Nikolai, Volume 2

by Roxie Rivera

Nikolai sat forward and tapped on the glass divider between the rear and front seats. The driver lowered the partition, and he ordered, "Drop me off at the convenience store on the next corner."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I can take you home." David seemed surprised by the instruction he had given their driver. "It's not a problem."

  "I'm not going home."

  David's eyes narrowed. "Where are you going?"

  "To see my wife," he replied matter-of-factly.

  "Your wife? Vivian is in London. Unless you plan to sprout wings—"

  "There is more than one way to get across that fucking ocean, and I'm going to find one." The car slowed to a stop, and he unbuckled his belt. "I'll fucking swim if I have to because I'm not missing her show."

  "Nikolai." David grabbed his arm. "As your lawyer—"

  "I know, David." He shrugged off the other man's hand. "I'll be careful. If not, I'm sure you can point me in the right direction for a good attorney overseas."

  To his credit, David didn't seem flustered by the realization that a client was about to do something stupid. Instead, he muttered, "If I have to fly to London, I'm going first class and staying at a five-star hotel and eating at the best restaurants, and I'm charging it all to your account."

  Nikolai laughed. "I'd expect nothing else from you."

  David smiled at him. "Good luck, Nikolai."

  Nodding, he stepped out of the car and closed the door. He went inside and bought a cup of coffee and three prepaid cell phones. He made sure to get his change in quarters and dimes so he could use the ancient payphone along the side of the building. Trying not to think about the grime coating the headset, Nikolai inserted his change and punched in Kostya's number.

  From the gruff, heavy sound of Kosyta's voice when he answered, he had been asleep. "Yeah?"

  "Kostya, I need you to come get me."

  "Nikolai? What's wrong? Where are you?" Fully alert now, he asked questions quickly in Russian.

  "It's a long story." He sipped the too hot but surprisingly good coffee. "I'm at the Shell station on the corner of JFK and Greens."

  "I'll send Boychenko. He goes to see his grandmother at the nursing home every morning. It's right there next to the airport."

  Knowing how close the kid was to his grandmother, he didn't want to keep him from her for long. "I only need him to drop me off somewhere."

  Kostya didn't ask where. "Be careful, boss."

  "Yeah."

  After hanging up, he activated two cell phones and placed a call to a private number that went straight to a voicemail box for a travel agency. The line beeped, and he left his message. "I'm following up on a lost piece of luggage. The ticket number was…" He glanced at the other cell phone and rattled off its number. "Thank you."

  When the call was finished, he broke the phone into pieces and retrieved the SIM card before tossing the rest into the trash can. Not long after, Boychenko arrived at the gas station in his '67 Chevy Impala. The kid had put hours of work into restoring the muscle car, and it showed.

  "Boss," Boychenko greeted as he slid into the front passenger seat. "Is everything okay?"

  "No." He closed the door and enjoyed the cold blast from the air conditioner. The hot, muggy morning air made his rumpled suit feel heavy and uncomfortable. "I know that you're on your way to see your grandmother so I'll make it quick."

  "It's fine, boss. She'll understand, and she won't mind, not after everything you've done for her."

  When Agnessa had first started to have complications with her diabetes and heart condition, she had come to him for help. Nikolai had gladly given it. She had been one of the first people to welcome him to Houston. Her door had always been open to him. If he had needed a hot meal or a place to do laundry, she had always obliged. When he had opened Samovar, she had helped him staff the place by suggesting cooks and servers and other people she knew and trusted.

  So he had purchased the small grocery store she owned, paying more than it was worth, to ensure that she would be able to get the medical care she would need. Without insurance, she had gone through the money quickly. Once he had learned that she was facing the prospect of spending her final years in a state-run facility, Nikolai had made arrangements for her care and paid the bill personally.

  "That's not a debt your family owes," he told Boychenko and not for the first time. "Everything I've done for Agnessa was because of her kindness to me."

  "And everything I've done for you, boss, is because of the kindness you showed her," Boychenko replied.

