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

by John Bowers

  “RUSSO! What are you doing!”

  Nick turned to face him.

  “Give me a minute, will you?”

  He turned back to the young woman.

  “Describe them for me. Were they Asian?”

  “N-No. White boys, all of them.”

  “Boys? Or men?”

  “Boys, maybe eighteen, nineteen. Bullies. Big boys, tall. Wide shoulders, shaven heads…” She gulped. “Like you.”

  “Tattoos?”

  “Yes, but…” She glanced at his painted scalp. “…different.”

  “Different designs?”

  “Yes.” She wiped her eyes, calming a little at his reasonable tone. “They’ve been here before, two or three times. They take whatever is in the cash box, but today they got the payoff money, too. I think they hit two or three other stores as well.”

  “Did you see which way they went?”

  She blinked through her tears and pointed.

  “Down that way. I saw them go into another shop. When they came out they were counting money and laughing.”

  “Did they have guns? Knives?”

  “I…didn’t see any weapons. They don’t need them. They are big and mean and they intimidate.”

  Nick pressed her for more information and learned that the thugs were wearing windbreakers with the logo of a popular wrestling team. One had a woolen cap and another had facial tattoos. They all wore heavy boots.

  “Did you call the police?”

  The young woman stared at him as if he were crazy. She merely shook her head.

  “Thank you. Sorry about the mess.”

  The apology was grossly inadequate, but in his current circumstance, it was the best he could do. He left the grocery with Aleksandr before the big gangster could do any more damage.

  “What the fuck, Russo? You crazy?”

  “No, but you are.”

  “What!”

  “Look, those people can barely afford to pay the protection money, and then someone steals it and you start to trash their place? How fucking stupid is that?”

  Aleksandr planted himself in front of Nick, glaring down at him.

  “You call me stupid?”

  “Yes, you’re a fucking moron! First of all, the old man was right—he’s paying for protection but you didn’t protect him. Then, when he gets robbed, you blame it on him and smash his store. Now he’s even worse off than before and he probably can’t pay you next time, either.”

  “Like I said, not my problem.”

  “It is your problem! It’s Bratva’s problem. If you let thugs run all over your clients and steal their money, it makes Bratva look weak.”

  Aleksandr frowned as a few molecules of logic managed to penetrate his thick skull.

  “What can I do about it?”

  Nick shoved the satchel at him, then punched a finger into his meaty chest.

  “You and I are going to find those four assholes and take our money back. It doesn’t make sense that those people have to pay us and the thieves too.”

  Aleksandr sniffed.

  “You soft, Russo.”

  Nick shook his head emphatically.

  “No, not soft—smart. Stick with me and maybe some of it will rub off.”

  He turned and strode down the street, leaving Aleksandr little choice but to follow.

  They stopped into four more establishments and learned that three of them had also been robbed. Descriptions varied somewhat, but essentially boiled down to the same four young men. One shop owner had recognized the boy with the woolen cap and was able to identify the neighborhood in which he lived.

  “I know neighborhood,” Aleksandr said. “Not far.”

  Nick nodded. “Then let’s go.”

  By the time they took up the hunt, the overcast had dissipated and the day began to warm. A breeze sprang up from the harbor and the afternoon became a lot more pleasant. Aleksandr led the way toward a neighborhood eight or nine blocks from the scene of the crimes, Nick at his side.

  “You do this before?” he asked as they walked quickly toward their destination.

  “Yep. You have to. When you own a neighborhood, you have to own it. When you sell protection, you have to provide it. If you don’t, and word gets out that any jack-in-the-box can just walk in and take what’s yours, you lose respect. You lose respect, people laugh. When people laugh, you lose control. You lose control, you’re out of business.”

  Aleksandr frowned, as if the concept were new to him.

  “These are not animals, Aleksandr, they’re people. They have bills to pay, families to feed. Think of it as an investment—they are your source of livelihood; if you don’t protect them, and they get ripped off, they will go out of business, and then you get nothing.”

