by Frank Zafiro
Battaglia closed the door behind him and turned the deadbolt. When he turned around, any argument from any part of herself fell away. She took one step toward him and he covered the rest of the distance himself.
Then she was kissing him, her lips seeking his hungrily. He pulled her tight to his chest, and she did the same. His tongue plowed into her mouth devoid of any technique, driven only by lust.
She felt his hardness through his jeans and a fiery ache exploded within her. She tugged his shirt out of his pants and they broke their kiss long enough to pull it over his head. In fits and starts, they kicked off shoes and peeled off clothing as Carson led him toward her bedroom. By the time they fell heavily onto her bed, he was naked and only her panties remained. In a moment those, too, were gone.
Her breasts flattened against his chest and then he was inside her. She let out a long, guttural moan and heard him do the same. They coupled as frantically as they’d kissed in her living room, and Carson felt the beginnings of an orgasm rising up within her, slowly climbing toward that blissful summit. She dug her fingers into Battaglia’s muscular back to pull him closer. She felt him stiffen, and he let out a guttural cry as he came. When he finished, she wrapped his legs around his and pulled him as deep within her as possible. They lay there clutching at each other, and in that moment Carson knew that she was alive.
Everything else might be wrong, but she was still alive.
EIGHT
1104 hours
Day Shift
Valeriy Romanov pulled into the Russian bakery lot. He killed the engine and set the parking brake. Several stalls over, he recognized Sergey’s car. He wondered briefly if Pavel had driven his father this morning. Had he started reading the book Val gave him? The boy needed to buckle down and learn a little bit more about the business if he was going to be part of it. Of course, the boy’s role was ultimately going to be different than Sergey had planned, but Val believed he would still be useful after his father was gone. If nothing else, his presence would give Marina a place to hide from her grief.
Val exited his car and walked into the bakery. The middle-aged wife of the proprietor looked up from the bread she was kneading, a sincere smile on her face. When she saw Val the smile faltered, but she recovered quickly and nodded to him.
Val returned her nod and made his way to Sergey’s table. No Pavel, but as usual, Sergey sat reading the River City Herald. The task took him a great deal of time every morning, as his English was still far from fluent. Val had heard that American journalism strove to write at the eighth-grade education level. Anything more difficult and Sergey would have to spend the entire day with the newspaper.
Val sat down without waiting for permission. He knew that irked Sergey, but the older man simply made him wait a while as penance. Val didn’t mind. He skimmed the front page while Sergey held the paper in front of him. His own English was not the best, but he read better than he spoke. A story about the “gangland slayings” was full of speculation, but no real information. Nothing in the article referenced Sergey or himself. In fact, there was nothing in the article at all about Russians, Ukrainians, or the politically correct term, Eastern Europeans.
Val was only mildly encouraged. He knew that the police were likely to be stingy with any information, especially with a newspaper that seemed to delight in hammering the cops at every opportunity. Val didn’t mind seeing them take a drubbing, but he kept that bias in mind when reading the paper.
Eventually Sergey rattled the paper, folded it, and set it in front of him. “Much to do in today’s news,” Sergey said.
Val shrugged. “Speculation and nonsense,” he replied.
Sergey nodded. “Probably. There is no mention of us at all.”
“And that’s good,” Val said. “What did you need to talk to me about?”
Sergey stroked his freshly shaved cheek. “I want to discuss two things. First, our new allies. Do you think each of them will comply with our demands? Or do you believe that we may have to put down a small rebellion before our conquest is complete?”
Val considered. “If I approach your question logically, then my answer is this. DeShawn Brown was the strongest of the group, which is why we struck at him. He is a businessman. He will comply. The other blacks will follow suit. The white believes we are partners, so he will pay.”
“And the Mexican?”
“He is young and it was his brother we eliminated.” Val shrugged. “It is possible he may retaliate.”
“We are in a position to deal with this should it arise, no?”
“We are,” Val said. “But the less we flex our muscle, the less police have reason to look at us.”
