’s eyes widened. “What…” he said, the life fleeing him now in waves. “What are you talking about?”
Ivan shook his head. “You damn fool,” he said. “Ethan Brody’s real name is Edgar Vincent. He’s a cop, you stupid ingrate!”
Viktor was having trouble staying upright. “How…how do you know?”
Ivan laughed. “You really think it’s that hard to buy off a cop? Come on, Viktor! I’ve had an inside source on this case being leveled against you for months. How do you think we fingered that FBI agent you killed, to begin with?”
Viktor slumped in shame.
“This is simple,” Ivan said, reaching for his pistol on the desk and once more becoming an emotional void. “Edgar Vincent set up a fake deal ten years ago that put my son in jail. My son was killed.” Ivan paused, closing his eyes briefly. “I see two people as being responsible for that: you and Detective Edgar Vincent. Your mistake was out of sheer stupidity, which I will forgive by killing you quickly. But Vincent?” Ivan shook his head. “A cop deliberately set up my son and signed his death certificate. He’s going to die slowly. Painfully…”
Viktor closed his eyes and accepted his fate, a man that lived as fast as he was about to die. “Finish it,” he said in Russian.
“My pleasure,” Ivan responded in his native tongue as he cocked the hammer on the gun, pressed the muzzle to Viktor’s head, and fired off a shot that split the man’s head in two.
Ivan, his torso covered in blood and completely without care, pulled out his phone and dialed a number for the contact that had given him the 411 on Ethan Brody’s true identity.
“It’s me,” he said. “Viktor is off the playing field.” He clenched the phone tighter in his incredibly large fist, a wicked smile forming on his lips as he thought of sweet revenge. “I’m ready for Edgar Vincent.”
12
Kosinski opened a crate of five AR-15s and stood back so Vincent could take a look. The two of them stood in the motel room where Vincent had taken a swipe at his former employer just a day earlier.
“Van is downstairs with the rest of the rifles,” Kosinski said as Vincent took a look at the weapons for any flaws. “You need to take a few of my guys this time, in case the deal goes wrong.”
“No way,” Vincent said. “And I already told you why.”
Kosinski sucked air through his teeth. “We ain’t negotiating this time, ace. I’m not letting a bunch of criminals with guns back you up. One of them might pop a shot off in your dome and put you in the ground. As much as I might like that”—Vincent snorted—“it just isn’t worth the paperwork.”
Vincent closed the case. “Who’s coming with me?”
Two men approached Vincent—one black, one white. They were dressed like thugs, complete with leather jackets, jeans, boots, and grizzled appearances, but it was obvious to Vincent they were DEA.
“Carlson,” the white one said.
“Andrews,” the black one said.
Vincent nodded his approval. “We’re going to get the location anytime now. Do we have any people ready to scope out the location?”
“A few people,” Kosinski said. “Yeah. We won’t have much time to check this place out beforehand. Viktor and his people could already be there.”
“Most likely, they are. But we’re better safe than sorry.”
“Safe would have included you making sure that you got Viktor to stick to the original plan of letting you pick the location.”
“I might have done that if you took the time to tell me about Petrov, you hypocritical fuckwad.”
Andrews and Carlson bit their lips and subtly averted their gazes to keep themselves from laughing.
Kosinski took a step closer to Vincent with a jutted jaw and a hangman’s gaze. “You look a little tired, Vincent. You sure you don’t need to take a nap or something, son?”
Vincent turned away from the crate and came nose to nose with his old boss. “What you can do is go to hell, and I’m not your son.”
Kosinski said nothing.
All he did was smile.
But, oddly enough for Vincent, he remembered that smile on Kosinski ten years prior, that same, shit-eating grin that followed after Vincent had told him that he’d killed a man in the line of duty—and Kosinski thought it was funny.
“Enough,” Stone cut in as she wedged herself between them. “We need to get ready. Tonight’s the last shot at finding these girls. So kill the pissing contest. Those girls are still out there. We don’t have time for this.”
No one argued with Stone—she was more than right.
As Vincent was halfway into going over some logistical plans with Carlson and Andrews, his burner phone buzzed with a text. Everyone hung on in anticipation as he read it.
“We’re on,” he announced as he pocketed the phone. “Let’s get this thing done.”
Badges were donned. Radios were tuned in. Guns were locked and loaded. And no one had the slightest clue that they were about to walk into an ambush.
13
The location that Viktor had texted Vincent was a dock near a closed-up and tightly locked warehouse near the water. Night had fallen. The only light on the dock came from the moon overhead.
After finalizing plans back at the motel, Kosinski had sent two men to scope out the location from a distance. “They couldn’t find anything,” Kosinski said. “No one’s there yet.”
“Bullshit,” Vincent said. “Viktor won’t mess this up by showing up blind.”
“Take my word or not, Vincent, I don’t give a shit. Just get this damn thing done,” Kosinski said with a scowl, clearly at the end of his rope.