  They turned a corner. Ahead Nick saw several blocks of tall apartment buildings. The street was lined with shops and taverns. Two blocks ahead, four young men in colorful windbreakers were just entering a bar. One was wearing a knit cap.

  “That’s them,” Nick said. “Let’s get that money before they spend it!”

  Aleksandr, unimaginative as he was, seemed suddenly excited at the prospect of the chase. He picked up his pace as they approached the bar, but Nick stopped him before he could pull open the door.

  “Hold on. Do you know if this place has a back door?”

  “Da. Most places do.”

  “Okay, I need you to come in the back. I’ll go in the front and take these fuckers down.”

  “You! Why you?”

  “Because I’m a specialist, remember? This is what I do.”

  The big man scowled and chewed his lip, but didn’t pursue it.

  “You can handle them?”

  “They’re punks. I eat punks for breakfast.”

  Aleksandr stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. He clapped Nick on the shoulder.

  “Funny, Russo! First funny thing you ever say!” He guffawed again. “Eat punk for breakfast! Funny!”

  He turned and trotted around the corner, looking for the back door.

  Nick didn’t wait for him. The last thing he needed was the big bouncer’s heavy-handed tactics spoiling his play. He pulled open the heavy wooden door and entered the tavern.

  It was dim inside, and smoky. Music came from hidden outputs, but it was muted, not the pulsing artillery of the Rodina. He took a moment for his eyes to adjust, then spotted the four suspects at a table dead ahead. The bartender was placing a bottle of vodka and four glasses, then accepted a large-denomination bill and walked away to make change. Nick sidled over to the bar and waited until he delivered the change and returned to the bar.

  “What will you have?” He was looking at Nick.

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “What?”

  “Under the bar. You keep a gun there?”

  The man’s eyes clouded. He was about fifty, bald and bearded, heavy.

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “Bring it out. Place it on the bar.”

  The man took a step back, alarm in his eyes. Before he could make another move, Nick’s .45 appeared in his right hand, pointed directly at the bartender’s face.

  “Real slow.”

  Blinking in surprise and just a touch of fear, the bartender reached down behind the bar and withdrew a sawed-off shotgun with a pistol grip. He laid it carefully on the bar and stepped back again.

  “Is that it? Anything else?”

  The man shook his head. Nick wasn’t sure he believed him, but he picked up the shotgun, broke it down, and dumped the shells on the floor. He laid it on an empty table ten feet away.

  The four customers with the vodka were talking loudly and laughing during the exchange and paid no attention to anyone around them. Nick nodded at the bartender.

  “Stay where you are. If you interfere, I’ll kill you.”

  The man gulped and backed up another step, then raised his hands. Nick shoved the .45 into his pocket and walked around the table where the four suspects were seated, t
hen turned to face them. From this angle, he could also keep the barman in sight, in case he tried anything.

  The four suspects, speaking Rukranian, had tossed back a round of vodka before they realized that Nick was looming over their table. Their laughter faded as he reached for the vodka bottle and picked it up with his left hand.

  “Èj! V prošlom mesjace!”

  It was the Ruke in the knit cap, his face taut with righteous indignation. Nick stared at him.

  “Speak English, asshole.”

  Nick swung the bottle by the neck and shattered it against the kid’s skull, the knit cap absorbing most of the damage. Vodka and glass fragments blasted across the table. With shouted oaths, the other three leaped to their feet, overturning their chairs. Nick’s victim slumped down on the tabletop.

  Before the other three could do more than swear, Nick drew his .45 again and waved it in front of them.

  “Which one of you shit-birds is the leader of this little roach nest?”

  They glanced at one another in alarm, their eyes wide. Two of them zoomed in on Nick’s scalp tats and one of them swallowed in fear. No one spoke.

  Nick pulled the slide on his .45, making a satisfying metallic snap!

  “One more time, fuck-faces! Every group has a leader, so which one of you is in charge?”