  Certain he could trust the kid, he said, "I need you to take me to one of my bolt-holes."

  Boy's eyes widened. He understood that he was being trusted with a location that no one else had, not even Kostya. "Yes, sir." He put the car in drive. "Which way?"

  "Head toward Spring. I'll give you the directions as we get closer."

  They didn't speak as they drove north on I-45. Rock music played in the background, just loud enough that the silence wasn't grating. He rolled down the window as they flew down the interstate and tossed out the SIM card. The wind caught it up and carried it away.

  Nikolai stared out the window, but he didn't actually see any of the scenery whizzing by them. He was consumed by thoughts of Vivian, of the ways he had failed her and of the ways he might make things right between them again. It was clear to him that his policy of shielding her and keeping secrets had to end. All the little lies and the omissions were adding up. He wanted to settle that tab and be done with it.

  If she still wants me…

  That was the heart of it, wasn't it? What if he had pushed too far? What if she had finally realized that she could do better? Because she could. She deserved so much better than a mobbed-up ex-con with a shady past that would never leave him. Their child deserved better.

  But no matter how hard he tried, Nikolai didn't see a way out. He wasn't Sergei. He wasn't Ivan or Alexei. He was in this life forever. Even if he tried to leave and make a clean break, Maksim's men would hunt him down and end him. If it wasn't Maksim, it would be the cartel or Liam, his Irish gun-runner, or one of a dozen different underworld contacts who might be afraid he would snitch. He knew too much to get out.

  He gave Boy a series of directions that took them to a rundown apartment complex. He had the kid park in one of the guest spots along the back wall and asked him to come inside. Boy didn't dare refuse. He trailed Nikolai to the covered parking spot near the garbage cans where he kept a dark blue late model Toyota with fender damage. Crouching down, Nikolai unhooked the magnetic box keeping the key to his apartment securely attached to the underside of the vehicle. Boy stayed close as they walked to a ground-floor corner apartment.

  When they were safely inside, he locked the door behind them and tossed the spare key from the empty bookshelf to Boychenko who showed those quick reflexes by catching it. "This is yours now."

  "Mine?" He glanced around the sparsely furnished, dusty apartment. "Are you serious?"

  Nikolai's brow arched. "Have I ever joked with you?"

  "No, sir."

  "You've seen this location so it's no good for me anymore. Now it's your secret to keep."

  Boychenko pocketed the key. "How do I pay for it?"

  "You don't. It's taken care of for the next seven years. By the time another payment is due, you'll have your own hidey hole somewhere else. This will be another man's problem."

  Boychenko seemed hesitant to ask, but he did anyway. "Why?"

  "Because I like you," Nikolai said simply. "You're a good kid. You work hard. You deserve a safe place to retreat."

  "Thank you."

  "Come on. I'll give you the grand tour." Nikolai led him around the one-bedroom space and showed him where he had hidden things like cash, weapons and other supplies. Nikolai opened the closet and took out a backpack that he unzipped to show Boychenko the contents. "This is ready to grab and run, you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You need to get a backpack. Stuff it with
a change of clothing, good shoes for running, a burner phone and a charger, cash and guns." He picked up the second backpack that he kept at the apartment. It was heavier than the other one and crammed with wrapped stacks of hundred and twenty dollar bills. He tossed two banded stacks of bills at Boychenko. "Take these. They can be your emergency fund starter."

  The kid gaped at the money tossed his way. "This is, like, twenty thousand dollars, boss."

  "Roman," he used the kid's first name, "if you ever have to run, twenty thousand won't get you very far." He motioned to the shoeboxes of guns and ammo. "You can have those too. They're clean steel. They went straight from Liam's hand to mine." He tapped the kid's chest. "Don't even think about trying to sell them."

  "No, sir."

  "If anyone asks, you took me to Samovar, okay?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Don't tell anyone about this place. Not even Kostya." He held the kid's gaze to make sure he understood how important it was that he keep this secret. "This apartment might be the only thing between you and a bloody fucking end someday. Okay?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Change the locks tonight if you want to be safe."