He stormed off as Carlson and Andrews loaded the last of the weapons into the van. Stone approached Vincent, hands in her pockets, and sporting a bulletproof vest. “Soon as you give us the green light,” she said, “we’ll come in running.”
“Move fast,” Vincent said, checking the rounds in his pistol. “Something smells off. This whole thing just… I don’t know.”
Stone placed a hand on Vincent’s arm. “It’ll be over in a half-hour. This is a slam dunk. Just get him to hand you the cash, and we’re golden.”
Vincent tucked away his gun and zipped up his jacket. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s hope that’s the case.”
Ten minutes later, Vincent, Carlson, and Andrews arrived in the van with the crates of AR-15s and pulled up to the docks, a thick and wide stretch of wood that pointed toward the water, a wa
rehouse and an office building painted a weather-worn green on its left side.
An Escalade was parked at the end of the docks. Vincent took his time behind the wheel of the van as he blasted the headlights and looked around. “You guys see anything?” he said to Carlson and Andrews.
They looked around.
“Nothing,” Andrews said.
“Nothing at all, boss,” Carlson chimed in.
Vincent tightened his grip on the wheel. “Just keep your eyes peeled,” he said. “Someone’s hanging out in the shadows…”
Vincent parked the van about twenty feet from the Escalade, resting his pistol on his lap. “Carlson,” he said, “you’ll show Viktor the guns. Andrews, you’ll stay posted up in the rear while I check the cash. Soon as I shake Viktor’s hand, I’ll give Stone the code word. Stay frosty. Stay alert. If you spot something, call it out.”
Both men nodded as Vincent took a breath.
“Okay,” Vincent said. “Let’s do this.”
All three men got out of the van, keeping their weapons drawn and draped at their sides.
The front passenger door to the Escalade opened, and a short, bald man wearing a white leather jacket exited. Two things were instantly clear to Vincent—he wasn't Viktor, and he'd never seen this man before.
“Who the hell are you?’ Vincent asked Carlson and Andrews, flanking him.
The guy in the white jacket stopped, took out a cigarette, lit it, and puffed. “I’m Tony,” he said.
“Great story.” Vincent shook his head like he didn’t care. “Where the hell is Viktor?”
The guy smirked. “No more Viktor. He’s…retired.”
Vincent felt a tug in his gut.
This isn’t good.
“I’m not playing games,” he said to Tony, looking around the dock for signs of trouble. “I want to talk to Viktor.”
“You deal with me now,” Tony said. “Let me see the guns.”
Vincent paused, still glancing around. “Cash first,” he said. “I want to know you’re for real.”
The guy paused, took a puff, flicked the cigarette into the water, and snapped his fingers. The driver’s side of the Escalade opened, and a man in a blue windbreaker hopped out hefting a large canvas bag on his shoulder.
“Send someone over,” Tony said.
Vincent looked at Carlson in a way that said, Watch my six.
Carlson nodded.
Vincent slowly walked toward Tony, the man’s greasy face coming into clearer view with each step he took. Vincent stopped five feet short of the man. “Open it. Show me.”
The man looked at Tony. Tony nodded. The man opened the bag and showed Vincent stacks of cash wrapped in pink plastic bags.
“The guns?” Tony said.
Vincent stood back. Carlson then retreated to the back of the van, grabbed one of the crates by the handle, dragged it over to the front of the van’s headlights, and opened it. The man in the windbreaker approached Carlson. He looked inside the crate, examined it, and then gave Tony a thumbs-up.
Tony looked at Vincent and offered a handshake. “I’ll have my guys load up the guns.”
Vincent looked at Tony with a curious eye, an awkward and uncomfortable feeling overcoming him as he shook the man’s hand. “Sounds good, friend…” Vincent then drew a breath as he prepared to give the word. “It’s been a damn good time.”
The scene came to life with roar of spotlights, cars, emergency sirens, and red and blue lights flashing along the dock as Stone called out from a megaphone, “FBI! Put your weapons down and put your hands on top of your head.”
Tony and his friend in the windbreaker smiled, placed their hands on their heads, and dropped to their knees as a flurry of agents from the DEA and FBI converged on them. They offered no resistance.
Almost as if it was planned in advance.
“Wait a second,” Vincent said. “What the hell is this?”
“What’s wrong, man?” Tony said. “I didn’t know you were a cop. But you caught us. Good job.”
An agent then brushed Vincent aside as he slapped the cuffs on Tony. “Oh,” Tony said as the agent read him his rights.
The agent swept Tony away as Stone ran up to Vincent. “Wow,” she said. “That went a lot smoother than I would have thought.”
Vincent cocked his head, holstering his weapon as he glanced around at the organized chaos on the dock. “A little too smooth.”
Stone looked at Tony. “He say anything about Viktor?”
