Unfortunately, it had not been nearly as gratifying as Anatoly had hoped, but revenge never was. It was a dish still better served cold. However, he was certain that by nightfall Ryan would feel the full weight of his transgressions.
“Boss,” Marat said, turning up the radio, “you hear this?”
Anatoly pulled himself from his thoughts. “Hear what?” Stuffing a Glock in his pants leg, he raised up and looked out of the passenger-side window.
On the radio, the DJ was reporting on the attacks across the city. “It’s becoming a bloody Sunday in our beloved city,” the man said, voice filled with shock. “Several businesses around Miami Beach area were attacked and burned today. The official body count is still being tallied, but so far, there have been thirteen deaths – every manager or owner was murdered brutally and left out in the parking lots of the establishments. All are believed to be related. The amazing part of this, folks, is no witnesses have come forward. Police are asking if anyone saw anything to please call the hotline.”
Anatoly smirked. There would be no witnesses. Everyone who was there during the attacks was either too scared or too dead to come forward. The women who had been used as cattle were set free. They vanished into the streets, glad to be released from their captors. Their captors, men and women, had been given the same treatment as Marko. Killed with the same knife. The same name carved into their chests.
The police wouldn’t be looking for Anatoly, they would be looking for Ryan Colt. And that was the design. There was no where he could hide.
“Should we do this last one?” Boris asked from the back seat. “The police are on high alert. I’m sure.” He wasn’t scared of the police, but he didn’t want to go to jail for the peas instead of the steak. Ryan Colt was their main objective. This was simply the warm up exercise.
Anatoly was unmoved by the risk. “We destroy it all like we planned,” he said, opening the passenger door. “The sooner we get it done, the quicker we can go home.” He would let that be incentive enough. “Now, is Gabriel ready?”
“He’s ready,” Boris answered. “He just radioed in.”
The Right Touch Massage Parlor was situated on the north end of Miami Beach. Although it was owned by Ryan Colt on paper, it was run by a thirty-eight-year-old Korean madam named Karen Woo.
The girls Ryan had handpicked for happy endings ranging from $50 - $500 were all illegal immigrants who were managed by Woo. Police were currently conducting and undercover sting to shutter the business, but so far, had not closed it down. Now, they would never get the chance.
In a fresh shirt and a new hoodie, Anatoly walked through the glass doors of the massage parlor and was met by a small-statured Asian woman in her early twenties wearing a skimpy rendition of a kimono that barely covered her backside and a pair of red stilettos that made her reach five feet tall. She smiled at him, sweeping her eyes over his muscular frame.
“Good Afternoon,” she said as the door opened again, and a flood of Russian mobsters came in behind him. Her eyes widened. “You have large party today.”
Anatoly raised a brow. “Huge,” he said with a wink.
“What kind of massage you interested in?” Her Korean accent made the words sound jumbled as she spoke them, but she knew he’d still get her meaning.
“A happy one.” Anatoly stepped into her private space and gave a suggestive smile. It was evident by the glimmer in her eyes and the way that she sucked in his fragrance that he could have her if he wanted. But he didn’t.
“I want to spend some real money on my boys. Tell your madam to come out and negotiate a price with me.” He pulled out a wad of money and flashed it.
Anatoly glanced around, checking out the layout of the parlor. The small dark lobby decorated in Asian motif had a few leather seats and one long sectional. However, the seats were all empty. Either all the guests were being seen or the place was empty.
The hostess smiled and bowed her head, holding her leather-bound menu of services against her bosom. “We don’t have madam. This is massage parlor only. Our girls are board certified,” the hostess lied. She looked him up and down again. “But we have group rate. Let me get our manager, and she will be happy to help you.”
“Well, get your manager,” Anatoly urged. “And be quick about it.”
“Give me one minute,” she said, going into the small office in the back corner of the lobby.
Just a few minutes later, the young hostess returned with her manager following behind her, her heels clicking against the shiny black marble.
