Dead End

by R. J. Patterson

  Get in, get out, get on.

  Maksim fell into his recliner and turned on the television. Vlad considered waiting three minutes before waltzing into the room and completing his task. He wanted to make sure Maksim was asleep. Still positioned beneath the bed, Vlad had a clear view into the living room through the open door to Maksim’s bedroom. Maksim nervously moved his foot back and forth before he stopped.

  Time to get to work.

  Vlad started sliding out from underneath the bed when he heard the door rattle and creak open. Maksim’s girlfriend waltzed in. Vlad recognized her voice from some recordings the surveillance team had sent. For a fleeting moment, he considered shooting both of them. Then he remembered who Maksim’s girlfriend was—the infamous Russian journalist Yuri Listyev’s daughter. If Vlad wanted to keep his killings discreet and off the radar, a double hit with Natalya Litsyev as one of the victims wasn’t the best course of action.

  Vlad inched back into his position and took a deep breath before exhaling slowly. For the next half hour, he suffered through a domestic spat. Natalya berated Maksim for his partying ways. He didn’t put up much of a fight for the first twenty minutes. However, the argument turned south quick when Maksim had enough and got up out of his chair. He started screaming back, which resulted in the next-door neighbor pounding on the wall. That angered Maksim even more, resulting in him punching through sheet rock in the living room.

  Vlad scooted closer to the edge so he could see more of what was unfolding down the hall. Once he wormed his way to a place with a wider field of view yet still safe from any watchful eyes, he saw Maksim take a swing at Natalya. He missed and collapsed to the ground. She scolded him as he struggled to get up and reminded him about their upcoming meeting in the morning. She told him he better be sober and on time before exiting in a huff and slamming the door behind her.

  Maksim moaned for a minute and clambered back to his feet. He shuffled toward the kitchen and rooted around in the refrigerator. Vlad wasn’t surprised about the object of Maksim’s quest, revealed when the bottle cap clinked on the counter. Maksim stumbled back to his recliner and fell into it. Five minutes later, he was passed out.

  Vlad waited another five minutes before moving. He wanted to be sure Maksim was indeed unconscious before proceeding. If not, Vlad vowed to remain hidden until morning to avoid casting suspicion on Natalya. After seeing what she endured at the hands of her degenerate boyfriend, Vlad began contemplating why any self-respecting woman would stay with a man like Maksim. It certainly wasn’t for his money, his charm, or his power. His looks were only slightly above average. Nevertheless, Vlad didn’t want Natalya to become the focus of a murder investigation, which is exactly what would happen if he murdered Maksim in the most efficient manner. Instead, Vlad had to improvise and assure that Natalya would never become a suspect.

  Once Vlad was on his feet, he checked Maksim’s nightstand for a weapon. Vlad wasn’t surprised to find three loaded guns inside. He selected one and headed toward the living room. He made sure Maksim was still passed out then placed a gun in his right hand. Vlad lifted Maksim’s right arm and prepared to fire when Maksim awoke suddenly.

  Without hesitating, Maksim fired at Vlad, who dove to the ground. Maksim waved his gun around and tried to stand, but he failed to get to his feet. He fell back into his chair, which was all the time Vlad needed to pistol whip Maksim and render him unconscious.

  Vlad worked quickly and held the gun in Maksim’s hand up against his temple. Then he pulled the trigger. In a few seconds, it was all over. Vlad only had a couple minutes to stage the rest of the suicide scene. There wasn’t time to write a note, though Vlad believed he would open the murder to an investigation if he tried to fake one in Maksim’s handwriting. Such notes rarely made a difference in an investigation. Besides, Vlad thought it would be believable without one. Guy with an alcohol and drug abuse problem got wasted, fought with his girlfriend, and shot himself in the head. In this part of Samara, that was called Tuesday or Wednesday—or any other day of the week. It was just far too common that any responding authorities would do a cursory sweep and move on to the next sad story.

  Vlad paused for a moment at the door, looking back inside to admire his handiwork. He snapped a picture and texted it to Sergei.

  “Sorry, Maksim, but whatever you had planned for tomorrow regarding the game, you’ll have to wait,” Vlad said mockingly to the fresh corpse sitting in the recliner, the television still blaring in the background.

  Then Vlad stole into the night. His work wasn’t done yet. There were still other targets remaining.

  Chapter 29

  CAL NURSED A CUP OF COFFEE while he waited outside of Cosmos Arena for Natalya. He checked his watch and noted the time. She was five minutes late, and he began to get antsy. Since he’d set foot on Russian soil, Cal had grown accustomed to the feeling of anxiousness. His encounters with authorities—both his own and presumably Russian—only reinforced his previously held belief that Russia was a place rife with watchful eyes that demanded straight line walking. Nothing else would be tolerated, a fact Cal had become painfully aware of.

  He took another sip of his drink and scanned the sparsely populated parking lot for Natalya. Kickoff was still six hours away, though the gates opened in four and a half. And once the stadium opened to ticketed fans, the likelihood of a tragic ending would grow exponentially.

  Cal jumped when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, revealing Buckman’s name.