Vincent shrugged. He pointed to Tony as an agent stuffed him into the back of a car. “Nothing in detail. Don’t worry about it, though. Our friend here said he was going to give us the location of where he stashed the girls.”
Stone was nothing shy of stunned. “No…really? He said that?”
Vincent took the cigarette pack in his pocket out, crumpled it, and tossed it onto the deck. “Yep,” he said, losing the accent and cracking his neck to shake off any last traces of Ethan Brody. “That’s what he said.”
He saw Tony crack a smile as he stared at Vincent and Stone, Vincent knowing right then and there that everything was about to get a whole lot more complicated.
14
Ivan Petrov’s plan had played out smoothly—Tony and his cohort were in custody; the DEA and the FBI would be given the address for the missing girls shortly.
As Tony and his friend cooperated with the DEA and the FBI, Ivan grabbed his stuff from his five-star hotel room on Wacker Drive as he packed his bags for the plane ride out of O’Hare.
His cell phone only rang once.
All Ivan heard was breathing.
“Brother,” Ivan said into the phone in Russian. “The time has come. Meet me at the airport.”
“Da.”
Ivan hung up and moved to the mirror to check his suit—still wrinkle-free and well worth the exorbitant price.
Ivan looked at his features and couldn’t help but think of his son, the one that Vincent had locked up and sent to his death. The son he’d bounced on his knee as a child and taught soccer when he was only four years old.
Vincent had taken that from Ivan.
And now it was time for him to pay.
Ivan held his head high, reeled in his emotions, and grabbed his bags before moving for the door.
A few hours later, he was making a beeline through a cramped sports bar in the LaGuardia airport terminal. Its blaring TVs and shiny wood paneling appealed to its bustling yet weary clientele.
Ivan ordered a beer.
Two minutes later—he walked in.
He was short, but, even though the dark coat with the collar turned up and the semi-baggy jeans, he was clearly an athletic man. His hair was cropped low and his sharp jaw, lined with dark stubble, complemented his equally sharp and soulless eyes.
He said nothing as stood next to Ivan and kept a neutral gaze on the bottles of liquor at the bar.
Ivan pulled out an envelope from his inside coat pocket and slipped it under the counter. “Your payment. All of it in advance.”
The man in the coat didn’t bother counting or even looking at the money.
“We wait here until Edgar Vincent goes back to his home,” Ivan said. “After that, we follow him, take his family, and rip them to shreds in front of him. As slowly as possible. As long as possible. Are you fine with this?”
The man nodded.
He had done a lot worse for a lot less.
Vincent had his cell phone to his ear inside the DEA’s Chicago office, popping a pair of Tylenol in his mouth then grabbing a cold cup of coffee and swigging them back. “Come on, come on…” he pleaded as Claire’s phone just rang and rang. It rang twice more before going to voicemail.
Vincent closed his eyes, disappointed. “Hey, honey,” he said as soon as he heard the beep. “I want you to know that it’s over. The case, I mean. And I, uh…”
Vincent felt the words forming but couldn’t bring himself to say them. After the deal on the docks with Tony and everything that had h
appened in the past couple of days, Vincent had begun to realize something, a certain aspect of his life that he knew he needed to change.
“Let me know if you want me to come to Big Bear,” he said. “I’m done for the next few weeks. If not, then I understand.”
Someone was snapping their fingers to get his attention. Vincent looked around the office and saw Stone near the interrogation room calling him over. “I gotta go, sweetie,” he said. “But text or call. I’ll be done here in an hour. Love you.”
He hung up and hustled over to Stone. She stepped outside of the interrogation room. “Tony wants to cut a deal.”
“What kind of deal?” Vincent asked.
“Reduced sentence in exchange for the location of the missing girls, which he is prepared to give up to us immediately upon signing the agreement.”
Vincent huffed, already dismayed at the fact that Tony—or more likely Ivan—was making the police dance to the beat of his tune.
He gestured to the door. “Can I get a crack at him?”
Stone stood aside.
“Got his rap sheet?” Vincent asked.
Stone held up a manila folder with Tony’s name written in black ink. “The DA’s deal is on the inside. Signed, sealed, delivered.”
Stone handed it over to Vincent as he walked inside the room.
Tony was relaxed, staring at his palms and casually picking at his calloused fingers as Vincent walked in and closed the door behind him. Tony glanced up, but that was it. He went back to what he was doing.
Vincent pulled out a chair and sat. “Heard you want to make a deal.”
Tony shrugged. “Only if you agree to my terms.”
Vincent opened Tony’s file and glanced at the infractions, of which there were many. “You’ve taken a lot of bullets for Ivan Petrov before, haven’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Vincent ran a finger down the rap sheet and ticked off the greatest hits: “Robbery. Extortion. Racketeering. See, I’m looking at your sheet here, and it seems to me that you ended up taking the rap for a lot of stuff that Chicago PD was fingering other guys for.”
Hollow's End Page 6