Karen was tall and majestic. She was categorically beautiful except for a scar that ran from the top of her right eyebrow down to the top of her glossed red lips.
It was a battle scar she had earned on the streets of South Korea before she came to this country fifteen years ago.
Her perfect black symmetrical bob, tight black silk dress and red-bottom heels, made her svelte movements even sexier. But behind the beauty was a cold, calculating criminal who used young girls to make money and secure a lifestyle that honest work couldn’t provide.
She took one look at Anatoly and his party and knew that they were the men that she had been tipped off about just a few seconds before their arrival by one of the girls who had been freed from the nail shop Ryan owned in South Miami Beach.
Smiling, she glanced between the men and spotted Anatoly as the ring leader. It was his arrogant stance, his bigger than life aura that gave him away. Having been in the sex trade for many years, she knew a Vor when she saw one. She knew a captain even better.
“Gentlemen,” she said, putting her hand on her hip. She stopped a few feet from Anatoly. “Ryan Colt is not here.” She showed no fear, no hesitation.
“Pity,” Anatoly said, cutting his eyes at the woman. His heartbeat slowed, now in his natural environment, he was relaxed.
At that moment, six Asian men wearing cheap black suits and crew cuts with pistols pointed, came down the hall and fanned out into the lobby. They rallied behind Karen on her flanks ready for a shootout.
Checkmate.
“Who called you?” Anatoly asked, face unreadable. He didn’t give her minions the respect of even acknowledging them.
“One of the girls you thought you were liberating,” Karen said confidently. She knew that she had won, and for her troubles she knew Ryan would reward her greatly, maybe even with a larger piece of the parlor.
Anatoly smacked his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t exactly make the bitch drink it.”
“Did you really think we would just let you waltz in here and shoot up our business, burn us out and leave?” She rolled her eyes. “I expected more from a Vor.”
Anatoly took a step back. “Did you really think she called you on her own?” His eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t expect so much from a whore.”
From the back of the parlor, Anatoly’s men had already pushed their way into the back door. While Karen was busy gloating, they were moving in. She turned, hearing the footsteps behind her to see eight of Anatoly’s men with automatic weapons pointed at her men.
Now, that was a checkmate.
“Put your fucking hands up,” Gabriel said, putting the muzzle of his weapon to the back of the largest Asian guard’s head.
Karen’s face went slack. It had all been a setup. Every single word and action by the blonde man standing in front of her had been designed to arrive at this moment. The call from the girl had been to warn her so that she would rush the patrons out, leaving no witnesses.
And because she had disabled the cameras to protect herself, no video.
Anatoly didn’t give a long speech or even gloat. It was clear that the game was over for her before she even began to play it.
Facing her death was surreal. She could hear the guns around her go off, the sound of her men dropping – their bodies sloppily falling on the marble floor. She could hear the women in the back screaming.
She could see
the Molotov cocktails that Anatoly’s men pulled out and threw against the walls, setting it ablaze, but it was all muted behind the hard thud of her heartbeat, pounding in her ears.
Anatoly pulled out his knife and motioned toward Karen in the middle of the mayhem. A wicked grin was painted over his lips, his eyes bright with the retribution he had come for. He stepped forward, inhaling her sweet defeat.
“Since you already know why I’m here and you already know what I’m going to do, come to daddy.”
Chapter Eight
A Little Help, Please?
Mashta Island
Sunday Evening
B lankly staring at the television mounted on the wall in the den with a tumbler of scotch clutched in his hand, an exhausted Ryan Colt felt his Teflon exterior start to melt into something akin to putty. According to the news anchor, Miami Beach’s Blood Sunday had not yet stopped. Police were tight-lipped, but unofficial reports were suggesting some type of a mob hit.
No shit.