“Ah,” Sergey said. “The police. That was the other item I wished to discuss with you.”
Val waited, saying nothing. Sergey’s contempt for American police was on par with that for the Kiev police. Val disagreed with his assessment. The tactics of the Kiev police were certainly more brutal than their American counterparts, but the Americans tended to be largely incorruptible and more idealistic. Any moves they made had to be considered with this in mind.
“I believe,” Sergey said, “now that we have consolidated our position within our own world, we should put police on notice that we are hands off.”
Val believed the best way to be strong was to remain invisible to the police, but he knew Sergey wouldn’t listen. And most of Sergey’s plan so far had matched his own, so Val played along. “How do you intend to put them on notice?” he asked.
“A while ago, some of our people were stopped by a police officer. A woman, yes?”
“That’s right,” Val said.
“And they walked away with not so much as a traffic ticket.”
“That’s true.”
“Because they threatened force.”
“Yes,” Val said. He had chastised them for it, angry that they would risk a confrontation with the police over something so meaningless. Better to have simply taken the ticket and paid it.
“I think,” Sergey said, “that the next time such a situation occurs that the police officers should not walk away unscathed.”
“You want our soldiers to kill a police officer?” Val asked, surprised.
“No, no, no,” Sergey said. “That won’t be necessary. But I think a sound beating will be just the message we are looking to send.”
In Kiev, the message would work. Here, Val believed it would have the opposite effect. Instead of making them untouchable, it would cause the police to turn even more attention toward their operation. This was a bad move, but Sergey would not see it that way. Instead of raising objections, Val remained silent. How might this action fit into his own plans? He couldn’t see an angle. There was no profit in this direction.
Sergey watched him as he ruminated. Eventually, Val said, “I’m not sure if I see the necessity, but you are the greater strategist.”
Sergey smiled at Val’s flattery. “What you don’t see, Valeriy, is that once the police fear us, our enterprise will be allowed to operate unfettered. We will become rich and powerful. Who knows?” he said. “Perhaps we could reach other cities. Portland. Seattle. Boise. Many of these places are largely untapped resources.”
Val smiled coldly. Sergey’s reach would always exceed his grasp, but in the short term that was exactly what he was counting on.
“Let me consider the best way to implement your strategy,” Val said. “I’ll bring you a plan in a few days.”
Sergey nodded. “Very well.”
Val nodded back. This gave him a few days reprieve. He wasn’t sure if that would be enough, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
“Where is Pavel?” he asked.
Sergey waved his question away in frustration. “Bah! The boy spends too much time with his friends. Always driving his car up and down Riverside Avenue. Always chasing the girls.”
“He is young,” Val said.
“He’s a foolish pup,” Sergey snapped. “He has much to le
arn if he is going to follow in my footsteps.”
“He will learn,” Val said. “I gave him a book to read.”
“I know,” Sergey said. “And it sits unopened on the coffee table in our living room.” Then he shrugged. “It is just as well. He doesn’t need to read some book. He needs to do.”
“And he will,” Val said. He felt a small stab of disappointment that Pavel had ignored Dune, but that was the boy’s own choice. “He will grow into his role over time.”
Sergey took a deep breath and let it out. “I hope you are right, my friend. I plan to be here many years, but who knows for certain what tomorrow may bring. I should like it if my son was ready to take over before he actually must.”
Val nodded. “He will learn,” he repeated. Then he shook the older man’s hand and left.
Outside, he glanced at his watch and then opened his cell phone. He dialed the number from memory.
“Yes,” Natalia said.
“I am coming over,” he said. “Make yourself ready.”
“Yes,” she said again, this time with enthusiasm.
Valeriy snapped the phone shut and got into his car. A storm was coming. Now was as good a time as any to attend to his other needs.
