Assassin on Centauri B (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 7)

by John Bowers

  Back at Rodina, Boris left the group and went down to the bar; Orel and Diana took Nick back to Orel’s office, where Lebed still waited, brooding as he stared out the window. He stood when they entered, his face an angry mask. Before he could speak or ask questions, Orel informed him in Rukranian.

  “Nick Russo passed his background check. My father, and yours, said we should hire him. Whatever anger you are feeling, get over it. He is now our employee.”

  Lebed’s face darkened. He opened his mouth to speak. Orel cut him off.

  “Welcome him.”

  Lebed closed his mouth, glared at Nick, then glared at Orel.

  “Welcome him!” Orel demanded.

  “The background check could have been faked.”

  “Of course it could. I didn’t say have sex with him, I said welcome him. He will be on probation for quite a long time, but we are going to give him a chance.”

  “And if he doesn’t work out? Then what?”

  Orel spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

  “Then you can kill him yourself. But only when I give permission.”

  Lebed stared at him a moment longer, then took a few steps toward Nick. He extended his hand.

  “Welcome, Nick Russo,” he said in English.

  “Thank you.” Nick shook his hand.

  Without hesitation, Lebed picked up his jacket and walked toward the door.

  “I have to check receipts,” he said. “I will be in Accounting.”

  Without another word, he left the office. Nick heaved a weary sigh.

  “I think he still doesn’t like me,” he said.

  “Not necessary he like you,” Orel replied. “Maybe I don’t like you, but now you work for me.” He turned toward a cabinet behind his desk and broke out a bottle of vodka. “We celebrate.”

  Nick allowed himself two vodkas while Orel and Diana downed five each. Orel raised his empty glass toward Nick.

  “Why you drink so little? Don’t like vodka?”

  “I like it just fine, but in my last job, I had to be ready to work all the time, day or night. I like to keep my head clear.”

  “That’s good,” Diana said, more for Orel’s benefit than Nick’s. “We don’t need a lush doing your job.”

  “Now talk about money,” Orel said. “How much pay you want?”

  The question surprised Nick, who had expected him to just make an offer.

  “At my last job, I was paid by the kill, plus living expenses.”

  “How much expenses?”

  “A thousand a week.”

  Orel didn’t blink. “And for the kill?”

  “It depended on the target. High profile hits paid more, but the minimum was five thousand per head.”

  “Is good. I pay you same, for now. After you learn ropes, I give you raise. Is fair?”

  “Yes, very fair. What about a weapon?”

  Orel nodded and turned to a cabinet beside the wet bar. He unlocked it and drew back the doors; inside, Nick saw an array of handguns of various types.

  “What kind you prefer? Laser weapon? Slug weapon?”

  “I’m proficient with both, but I’m partial to slug weapons.” Nick studied the guns in the cabinet with approval. “Nice selection.”

  “Pick what you like.”

  Nick’s eyes roamed the collection. As Valentin had said, there were no .44 Magnums and no revolvers of any kind, but he did see some impressive automatics. After a moment’s study, he selected a .45 auto and a 9mm, each with four ten-round clips. He hefted each one, pulled the slides, checked the action, then aimed them at the window. He nodded.

  “These look good, but I will need to test them. Do you have a firing range?”

  “In basement. You carry two guns?”

  Nick nodded. “Always have. Nine millimeter for indoor work, .45 for out in the open. You never know which one you’ll need.”

  Orel glanced at Diana, his eyes skeptical, but she nodded.

  “That makes sense.”

  “Are these guns on the radar?” Nick asked.

  “Excuse?”

  “Are they registered? Any record of them with the police?”

  “Nyet. Not in police database.”

  “If you have to ditch them,” Diana added, “they can’t be traced.”

  Nick nodded his satisfaction. “What about a holster?”

  Orel pulled open a drawer filled with leather holsters. Nick pawed through them, but didn’t see what he was looking for.

  “Don’t you have any belt holsters?”

  Orel looked surprised. “Belt holster? Like cowboy?”

  “Yeah. Are they illegal?”

  “Not illegal,” Diana said, “but conspicuous. No one uses them, and wearing one will draw attention. Police will stop you every time they see you.”

  Nick grunted. He dug through the drawer again and selected two holsters, one for the ankle, one for the shoulder. He slipped the guns into them and each fit snugly.

  “These will do.”

  Before Nick could ask, Orel opened another drawer and pulled out four boxes of ammunition.

  “Use two box for practice, keep two,” he said. “When used, you replace, you pay.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “There is a gun shop in underground mall,” Diana told him. “I can show you tomorrow.”

  Orel closed up the cabinet, locked it, and walked over to his desk. He drew a metal box from a bottom drawer, placed it on the desk, and opened it. He counted out a stack of cash and handed it to Nick.

  “Five hundred russos, advance on salary. Payday every Friday.”

  “Thank you. Now I can get my own apartment.”

  “No need. Apartment in this building, no charge. Save money. Also, keep you safe from cops, still look for you.”

  Nick nodded his appreciation, but privately grimaced. Now he had no excuse for leaving the building, except for work. He would probably be under surveillance most of the time.