  “So, Cal, what’s the latest today? Getting prepared for the big clash between Ukraine and Turkey?” Buckman asked.

  “Something like that,” Cal said, still peering across the parking lot for Natlaya.

  “That’s good to hear. Quite frankly, I’m just happy to hear you’re not chasing down one of your cockamamie theories about some Russian mafia guy aiming to blow up a stadium.”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” Cal said dryly.

  “You can’t be serious, can you?”

  “You may not have enough to feel comfortable running my story about it, but I have gathered enough circumstantial evidence to make me feel like it’s an imminent threat at this point. It’s not if but when.”

  “You feel this way, yet you’re still planning on covering the match?”

  “I wouldn’t want to miss such an event, though I’ll try to patrol the sidelines instead of remaining in the press box, where I’m more vulnerable as I’m a couple hundred feet higher in the air.”

  “At least you’ve got a plan,” Buckman said.

  Cal detected a note of sarcasm in Buckman’s voice. “Are you really going to dismiss me and my instincts this time?”

  “Cal, it’s not that I don’t trust you; it’s just that—”

  “Just what?”

  “It’s just that I think you’re extra paranoid and making this up. You’re in Russia for the first time, the land of the boogey man, if you believe our government. They’re not out to get you.”

  “I beg to differ, though I can’t tell you anything else about it over the phone. But it’s real. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

  “I’ll trust your personal account of what goes down today, but I can’t print this story. It’s just drawing from too many coincidences, linking together barely connected events.”

  “That’s what makes this a conspiracy, Buckman,” Cal said. “Can’t you see that? You’re sabotaging yourself and the paper. This could be the kind of story you’re always looking for.”

  “How about you write about it after it happens?”

  “Why? By then, everyone will have heard about it. It would be old news and simply by putting ink on the page at this point, people will question how I knew about it yet didn’t write a word until it was too late.”

  “That’s a product of the internet age. But don’t worry about it. Just do what you do—and no matter what you do, be safe. Your wife and daughter need you. Don’t turn into some vigilante cowboy wh
o’ll never see his wife and daughter again because you’re slogging away the rest of your life in a gulag in Siberia.”

  “And I’m the conspiracy theorist?” Cal said with a chuckle.

  “Just keep your head on straight, and don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Define stupid.”

  Buckman sighed. “Call me after the game when you file your story, will you? I’ll be watching.”

  Cal hung up and grinned. He enjoyed needling Buckman, who had no qualms about dishing out barbs, both playful and serious ones. The fact that Buckman was concerned signaled only one thing: Cal had been working with Buckman long enough for him to know Cal’s penchant for finding trouble.

  Once more, Cal surveyed the parking lot, searching for Natalya. He scrolled through his phone for her number and was prepared to risk calling her when he looked up and spotted her. She was walking briskly and wore a furrowed brow.

  “You’re late,” Cal said. “What’s going on? You look stressed.”

  “It’s Maksim,” she said. “We got into a huge fight last night, and now he’s not answering his phone.”

  “Was he drinking last night?”

  “And using,” she said as she shook her head. “We really got into a big row, and I stormed out. But I don’t think he’d forget about this. We’ve had nasty fights in the past, but the next day all was forgiven. It just seems like something is not quite right. I’ll try to call him once more.”

  She dialed his number and put the phone on speaker. It rang three times before an unfamiliar voice answered.

  “Maksim? Where’s Maksim? Who is this?” she asked.

  “This is Inspector Orlov,” he said. “Who is this?”

  “I’m his girlfriend, Natalya Listyev.”

  “My condolences to you then,” Orlov said. “Your boyfriend was found dead this morning. He apparently committed suicide.”

  Natalya dropped her phone and crumpled to the ground.

  “Hello, Ms. Listyev? Are you there?” Orlov said.

  She didn’t answer, instead breaking into heaving sobs.

  Cal picked up the phone. “Hello, Inspector. I’m a friend of Natalya. This is her number if you would like to call her back at a different time. This news is extremely upsetting to her.”

  “As I’m sure it would be to anyone,” Orlov said. “However, we are investigating this matter and would like to speak with her at her earliest convenience at our office.”

  “I’ll pass the message along,” Cal said before ending the call.

  He looked down at Natalya, who was wiping her eyes dry.

  “It’s all my fault,” Natalya said before breaking into a mournful cry. “I shouldn’t have gotten so upset with him.”

  Cal knelt next to her and put a comforting arm around her. After a minute of silence other than her crying, he stood and offered to help her to her feet.

  “How could he do this?” she asked, tears returning to her face. “Even if he wanted to end it all, he wasn’t heartless. He would’ve helped us save all the people attending the match today.”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve been in this business long enough to know that things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Cal studied her closely and chose his words carefully. “At the moment, nothing. But we will revisit this soon, I promise. For now, we need to come up with a plan B—and fast. Any ideas?”

  “I’ve got one. It’s a long shot, but I think it could work.”

  Chapter 30

  IVAN MORTUK STIRRED HIS TEA and stared into the steaming liquid as if he were looking for answers. If this were any other time, he would’ve gone home to Ukraine, regrouped, and formulated a plot for revenge against Sergei Bazarov. But that wasn’t an option. Fedir was gearing up for a World Cup game, and Ivan swore he wouldn’t let his son down again.