1412 hours
Officer Mark Ridgeway sat in the hotel room chair with his arms crossed, staring across the room at the FBI agent and the Russian prick he was guarding. The two had been playing a good-natured game of gin rummy for the past hour. Ridgeway had wordlessly refused their offer to join them. He felt his stomach churn at the way the agent kissed the Russian’s ass. Not only was the son of a bitch a criminal, but he’d been an enemy to this country for Ridgeway’s entire life.
That’s our problem, Ridgeway thought. We Americans are too forgiving.
Some of his peers might find his thoughts objectionable. Gio certainly would. But Giovanni hadn’t lived through the Cold War the same way Ridgeway had. Besides, Gio was too busy chasing tail to understand the finer points of the matter. And he’d been chastising Ridgeway for the past year about his so-called negative attitude.
His attitude wasn’t negative. It just befit the world he lived in.
The Russian was a perfect case in point. A veteran with his experience gets sent up to the Quality Inn to babysit a feeb and a Commie? What kind of attitude was he supposed to have about that?
It didn’t matter, though. Ridgeway had discovered that the world will throw whatever it wants at you and you pretty much just have to suck it down. It’s either that or check out, and as inviting as that seemed at times, Ridgeway wasn’t about to leave this world a coward.
“Gin!” the Russian exclaimed loudly, laying his cards down. “I have gin! I beat you, Greg. How you like that?”
The FBI agent folded his cards and shrugged, a small smile on his face. “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while, Oleg,” he said easily.
“Hah!” Oleg said. “I beat you.”
“I was wondering,” Ridgeway said, raising his voice to catch the attention of both men. “Why’s it called gin rummy?”
Both men stared blankly at him. Agent Leeb shrugged. “No idea.”
“’Cause I figure,” Ridgeway continued dryly, “that if it’s a Russian playing it, maybe you oughta call it vodka rummy.”
The Russian’s expression darkened.
“Or maybe,” Ridgeway continued, “you shouldn’t be playing rummy at all, but a game of hammer and sickle.”
Leeb raised his hand in a calming gesture. “Now, officer—”
“No,” Oleg said to the agent. “Is all right. I like to hear.” He gave Ridgeway a cold glare. “What is game hammer and sickle?”
Ridgeway smiled coldly. “Well, that’s where you try like hell to take over the world for forty years ’til a guy named Ronald Reagan kicks your ass.”
The Russian’s face flushed.
“You oughta be good at it,” Ridgeway added.
“You are ignorant redhead,” the Russian spouted.
Ridgeway cocked his head. “My hair’s brown.” He didn’t mention the touch of gray throughout, or that it was getting thinner.
“Redhead. Redhead,” the Russian repeated, jabbing his finger in Ridgeway’s direction. “You are hick.”
“Hick?” Ridgeway asked. Then he laughed. “Oh, I see. You mean redneck.”
“Redneck. Yes,” the Russian said.
“Look, pal, if you’re going to insult me, at least learn my fucking language.”
The Russian shook his head. “You think you know all, but you know nothing.”
“Well,” Ridgeway said, “I know that I didn’t pack up and move to Moscow because over there was better than right here in the USA. I guess that’s a pretty clear indication of which country’s better.”
“I think that’s enough,” Leeb said.
Ridgeway turned his hands up innocently. “Just making conversation, Mister FBI Man.”
“You know nothing about my country,” the Russian shouted at Ridgeway. “My nation was great nation in Europe before yours even existed.”
“Yeah,” Ridgeway said. “And Rome was a pretty big fuckin’ empire. But where are they now? Same place you are.” Ridgeway tilted his head back and thought for a moment. “How did Reagan put it? Oh, yeah,” he said. “On the ash heap of history.”
“You are asshole of history,” the Russian yelled, climbing to his feet. “You think United States is better than Ukraine? Come here! I show you what is better.”
Ridgeway rose from his chair and took two giant strides to meet the Russian. Agent Leeb stepped between them with his hands out to keep the two men apart.
“You wanna throw hands, you Commie fuck?” Ridgeway said. “Take your best shot.”
“I knock you to hell,” the Russian shouted, surging forward against Leeb’s open hand.