  It took another few seconds, but the youth with the facial tattoos lifted his chin.

  “I am. Who are you?”

  Nick ran a hand over his shaven head, drawing their attention to it.

  “Who do I look like? You think you can just walk into our territory and steal protection money from our clients? And we won’t care?”

  “Hey, look, man, we didn’t know! We’re sorry, okay?”

  Nick flashed him the nastiest grin he could conjure up.

  “Oh, you’re sorry! Well, then, I guess that makes it okay. I guess you get to keep the money. How about that?”

  They stared at him with mounting terror. The boy at the table shook his head and sat up with a groan, wiping blood off his face. Nick jammed the gun against the side of his head.

  “Hand over the cash or I’ll blow his brains out. Right now!”

  Tat-face jammed a hand into his pocket and pulled out four envelopes packed with russos. He extended them toward Nick with a shaking hand.

  “This is it. We only spent forty russos on the vodka, the rest of it is there.”

  Nick took the money, glanced at it, and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He continued to glare at the boys.

  “Look, Mister—like I said, we didn’t know it was Bratva territory. We’re s-sorry!”

  “You didn’t know? Is that your story? You didn’t know?”

  “Yes—yes, sir. That’s the truth.”

  “How long have you lived in Periscope Harbor?”

  The boys exchanged frantic glances.

  “I asked you a question!” Nick fired a round into the floor, the .45 booming in the tight space. The boys jumped as if electrocuted, and one began to sob.

  “All my life!” Tat-face chattered. “I was born here. We were all born here!”

  “You were born here, you’ve lived your whole life here, and you didn’t know? Bullshit!”

  “I swear, sir! We d—”

  Unobserved by the suspects, Aleksandr had entered the bar and approached from behind them. Before Tat-face could finish his statement, the big man’s fist slammed into his temple and he catapulted across the room, smashing his cheek on the edge of a table. He came up bleeding and sobbing with fear.

  Aleksandr turned to Nick.

  “We going to kill them?”

  “I think so,” Nick replied. “If we let them go, people will get the wrong idea.”

  “Nyet! Požalujsta, sèr!”

  Tat-face began to babble in Rukranian, leaving Nick in the dark, but Aleksandr was having none of it. He slugged the kid again, driving him to the floor, then turned on the two who were, so far, uninjured; he slammed their skulls together with a sickening crack, leaving them reeling, but still conscious. The fourth boy, whose skull had shattered the vodka bottle, swayed in his chair, terrified but too rummy to move.

  Nick, afraid that Aleksandr really would actually start killing them, pulled the cash out of his jacket pocket and handed it over.

  “You might want to count that. They said that’s all they have.”

  Distracted, Aleksandr began counting the cash. Nick addressed the four youths.

  “I got some pussy last night, so I’m in a good mood today. And you fucks are very, very lucky. But listen carefully, because this is the only warning you will ever get—if you ever walk into any of our clients again and steal anything—and I mean, if you even steal a piece of chewing gum—I will come back for you. All of you. Do you understand?”

  They nodded rapidly, their chins bobbing so fast it was almost funny.

  “You will never see me coming, but when I get you, I will kill you. Each and every one of you. And I will do it so slowly that you will beg for death before I’m done. When I finish with you, even your mothers won’t recognize you. Trust me, I’ve done it before and I loved every minute of it.”

  Nick fired another round into the floor, disrupting Aleksandr’s count and making the boys jump. Dark, wet stains appeared on the crotch of Tat-face’s pants and spilled down to the floor, creating a yellow puddle.

  “Do any of you have any questions?”

  “Nyet. No! No, sir!”

  Nick glanced at Aleksandr. “Is it all there?”

  “Da, except for forty russos.”

  Nick glared at the boys again.

  “Get the fuck out. And don’t ever let me see you again.”

