“Certainly. I’m the tailor,” the man said.
“I realize that, but I’ll need your name sir,” the butler replied.
“They just call me the tailor,” the man said, pulling his trigger finger.
Instantly, a silenced shot was released from under the cloak of black clothing and the butler hit the marble floor, clutching his bloody stomach. The assassin walked briskly past him, dropping the tuxedo as he passed, and shooting him once more in the head.
“I should have probably asked for directions to the study first,” the tailor said, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. “Pity.”
With a pep in his step, the small man walked down the most logical hallway in a three-piece, black suit, black leather loafers and his hair slicked back with a gun in his hand.
As he came slowly down the hall, keeping close to the wall, a maid came out with coffee on a tray and stopped in shock.
The tailor smiled and moved a strand of black hair from his pale face. “Don’t be frightened, ma’am. Can you please tell me where Dmitry Medlov’s study is?”
The woman, shaking and still holding the tray, motioned a few doors down. “It’s right there,” she said, voice quivering.
“Thank you very kindly,” he said, shooting her in the head. No witnesses. No trouble.
He had read the file a hundred times the night before. The Medlov manor had no cameras installed and very few bodyguards. It was a hit man’s dream.
Dmitry was right in the middle of talking when he heard the tray fall on the ground. He stopped talking for a moment and frowned. Helen had never dropped a single tray in all the days that he had been here. Pulling his gun out, he put his finger over his lips.
“Gentlemen, we have company,” he said, standing up.
The men turned quickly, pulling out their guns and moving away from the door.
Dmitry began to talk again. “As I was saying,” he said in the same tone he had spoken before the interruption, “what we need is a united effort to drive the bastards who want me dead out into the open, but not to expose them to the public.” He cocked his gun quietly. “We want to pick them off one at a time.”
The doorknob slowly turned, and the men continued talking, all while positioning themselves around the room.
“Why does it have to be one at a time? Why can’t it be all at one fucking time?” Ivan said, pulling out his knife.
Suddenly, the door flew open and the tailor appeared with his gun pointed. Turning the corner, he was greeted by a slice of his arm. Blood spattered across the floor. Ivan was so angry from his previous conversation with his brother that he was more than happy to handle the hit man himself. The gun dropped to the ground, and Ivan pulled the man up by his collar off the ground.
Quickly, the man kicked him and tried to get away, but Ivan had him penned down. Arie seemed to feel Ivan’s frustration and quickly ran over to help him. The other’s watched on for a minute, shocked at their immediate response.
With a Cross pen that she had grabbed from Dmitry’s table, Arie stabbed the tailor in the eye and twisted the sharp object into his face. He screamed out, but Ivan punched him, sending him doubled over to the ground. Arie quickly punched him also, picking up the chair and hitting him with it.
“Step aside,” Dmitry said with a smirk. He walked up to the man, now blinded and sliced to the bone in his right arm. The tailor wailed out in pain.
“Who sent you?” Dmitry asked, already knowing the answer.
“Fuck you,” the tailor said with a sadistic, bloody smile.
Dmitry raised his brow and shot him in his knee. The man screamed out again in agony. Dmitry hiked his pants up and knelt down beside him. He smiled and pulled the pen out of his eye socket while pushing his head up against the wall. The blood gushed out and released more pain. Wiping the pen off on the tailor’s clothes, Dmitry clicked it and asked for a piece of paper. “Hand me my notebook,” he said to Davyd.
Calmly, he took the paper and turned back to the tailor. “I’m going to ask you once more. If you answer me now, I’ll promise to kill you by tonight. If you don’t tell me this very moment, I’ll torture you for two weeks. There won’t be one orifice on you that won’t be violated, one bone unbroken, one organ of use that isn’t taken and sold.” Dmitry moved the strands of lose black hair from the killer’s face and sighed. “I’m listening.”
The tailor tried to catch his breath. Nodding his head, he tried to speak. “Oscar Brenneman. He hired me to kill you and Emerson,” he said, resting his head back on the wall.
Dmitry blinked. “Is Emerson still alive?”
The tailor was silent.
“Is he?” Dmitry asked in a raised voice.
“No,” the tailor answered, holding his bloody arm. “No. I killed him this morning….him and his wife.”
Dmitry stood up. “Get me the phone,” he said, clearing his throat. “Did that fat fuck tell you to call him when it was done?”
“Yes,” he answered in pain.
“Can you hold it together long enough to make that call. If you can, then I promise not to kill everyone you love. I’m sure someone must love you…a mother, father, grandfather, sister.”
The tailor thought of his oldest sister and nodded. “I can hold it together.”
“Good,” Dmitry answered. “Give me the number.” He dialed it quickly and warned the tailor. “No funny shit.”
After the Brenneman home had been rang, Oscar answered the phone with a grin that Dmitry could hear through the phone.