  “You are supposed to read the leaves,” Boris Kovalchuk said as he entered the kitchen.

  Ivan grunted but refused to look up. His thoughts were elsewhere, with his son, with his business, with his quest for revenge.

  “Boris, he came to my house to kill me,” Ivan said. “And for what? I’m stealing a paltry amount of his business, and he can’t take it?”

  “No honor among thieves,” Boris said flatly as he sat next to Ivan.

  “We’re not thieves,” Ivan said, slamming his fist down on the table. “We’re businessmen, salesmen. We make deals, and we close them. Just because governments can do the same thing but tell us we can’t does not make us thieves. It simply makes us defiant entrepreneurs. There’s a whole world out there full of people who want to get their hands on weapons like the ones we sell. And I will sell them to any buyer willing to pay the price.”

  “I agree. We are businessmen—and sometimes you have competition that plays by a different set of rules.”

  Ivan smiled. “We must send a message.”

  Boris stood and strode across the room toward the door, speaking as he went. “And I have just the messenger. Allow me to introduce to you Nikolai Lebedev.”

  Boris opened the door to reveal a man with hulking arms and a chiseled chest, who appeared to be in his late 30s. A scar extended from his left eye down the side of his face, disappearing at his neckline. His hands were also weathered and held clasped together waist-high in front of him.

  “Do come in,” Ivan said, gesturing for Nikolai to join him at the table.

  Nikolai marched toward the table and stopped. “I prefer to stand.”

  Ivan patted the seat next to him. “I insist.”

  Nikolai locked eyes with Ivan and reluctantly sat as requested. “I work on my terms. No one else’s.”

  Boris took a seat on the other side of Ivan.

  “And what are your terms?” Ivan asked.

  “Twenty million dollars wired to my account. Half before, half after the job is completed. There will be no more contact after our meeting today. If you fail to live up to our agreement, I will track you down and do to you what you have hired me to do to someone else. Is that clear?”

  Ivan nodded. “Sounds reasonable. However, I have my own terms to add.”

  “No extra terms. That is the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  “I want it done today at Cosmos Arena during the national anthems before the match.”

  Nikolai shook his head. “That is too soon. I haven’t scouted out the location yet. I can’t move that quickly.”

  “What if I added fifty percent to your fee? Would you be willing to accept the job?”

  Nikolai bobbed his head from one side to another as if contemplating the offer. “No.”

  “I’m not going to beg,” Ivan said. “The exit is that way.”

  Nikolai stood and walked across the room. Just before he reached the door, Ivan spoke again.

  “It’d be a shame for word to get out that you weren’t quite as advertised. I could give you a lifetime of referrals, not to mention the fame of taking out one of Russia’s most notorious mafia leaders. But if not, you might struggle to find another job.”

  Nikolai stopped and spun on his heels to face Ivan. “I said no. But feel free to soil my good reputation. My results speak for themselves, and I have no need to work any more. Killing is simply what I do.”

  He turned back toward the door before Ivan played his last card.

  “The target is Sergei Bazarov.”

  Nikolai froze. He threw his head back and looked upward. “Sergei Bazarov?”

  “The one and only. I thought perhaps that might persuade you to take the job.”

  “That bastard killed one of my best friends from the war. Slipped up behind him and slit his throat.”

  “And now you can have the opportunity to exact your revenge. What do you say?”

  “I’ll do it,” Nikolai said. “Forward his dossier to my email.”

  Ivan tapped a file folder on the table. “That’s not necessary. I have everything you need right here.”

  Nikolai returned to the tabl
e and took the folder.

  “You better hurry,” Ivan said. “There isn’t much time.”

  “Do you have a way in?”

  “It’s all in that folder. Good luck.”

  Ivan watched as Nikolai left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “What do you think?” Boris asked.

  “Just like you described him. He better deliver.”

  “I promise he won’t disappoint.”

  Chapter 31

  CAL CINCHED THE APRON around his waist and arranged the onions on the cutting board. While he enjoyed cooking at home, his least favorite task was food prep. His eyes began watering after the blade of his knife sliced into the vegetable. Natalya patted him on the back mockingly.

  “It’ll be all right,” she said.

  Cal laughed and continued cutting. He found amusing the fact that he was in the kitchen of a catering company, a place he never imagined being when he woke up earlier that morning. It would’ve been far easier to walk through the arena accompanied by Maksim and stadium security, identifying the explosive devices and canceling the match until it could be swept. But their second option—one suggested by Natalya—actually wasn’t a bad one.

  “They Ukrainian team is really going to eat pot roast before a match?” Cal asked. “This seems like it would be a heavy meal before doing so much running.”

  Natalya took Cal’s cutting board, dumped the vegetables into a large pan, and then began sautéing them. “I don’t worry about it any more. You should see some of the strange requests we get when there’s a concert. I can’t believe some of the people are alive when they eat like they do. So, if a World Cup team orders a roast to be served four hours before kickoff, I won’t even question it.”