  "I will."

  Certain he'd gotten through to Boychenko, he hooked his thumb toward the door. "Go on. Get out."

  With a silent nod, Boychenko left the apartment. Nikolai followed him and locked the door. Alone in the apartment, he changed out of his suit and into the jeans and t-shirt hanging in the closet. He jammed his feet into the well-worn sneakers and ran his fingers through his hair before fitting a baseball cap into place. He was picking out a weapon when the burner cell started to ring.

  "Hello?"

  "You can retrieve your luggage at the following address."

  Nikolai listened carefully as an automated computerized voice read off a number and street. The phone call ended, and he dismantled the phone. With both backpacks in hand, he left the apartment and used his key one final time. After he threw the backpacks onto the passenger seat, he flicked his apartment key into the garbage bin and started the old Corolla. He tried to remember to sneak away to drive it every month, but sometimes he forgot. It had been seven or eight weeks since the last time he'd started it up, but thankfully the engine turned over without a hiccup.

  Paranoid that someone was following him, Nikolai made a series of unnecessary detours to reach the address that had been given to him. He threw pieces of the phone out the window as he drove. An hour later, he found himself pulling into an industrial sector near Jersey Village. The building at the address he had been given looked as if it might have once been used by an oilfield or natural gas company. The rolling gate was open wide enough to admit a vehicle and one garage door had been left open for him.

  Hand on his weapon, Nikolai eased into the dark building. As his eyes adjusted to the single halogen light illuminating the large space, he spotted movement to his left. He turned quickly and breathed easier when he saw the familiar face of Zec. The Albanian reached for the long chain attached to the rollup door and gave it three sharp tugs. The metal clanged and clamored as it rolled closed.

  Nikolai had met some hard bastards during his life as a street child and later during his prison stretches, but Zec was the hardest—and meanest—of them. He had been born in a Russian women's prison to an Albanian mother who had been brutally assaulted by the male warden. She had been allowed to keep and raise her baby there.

  Whether that was a kindness the warden allowed because he felt guilty or a cruel and twisted punishment, Nikolai couldn't say. He leaned toward the latter. Despite the hell he had survived in the orphanage, Nikolai still would have chosen that over life in a prison. He could only imagine the horrible, viciously cruel things Zec must have seen as a child. It wasn't hard to understand why the man had his peculiar tastes.

  Predictably, Zec had struggled to live on the outside after his mother had finally been freed. He had been in and out prisons across Europe and Russia before finally settling into a career as a smuggler. Over the years, he had built up a massive empire that moved cargo, legal and illegal, around the globe.

  "I hear you had a little problem at the airport," Zec said in that gravelly voice of his. A razor blade slashed across the throat had given him that rather charming trait.

  There was no use in keeping anything from Zec. "I'm on the No Fly List."

  "How?"

  Nikolai shrugged and leaned against the door of the Corolla. The scent of industrial-strength cleaners and diesel saturated the air of the abandoned building so he tried not to breathe too deeply. "I suspect someone back home is trying to make trouble for me."

  "Like Maksim?"

  "Probably," Nikolai agreed. His father was the only person who could have gotten his hands on that information. Knowing Maksim, he had kept the originals for use in a situation just like this one.

  "Because he found out that Tatiana Filipova is still alive?"

  That had been Nikolai's first thought. The old man was probably furious that Nikolai had lied to him. He would want to make sure that Nikolai remembered who held the end of his leash. Eyes narrowed, he asked, "How long have you known?"

  "About a year." Zec pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his lightweight jacket. "Would you like one?"

  Yes. So fucking much. "No."

  Zec lit up and exhaled a lungful of smoke. "I was doing a bit of work in Hong Kong, and I happened to see her across a restaurant. For a moment, I thought I was seeing things. It didn't take me long to piece together the clues." He took another drag. "It was smart to hide her right under Maksim's nose. She has a good life in Hong Kong. Why is she back?"

  "Why do you think? You know everything. I'm sure you can fill in those blanks."