“It’s done,” the tailor said shortly.
“Good. I’ll be looking for it on the news.”
“I’m sure it’ll make the news,” the tailor said, trying not to black out.
Dmitry hung up the phone before any cryptic messages could be sent. He and Ivan stood over the man.
“Kill him quickly, before dusk,” he said, pointing at Ivan. “Harvest the organs and send them to our friends in Amsterdam to sell on the black market. Davyd head down to the office and make sure that Elsa stays safe until I get to her.”
Dmitry had heard enough. This morning, he was going straight for Oscar Brenneman and anyone else that got in the way. Without changing clothes, he ran up to his personal arsenal and retrieved a chrome .44 desert eagle, black rope, duct tape, lighter fluid, and two tactical knives. Throwing them into his gym bag, he headed downstairs to the garage.
Ivan stopped him in the hall.
“You’re not taking me?” he said, shocked.
“No, I want you to handle the problem in there,” Dmitry said, wondering if the man was still alive after he noticed the blood stains on Ivan’s clothes. “And when I get back, you and I are going to discuss this Arie situation.”
“What Arie situation? There is no Arie situation. We’re fucking. How is that everyone’s business?”
“It’s going to create a problem between us and Dorian,” Dmitry whispered, not sure where Dorian was.
“It’s already a none-issue,” Ivan said, hunching his shoulders. “Don’t ride me on this. She’s mine. I’m not giving her up. Plus, I’m telling you that she can hold her own.”
Dmitry knew when to concede. “Fine, but if it becomes an issue one more time, she’s gone,” he said, pointing at his little brother. “I’ll be back later.”
Chapter Ten
The sun had risen high on the horizon by the time that Dmitry arrived at Oscar Brenneman’s brownstone. With no plan and deep-seeded rage, he jumped off his bike and opened the wrought-iron gate with his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.
There would never be words invented to express the anger that was boiling deep down in his stomach. This pompous asshole actually had the gall to send a hit man to his home to kill him, not to mention that he had already had Emerson slaughtered. He really didn’t want to go back to jail, although he was certain that British prison probably had nothing on a USSR hell hole, but he considered the possibility if he got caught for what he was about to do.
&
nbsp; The door flew off the hinges under the weight and force of Dmitry’s foot. Stepping onto the stained glass and wood that shattered across the oak wood floors, he already had his gun pointed.
The first person to respond in the home to the breaking and entering was the maid. Dmitry thought of his own and pointed and pulled the trigger. She hit the floor and slammed into the wall before he could even give his action any more thought.
Down the last corridor toward the back of the sprawling home, his long legs moved with much more speed than the tailor. He came quickly upon the sunroom where Oscar Brenneman was sitting with his assistant discussing the future business of Hutton Industries.
Dmitry put his ear to the door and smirked to himself. Then, he stepped back and kicked the door open.
Oscar and his assistant quickly jumped up from their seats. In a brave last act, his assistant, small in stature, stood in front of his boss to protect him.
Dmitry raised his gun and pointed. He pulled the trigger just as the man raised his hand and began to speak. Blood splattered across Oscar’s face as the bullet meant for the assistant went straight through Brenneman’s shoulder.
Dmitry dropped his gun and pulled out his knife. Now, it was time to work.
“I didn’t mean to hit you,” Dmitry said sardonically, sweeping the room with his eyes to make sure that they weren’t interrupted.
“I’m sure that we can talk about this,” Brenneman begged, holding his wounded arm.
“What is there to talk about?” Dmitry asked in a deep, sinister voice. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not much into talking. Plus, you have nothing to bargain with. All I want is your worthless life.”
“But I do,” Brenneman said with promise in his eyes. “There is a major meeting in Prague, a meeting that has nothing to do with Hutton Industries, a meeting worth millions. I can bring you, introduce you.”
“I’m a billionaire,” Dmitry reminded with fury in his eyes.
Blood ran down Brenneman’s arm. He clutched his wound and winced. “This deal is worth many millions. The kind that makes men billionaires a few times over.”
“Go on,” Dmitry said, walking over to him. He towered over the coward with his knives ready to slaughter.
“Only if you promise to leave me alive.”
Dmitry thought for a moment. He shook his head. “Talk first.”
“We’re working with scientists there to build high tech weaponry. It’s nothing like the world has ever seen before. It’s nuclear weaponry, Dmitry. It’s the future of war.”
Dmitry stopped. “I’m interested. Go on. Who is the meeting with?”
“A private-owned company called Nightstar. They want to meet with us regarding capital to help finance their operation. We have the funds. That is why Hutton Industries has not invested new money into our operations. We’ve been funneling it.”
“And Nightstar is owned by whom?” he asked.
“Officially, it is owned by a group of land barons in the city of Prague. Unofficially, it is owned by Evgeny Smirnov.” Brenneman knew the name would make Dmitry halt.