“Enough!” Leeb yelled, his voice even louder than the Russian’s. “Enough of this.”
The two men stood, glaring at each other, seething. Leeb was the only thing keeping them apart. Their breathing seemed loud in the quiet room. A moment later, the sound of a key in the lock echoed through the room.
Ridgeway wheeled toward the door, his gun out of his holster and at the ready in less than a second.
Leeb pushed Oleg out of the line of fire while drawing his own gun. The door swung open and a uniformed Hispanic maid stepped through.
“Housekeeping,” she said, in a heavily accented, sing-song voice. Then she saw Ridgeway’s gun and froze. Her eyes widened and her hands went up. “Dios mio!” she cried out and staggered backward into the wall.
“Shit!” Ridgeway muttered and lowered his gun.
“¡No me matas!” the woman sputtered. “Por favor, no me matas.”
“It’s okay,” Leeb said, holstering his weapon. “Esta bien.Soy policia.” He flashed his badge at her.
Her gaze flicked to the badge and to Leeb’s face, then to Ridgeway’s. After a moment, she lowered her hands slowly. “You scare me, señor,” she said with a hint of reproval.
“We’re sorry,” Ridgeway said gruffly. “Anyway, don’t you people knock?”
The woman’s expression shifted. “I do knock,” she said, holding up two fingers. “Dos veces. You no hear?”
Ridgeway shook his head and holstered his own pistol.
The maid said nothing for a moment, wiping sweat from her forehead and taking a deep, steadying breath. Finally she motioned to the room. “You like service?”
Ridgeway shook his head again. He looked over at Leeb, whose expression was unreadable.
“We were making too much noise to hear the knock,” Leeb said to Ridgeway. Then he looked at the maid and said, “No necesitamos nada. Gracias, señora.”
The maid nodded to both of them and turned to go.
“This is bullshit,” Ridgeway muttered as the maid shuttled out of the room. “And it was his fault,” he emphasized, pointing at Oleg.
“Yob tvoyu mat,” Oleg said in a deep, loud voice.
&n
bsp; As the door closed behind the maid, Ridgeway said, “I’m sure that means ‘thank you for letting me come to your country and be a fuckin’ piece of shit criminal.’ So, you’re welcome.”
Leeb stepped in between the two of them again before Oleg could respond. “That’s enough,” he said. “It does no one any good.”
He turned to Oleg. “Mind your temper.”
Then he turned his eyes to Ridgeway. “I don’t like jamming up another cop,” he said, “but I figure you’ve got two choices. Sit down and be quiet for the rest of your shift, or I’ll call your boss and have him send someone who can.”
Ridgeway paused. He was almost tempted to let the little peckerwood carry through. It would get him out of this shit detail, and what was the worst that would happen? He might get a letter of reprimand for his demeanor. But at the same time, Ridgeway knew that this detail, shit or not, was part of the job. And he was a traditionalist when it came to doing your job. He returned to his chair by the door, sat down, crossed his arms, and sealed his mouth.
2056 hours
Thomas Chisolm was the last to arrive at the roll call table. He sat down, snapping the last of his belt keepers into place. He returned several hellos from his platoon mates and reached for a copy of the daily intelligence flyer. He glanced at his watch—three minutes to roll call. He skimmed through the intelligence information for anything specific to his sector, and listened to the customary banter around the table. Everyone seemed more subdued than usual.
When he finished with the flyer he took stock of the officers at the table. Kahn seemed just as abrasive and self-absorbed as usual. O’Sullivan made several attempts to draw Battaglia into a mock argument, but the dark-haired man didn’t bite. Instead he seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to Carson, who sat kitty-corner from him.
They exchanged several surreptitious glances that were glaringly obvious to Chisolm. He sighed inwardly. He would’ve figured that if anyone had started sleeping with Carson, it would’ve been Kahn. The man was notorious for such things. But Battaglia had never chipped around on his wife before this, at least not openly enough that Chisolm was aware of it. Now here he was fishing off the company pier.