  "Her brother just took a bullet to the back of the skull while on vacation in Istanbul, and her father had a heart attack last year while one of those young hookers he loved so much was riding him like a racehorse. There's no reason for her to hide anymore—if you've forgiven her."

  "There was nothing to forgive."

  "That's not the story I heard." Zec flicked his ash toward the concrete floor.

  "My story is the only one that matters."

  Zec shrugged. "Your city, your rules." He gestured to the black sedan with darkly tinted windows sitting on the far side of the empty building. "We need to go. You've got a long trip ahead of you."

  Nikolai grabbed his backpacks from the car. "How are you going to get me to London?"

  "We're driving across the border into Mexico. There's a private airfield near Tampico that I own. I have a shipment of a sensitive nature that has to get to Bogotá tonight."

  "Colombia?" Nikolai already hated this plan.

  "Surely that hot little wife of yours has taught you Spanish by now, Papi." He emphasized the last word in a lewd way.

  Nikolai shot Zec the finger, but the Albanian just laughed. "Get the door, Nikolai."

  He pulled on the dirty chain to lift the rear door high enough for the car to exit and then slipped under it. He gave one of the metal handles a jerk and pulled the door the rest of the way down. After sliding into the passenger seat of the sedan, he asked, "And after Bogotá?"

  "Lagos." Zec adjusted the air conditioning. "By the way, I hope you don't want that shitty car back. Ben's guys will collect it tonight and get rid of it."

  "Consider it my down payment for this trip," Nikolai grumbled. "Why Lagos?"

  "My client in Bogotá has a gift for a friend in Nigeria. We won't be there very long. They'll meet us at the airfield for the handoff while we're refueling and then we'll head to Tirana."

  "Albania? I need to get to London."

  "And you will," Zec promised, "but you can't fly into the country. If you're on the No Fly List here, you can be damned sure the Brits have you tagged, too. I'll have to get you into the country old school."

  Nikolai really didn't like the sound of that. He envisioned a long, bumpy ride in the back of a freight truck and a stomach-churning boat ride a
cross the North Sea. "Shit."

  "Cheer up." Zec punched the gas while Nikolai fumbled with his seatbelt. "Luka has invited us over for a breakfast date."

  "You mean he's going to hold me hostage over runny eggs and burnt toast until I agree to give Besian more territory or to increase the percentage of traffic that's thrown your way."

  Zec laughed. "Runny eggs and burnt toast? No. For you? Luka will make sure there's a big steaming bowl of paça waiting."

  "Lucky me," Nikolai dryly replied. Like a garlicky version of the menudo so popular among the Mexicans in Texas, the Albanian soup made from innards was one that he could hardly stand to smell let alone eat. He liked and respected the head of the Beciraj crime family, but he didn't think he could choke that soup down even for Luka.

  Leaning back in his seat, Nikolai realized he had been wrong to think that his night in TSA and airport police custody was the worst. It seemed his bad luck was just beginning.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jet-lagged, exhausted and in need of a shower and clean clothing, Nikolai emerged from a car into the darkness of a very early Albanian morning. He scrubbed his hands over his tired face and felt three days' worth of stubble under his palms. It took him a moment to calculate the actual date. It was Wednesday morning.

  "Nikolai! Mirëmëngjes!" Far too happy for this early of a morning, Luka Beciraj bounded down the front steps of his impressive mansion. "How was your trip?"

  "Mirëmëngjes." He returned the Albanian greeting and tried not to yawn. "It was long."

  Luka shot a knowing look at Zec. "Yes, especially when your traveling companion is so talkative."

  That brought a smile to Nikolai's face. Zec had kept to himself for most of the trip. He liked to read or watch the news and films. Nikolai suspected Zec's throat injury bothered him when he talked too much. That or he didn't care that he came across as boorish.

  "English or Russian? I'm happy to indulge you either way." It was a not so subtle jab over the fact that Nikolai's Albanian wasn't as good as it should have been. Whenever he had needed to conduct business of that sort, he had always been able to rely on Ivan or Kostya. Both men were extraordinarily gifted with languages.