Twenty people were reported dead. All his businesses had been burned down. It would only be a few hours before investigators figured out his involvement and would want to bring him in for questioning. And on top of everything else, he was holed up in Popov’s mini-mansion on Mashta Island with a half-wit bodyguard and a handful of weapons as a category four hurricane prepared to make landfall in two-days tops.
Things were not looking good.
Ryan turned from the television and walked mechanically out of the den into the adjoining dining room where Clover was sitting at the table. He avoided eye contact and pulled out his phone to check it again for the hundredth time. After many hours of waiting, not one single person had called, not an employee, not a Medlov, not Popov. The silence from the outside world was driving Ryan insane. His fingers trembled as he swiped through his apps. The entire room was caving in on him quietly, but he had to keep his composure.
The Medlovs were resourceful. In less than 24 hours, they had torn through his life like a rip current. There was no telling what they knew by now, who they knew about. Suddenly, Clover’s first suggestion was starting to sound like his only option.
It was time to run.
He couldn’t wait any longer for Popov to bail him out. He’d have to take matters into his own hands.
But first, he needed to see if Arnolt had transferred the money like he had instructed. All they had right now were a few credit cards that could easily be traced, and a few hundred dollars cash. It would take a lot more than that to get out of the country undetected.
Pulling up his bank app, Ryan pressed his right thumb to the circular button on the bottom of the iPhone to read his signature and access his account. A million things were running through his mind – where to go, how to get there, who to tell, what to do about the girl. He’d have to figure it all out soon, if he wanted to beat the hurricane.
When his account came up, he glanced down at the phone and felt his stomach tie itself in knots.
Blinking fast, he tried to process his balance. ZERO. It had to be a mistake. He pulled the phone closer to his face. Glaring at the numbers, he signed out and logged in again. The balance was the same.
ZERO.
“What?” he gasped.
Clover turned around and looked over at him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Don’t speak,” Ryan said, pulling up another account. It said the same thing.
ZERO.
He pulled up another.
ZERO.
Another.
ZERO.
Clover stood up and left to give Ryan some space. Walking into the den, he listened to Ryan muttering under his breath.
“Shit!” Ryan screamed, dialing Arnolt’s cell phone number. It picked up on the first ring and went straight to voicemail. “Pick up the phone!”
Ryan’s first thought was that the accountant had stolen his money and skipped town. If that were the case, he would find him and kill him slowly.
“Boss,” Clover said, turning up the television.
“In a minute!” Ryan answered, scrolling through his phone for Arnolt’s home number.
“You need to see this,” Clover said, realizing their situation just gotten much worse.
Ryan exhaled a breath and turned from his phone. He glanced up sharply to see a mix of fear and panic on Clover’s face. “What happened?” Stalking back over, his shoes clicking on the antique terracotta floor, he stood in front of the television beside Clover.
A female, Cuban reporter was standing across the street from a building burning in the background. Firemen worked to put out the blaze as a plume of black smoke billowed up into the evening sky.
“Looks like they got Arnolt,” Clover muttered, eyes glued to the television.
“Turn it up,” Ryan ordered grimly.
“It is still a mystery as to exactly what happened here today,” the reporter said, clutching her microphone. Powerful winds blew through her straight black hair as she stared directly into the camera. “To add to the businesses burned this Sunday in Miami Beach, the offices of CPA Lenard Arnolt is now added. Police are working on the investigation and unable to release the name of the person’s body found inside, but neighboring business owners say that it is more than likely Lenard Arnolt.”
Ryan turned back and looked at Anastaysia. In the commotion, she had awakened from her sleep to find her captors gawking at the television. Meeting his wild eyes, she pushed up against the sofa.
“You bitch!” Ryan screamed, diving toward her. He pulled off his belt and wrapped it around his fist. “I’m going to make you pay for this! All of it!”
“Boss,” Clover warned.