  “Thank you. That’s generous.”

  “Diana show you apartment. Tomorrow you work with Aleksandr.”

  “Okay, sure…but Aleksandr told me he only does collections once a week.”

  Diana laughed. “Aleksandr’s English is not so good. We have divided the city into sectors, and he works one sector each week, but it takes two or three days for each one. He still has a couple of days to go.”

  “Got it.”

  They left the office and Diana took him up the lift to the twenty-first floor. She opened apartment 2101 and showed him inside. It was a nice place, very clean, and much nicer than the one Polina had rented for him.

  “Welcome to your new home.” She smiled and handed him the keycard.

  “Thanks. This is better than I expected.”

  He turned to face her.

  “What about the shooting range?”

  “Tomorrow. I will join you after breakfast.”

  “What about Aleksandr?”

  “I think it is more important that you get used to your new weapons. Work with him after lunch.

  “Get some rest, Nick Russo. Lots of work ahead.”

  With another smile, she let herself out of the apartment.

  *

  Four blocks southeast of the Rodina was Šljuhinu Ulicu , a street where prostitutes were authorized to ply their trade. A parking lane had been installed to allow customers to pull out of traffic while inspecting the merchandise, and business was brisk. Thirty-seven girls patrolled the sidewalk or leaned against the buildings waiting for johns; most were young, none over thirty-five, and they came in a variety of sizes and shapes. Tall, short, medium, heavy, anorexic—there seemed to be a girl for every taste. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, Asians…and one very dark-complexioned girl who stood out from the rest like a cat at a dog convention.

  The dark-complexioned girl watched the traffic ebb and flow, saw ladies get into some of the cars to be driven to a rendezvous. She chewed gum and waited, shaking off several invitations to approach cars at the c
urb. After a time she accepted a beckoning finger and leaned into a car, her long, tantalizing black hair swinging in the breeze. The pilot of the car was middle-aged, thick and coarse and bull-necked. He eyed her with appreciation and asked the obvious question.

  “How much?”

  “Four thousand.”

  His eyes widened in surprise, then outrage.

  “Four thousand what?”

  “Four thousand russos.”

  “That is outrageous! Forty, maybe…”

  “Take it or leave it, sweetheart.”

  “Why so much?”

  “Quality.”

  He sighed in frustration and ground his teeth. The prostitute straightened up and turned back toward the side of the building. The john called after her.

  “Okay! Four thousand. But you better be good.”

  Connie Ventura glanced back with a shake of her head.

  “Too late, baby. You had your chance.”

  “I said I will pay it!”

  “You hesitated, honey, and that only means one thing—you don’t have that much. Move along.”

  The john glared at her for a moment, but apparently decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. He pulled forward and beckoned to another girl.

  Connie Ventura rested her back against the building and raised one foot, pressing the sole of her spike-heeled shoe against the wall, supporting herself on one leg. She chewed a wad of gum and tried to look casual, as if she did this every night. She glanced at her watch.

  Another car slipped in against the curb and stopped. A woman got out. About forty, stocky, short dark hair. She walked around the front of the car with an air of authority and approached Connie.

  “Let me see ID,” she said in English.

  Connie scowled. “Who the hell are you?”

  The woman flashed a badge, then put it away.

  “Your ID.”

  “Why? I’m not doing anything illegal.”

  “I don’t recognize you.”

  “So what? Do you know every working girl in Periscope Harbor?”

  “ID, please. Now!”

  Connie opened her purse and handed over a plastic card. The woman stared at it for a moment. She handed it back.

  “Do you have permit?”

  “Permit? What permit? Nobody said anything about a permit.”

  “You need permit to work street. Get in car.”

  “What! Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet. Get in car, or you will be.”

  The woman turned and walked back to her vehicle. Connie made a show of frustration as she followed a few feet behind.

  “This is such bullshit!”

  She got into the car. The other woman got behind the yoke and eased into traffic. Once they were clear of the street hookers, she spoke.

  “You are Connie Ventura? FIA?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Polina Stepanova. You are friend of Nick Russo.”

  “And you are MGB. What took you so long? I was waiting for over an hour.”

  “Sorry. Busy. You talk to Nick today?”

  “Not yet. You?”

  Polina shook her head. She checked her rear video screens and activated her lifters, rising above the street to merge into the hover traffic.

  “I’m sure he’s okay,” Connie said. “I think they are watching him very closely.”

  “Da, but I still worry. I need to make contact with him.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “You make contact. No one in this city knows you, should be safe.”

  “Okay, but I can’t just walk up to him on the street. Like I said, he’s being watched.”

  Polina explained about the sonic keycard she had given Nick. “You can message him on the card. I will give you number.”

  “Okay. How do I get in touch with you?”

  “You be on street in four hours, same place. I find you.”

  Polina reached into a console and withdrew a laminated document. She handed it to Connie.

  “What’s this?”

  “Permit. For working street.”

  Connie stared at it in surprise. It was all in Rukranian and she couldn’t read a word.

  “What name is this under?”

  “Maria Lisbon, same as your ID. Will keep other police from bothering you.”