  With a scramble that was almost comical, the four young men bolted for the door, dragging their wounded with them. After they were gone, Nick holstered his .45 and returned to the table where he had laid the shotgun. He gave it back to the bartender.

  “I would advise you to not ever serve those kids again. If you do, I might hear about it and you wouldn’t like what happened after that.”

  The bartender laid the shotgun on the bar and backed away, eyeing Nick with dread. Clearly he didn’t want any trouble with Bratva. Nick glared at him a moment, then he and Aleksandr left the bar.

  Chapter 16

  It took another hour to finish their collection calls. The satchel was packed with cash envelopes and getting heavy as they started back to the Rodina. The afternoon was waning and the harbor breeze picked up. Nick raised the collar of his windbreaker as they walked and let the wind gust over his back. Aleksandr walked beside him, apparently impervious to the weather.

  “What did you mean back there?” Nick asked him.

  “Back where?”

  “At the Asian grocery. You told that young lady that if she didn’t pay, you would sell her.”

  “Oh.” Aleksandr laughed. “Da, I tell her that. Always scares shit out of women.”

  “Did you mean it?”

  The big man dipped his head.

  “Sure. If she no pay, she bring more as slave anyway.”

  Nick felt a chill in his blood. It wasn’t his first exposure to human slavery.

  “I didn’t know that Beta Centauri has a slave trade.”

  “Beta Centauri, no. Sirius.”

  “Sirius!”

  “Da. Sirius pay top price for pretty slave. Five thousand minimum. That girl, Asian, maybe bring ten thousand.”

  “Sirius would pay ten thousand for her?”

  “Da.”

  And sell her at home for seventy.

  “Is any of this legal here?”

  “Legal, not legal…no matter. If Bratva have slave to sell, Bratva sell slave. Sirius will buy.”

  Nick walked half a block in silence. He glanced at Aleksandr again.

  “We recovered the money those people owe,” he said. “So they’re off the hook, right?”

  “Hm? What you mean?”

  “You aren’t going back there tomorrow, are you? We have t
he money they owe.”

  Aleksandr frowned at him, as if studying an unidentified insect.

  “Russo, you soft. What does it matter?”

  “It’s like I said earlier—you force them out of business, they can’t pay anymore.”

  “No matter. Someone else take over store, they pay. Bratva get money all the same.”

  Nick sighed. Talking to Aleksandr was like reasoning with a rock.

  “Just don’t touch that girl, okay? I don’t want you to sell her.”

  Aleksandr gave him another quizzical look, then his expression morphed to amusement. He slapped Nick on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him.

  “Ha! I get it now! You like girl. You want girl!” He clapped Nick again. “Okay, Russo, I no sell girl. You go get girl for yourself.”

  Nick started to protest, then shut his mouth. Why should he care if Aleksandr understood his real reason? As long as he honored his pledge to leave the woman alone, that was all that mattered. Nick forced a grin.

  “Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”

  “For you, Russo—anything. You strange man sometimes, jokes not funny, but you got money back. You okay.”

  ***

  They reached the Rodina about an hour before it opened for the evening crowd. Aleksandr took the money satchel and headed for Accounting, then had to get ready for his shift as bouncer. Nick took the lift up to his apartment and showered, then changed into something more appropriate for evening—faux-leather slacks and a sport shirt, with the 9mm strapped to his ankle—then went down to the bar and ordered a sparkling water. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next—no one had given him a work schedule—but figured he could be located in the bar if the Petreykins wanted him.

  They did.

  Ten minutes before the club opened, while the floor staff scrambled to complete last-minute chores, Diana Stepurin spotted him and headed in his direction. He tilted his water bottle and swallowed a slug before she reached him.

  “Nick, what are you doing right now? Have you had dinner?”

  “No. Just waiting for orders.

  “Come with me.”

  She led him up to the mezzanine, to the same table where he’d first met her, and told him to take a seat.

  “I have job for you.” She signaled for a waiter. “Actually, Orel has a job for you, but he sent me to tell you.”