“Well, answer me one question, and I will let you live,” he said, bending down. “Did you set up the hit or did Smirnov.”
“He did,” he said with eyes bright and sincere. “You were getting in the way with the re-organization of the company. He was the one who gave me the file and the go ahead with the hit. Trust me; I would have not done so without him.”
“And somehow you think that he’ll back down on this if I agree to keep things as is for now.”
“I’m sure he will,” Brenneman answered. “That was the only thing in his way.”
The look in Brenneman’s eyes made Dmitry think that the man actually believed what he was saying.
“You don’t know much about us, do you?” Dmitry asked. He could hear the police sirens outside. He checked his watch and saw that it was nearly time to meet with Khalid.
“I can reassure him that it is the right move,” Brenneman finally said as he pleaded.
“No need. I can do that myself.” Dmitry raised his knives.
“But you promised me that I could live,” Brenneman pleaded, falling backwards on the floor.
Dmitry stood over him breathing heavily and looking down on him like he was a speck of dirt. “Well you can, but it will be without the use of your feet, arms, fingers, eyes, ears or tongue.” He smiled deviously as he swung his gleaming blade.
The man screamed out as he realized his fate. Worse than death…much worse.
***
As the clock struck three, Dmitry swaggered into Hutton Industries in a new suit and his duffle bag. The secretary at the front of the executive offices greeted him with a smile.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Medlov,” she said with a glimmer in her eyes.
“Hello,” Dmitry said, smoothing out his tie. “How are you?”
“Fine, sir. And yourself?”
“Couldn’t be better,” he said, headed toward his office. “Is Elsa here?”
“Yes, sir. I believe that she’s waiting on you with your three o’clock.”
“Excellent,” he said, headed towards the board room.
He walked in the familiar meeting space to find Davyd sitting with Elsa and Khalid. Quickly passing off the bag full of evidence off to Davyd, he kissed Elsa on the cheek and embraced Khalid.
“It’s an honor to have you,” he said, offering Khalid a seat.
Khalid Sidorov was a pale, aging man in his late fifties with a gray hair and a large bald spot. However, there was a regal yet deadly grace about the man. In a Lagerfeld black suit, he didn’t bother to hide the many unforced, high ranking tattoos of the Vory v Zakone. He was a certifiable gangster, cloaked in riches and drenched in sin.
“It’s an honor to be here,” Khalid said, taking his seat again.
“Have you been taken care of?” Dmitry asked, looking at Elsa.
“Yes, I have. Thank you. I was told by your Davyd that you wanted to meet with me.” Khalid crossed his hands and sat back in the seat, relaxed and waiting.
“I did,” Dmitry said, raising his brow. He licked his lips. “I want to make you 20 percent owner in my company for now as a peace offering of sorts, offer you a seat on this board and provide you with whatever perks I can to get you in exchange for a meeting with the boss,” he said without skipping a beat.
Khalid grinned and looked over at Vladimir, who was sitting in the corner, watching with an outward cynicism.
“What boss?” Khalid asked, running his finger over the table.
“Smirnov,” Dmitry answered, without blinking. “I need his blessing for my operations in Russia.”
Khalid stopped smiling. “What operations in Russia?”
“I want to do business with some men in Russia who have access to a certain type of resource that I need.” Dmitry looked at Davyd. “Also, I’m not sure that the deal in Prague is going to go through without my blessing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Khalid said, shifting in his seat.
“The deal going down in Prague in a few days won’t happen. I can assure you of that.”
Khalid was drawing a blank. He looked over at his son and clenched his jaw. “Nothing happens without me knowing about it, and I don’t know about anything in Prague.”
Dmitry read his body language. The man was not lying. He grinned at the thought of how angry he must be right now. “Well, why would you be out of the loop? You are, after all, number two. Are you not?”
Khalid forgot the theatrics and shook his head. “I am.” His face was like a stone. The age showed through the lines under his eyes.
Dmitry continued. “And if I inform you of what is going on, will you provide me the meeting and your blessing?”
“I will,” Khalid agreed.
“Let’s take a walk, just in case we have an infestation,” Dmitry said, thinking of the possibility of bugs. He stood up at the head of the table, casting a shadow over Vladimir.
“Da,” Khalid said, standing up also. “Let’s go talk, just you and I. We will see how we can help each other, brat.”
Vladimir tried to conceal his cringe, but it was evident for anyone who looked at him. He hated Dmitry Medlov.
***
By dusk and after long hours of deliberation, Dmitry had discovered that he was not the only one in the dark. Khalid Sidorov knew nothing about the meeting in Prague or the possibility of money to be made. This was completely unacceptable. For Khalid knew that the moment he was not a need, he too was a threat to the organization that he served.
The Chronicles of Young Dmitry Medlov: Book One Page 22