  “Okay.”

  “When you meet Nick, give him this.”

  She handed Connie a pocket phone.

  “Any special instructions?”

  “Tell him this is safe phone, will not keep record of calls. He knows my number, and this phone is safe.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not now. I see you in four hours.”

  Polina turned down a side street and proceeded two blocks, then turned back toward the harbor. She set the car down two blocks from where she had picked Connie up. Connie stepped out, slung her purse strap over her shoulder, and began the slow, studied walk back to Šljuhinu Ulicu.

  ***

  After Diana left, Nick stripped off his shirt and stretched out on the bed. He needed a shower but didn’t have any clean clothes to change into. He was hungry but too tired to eat. The alcohol he’d imbibed earlier, as little as it was, made him sleepy. After a moment’s debate, he decided to ignore his hunger and get some rest; he could make up for it with breakfast.

  Then he remembered the sonic keycard in his shoe, and pulled it out. The logo glowed green, indicating a message. He held it the way Polina had shown him and pinched the corners for three seconds. The text screen popped up.

  MEET ME IN UNDERGROUND

  CV

  He stared at it a moment, and released a sigh of resignation.

  Shit!

  ***

  Nick washed his face, strapped on his holsters, and left the apartment. Six minutes later he was in the underground mall beneath the street. It was late but the shops were still open, blazing with light; shoppers thronged the wide corridor, reminding him of Christmas season back home.

  “CV” had to be Connie Ventura, he guessed, though he couldn’t imagine how she had got his number. Had she hooked up with Polina?

  The problem was, she hadn’t told him where in the underground to meet her. With a bewildered glance at the hundreds of people clogging the mall, he began to walk slowly, conscious of people diverting their gaze at the sight of his tattoos. Apparently everyone recognized Bratva when they saw it, and did not want to draw attention to themselves. He could certainly understand that.

  He proceeded two blocks underground, threading his way through the shopping mob. He passed what looked like a high-priced call girl standing against the wall to his right. She was tricked out like a holovid whore, with red knee-high boots, a micro-skirt that barely covered her crotch, and a blond wig that sharply contrasted her dark skin. She was also wearing sun blinders, hardly necessary underground at night.

  As he walked past, he caught a whiff of perfume, then heard the voice.

  “Oye, vaquero. ¿Quieres tener buen tiempo?”

  Astonished, Nick slowed his pace, then sidled over to the wall. He hadn’t heard a word of Spanic since he arrived in Periscope Harbor. Aside from diplomatic interpreters and the odd language student, he doubted if more than a few hundred people on the entire planet understood it.

  He looked at the call girl without being too obvious. She was staring at him, her eyes occluded by the sun blinders.

  She took them off and winked at him.

  Nick approached her with the wary air of a man who isn’t sure he’s doing the right thing; he stopped two feet away.

  “I didn’t recognize you,” he told her in Spanic. She replied in the same language.

  “Good. You weren’t supposed to.”

  “Did you message me?”

  “I did. Move in closer, like we’re making a deal. You may be under surveillance.”

  “I’m absolutely under surveillance.”

  Nick took a step closer and pressed one hand against the wall, bracing himself with hi
s face only inches from hers. Whoever might be watching shouldn’t have a problem with him trying to pick up a hooker for the night.

  “So what’s up?” He kept his voice low.

  “I ran into your friend a little while ago. Polina.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She gave me your number and something else for you. Can we go to your room?”

  “We could, but I think it’s bugged.”

  “We can talk in Spanic.”

  “Uh, no, we can’t. I told them I only speak English.”

  “Kiss me.”

  “What?”

  “In case anyone is watching.”

  Nick hesitated only briefly, then leaned in and kissed her.

  She slapped him.

  “Hey! What was that for?”

  “Appearances. You’re not very good at this undercover stuff, are you?”

  “Not really. Never done it before.”

  “Now take out your wallet and give me some money.”

  He took a step back. Took out his wallet. Handed her a handful of cash. She made a point of counting it, pocketed some, and gave the rest back. With a smile, she stepped away from the wall and kissed him, then hooked her arm through his and began walking toward a restroom alcove half a block away.

  “Where we going?”

  “Someplace out of view. They’ll think we stepped into the toilet for a quickie.”

  “Is that even legal here?”

  “Doesn’t matter. If anyone catches us, we aren’t really doing anything.”

  Too tired to argue, and with no better plan, Nick followed her lead. The alcove led to two restrooms, male and female. It also featured a water fountain and, along one wall, a bank of coin-operated lockers. The alcove was empty for the moment; Connie gave him the phone Polina had sent, and relayed the message that it was “safe”.

  Nick handed her the sonic keycard.

  “What’s this?”

  “The key to the apartment Polina rented for me. I left my space bag there, and it has my clothes in it. I need you to retrieve it for me.”

  “You can’t get it yourself?”

  “Can’t risk it right now.”

  “How do I get it to you?”

  Nick nodded at the lockers.

  “Stow the bag in one of these, then put the card and the key in an envelope and slip it under my door. Wear a different disguise, and don’t hang around.”

  He told her his apartment number in the Rodina building.