“Shut up!” Ryan yelled at Clover, grabbing Anastaysia by the strap of her slinky dress. It ripped when he yanked it, but she didn’t cry out. He leaned over her, one foot on the floor, the other up on the sofa. “I bet you are enjoying this, aren’t you?” Reaching back, he punched her in the face.
“Stop!” she said, trying to block his attack. Struggling with him, she grabbed his shirt, as she did, his keys fell out of his pocket into the middle of the sofa cushions.
“Oh, you want to fight back, huh?” Ryan jeered, not realizing he had dropped his keys..
“Don’t!” Anastaysia said, suffering another blow. Her vision blurred, and she fell back against the pillows, making sure to cover the keys with her legs.
Clover knew Ryan was just digging a deeper ditch for them. Bad move. He ran over to Ryan and grabbed his hand before he could hit her again.
Pulling him off the girl, Clover roughly forced Ryan across the room. “Think about what you’re doing!”
“Don’t you ever put your hands on me again!” Ryan snapped, pushing Clover back. He pointed his finger at the man, ready to turn his wrath on his trusted companion. “I’m still the boss here! Don’t you fucking forget it!”
Clover stepped back and put up his hands in submission. “Okay…okay.” Breathing hard, he made his case. “She’s all we’ve got. You know it. If you beat her to death, we have no more bargaining power. That’s all I’m saying.” He blocked the path to Anastaysia and glanced over his shoulder. “Think about this for a minute. Maybe we should just leave. Get out before it gets worse, Boss.”
“And go where?” Ryan screamed, throwing his belt to the floor. The buckle clanged against the surface. “With what?” He ran a hand through his hair and turned away, breathing frantically. “There is no money, Clover. They took it all! Lenard is dead. The businesses are gone. For all we know, they’ve hit the brothels, too. I can’t call, because I can’t risk exposing our location. Everything that I’ve worked my ass off for is GONE!” Walking to the entrance of the den, he closed his eyes to fight back the growing dread inside of him. “They’ve cut us off from the outside world. We’re trapped here.”
“Jesus, Ryan.” Clover scrubbed his hands over his beard. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. Cooler heads had to prevail. “That’s even more of a reason not to hurt her.” H
e glanced back at Anastaysia.
She was wiping her bloody mouth on a red chenille throw.
Ryan calmed himself and looked over at Anastaysia, thinking instantly of Helen of Troy. He laughed sardonically. “All of this over a stupid little maid from Kapotnya. The cunt that launched a thousand ships.” He walked back over to the dining table and picked up his scotch. “Well, I gotta tell you,” he said, alcohol sloshing over his hand and onto the floor, “if I die, she dies.” He took a big gulp, the excess washing over his mouth. “Did you hear me, bitch?” he screamed, voice booming through the halls. “If I die, you die!”
Anastaysia rolled her swollen eyes. “And vice versa.”
Ryan started for her again, but Clover stopped him. “Hey. Be. Smart.”
The phone buzzed in Ryan’s pocket. Pulling it out, he saw the number was blocked.
“Take her upstairs, out of my sight.” Hoping it was the call he had been waiting on all day, he made his way to the balcony doors.
“Hello,” he said hesitantly, putting the phone to his ear.
There was a deliberate pause. “It’s been brought to my attention that you have a problem in Miami Beach,” a Russian voice said over the phone.
It was Boss Popov – a mid-grade Russian mobster with ties to prostitution, money laundering and heroin throughout South Florida. Ryan had been one of his best paying customers when they first met several years ago, buying girls and drugs in bulk for his S&M club. However, over the years, Popov had become more of a silent investor in his businesses instead of a simple supplier, which changed the dynamic of their relationship. Ryan needed more drugs and more girls, sometimes more than he could afford, so Popov suggested another arrangement. He’d give him what he needed on credit in exchange for a piece of the business and a monthly rate. When that happened, Popov turned to a tyrant, sometimes violently displayed when Ryan gave the tiniest amount of push back. Popov became Ryan’s pimp, thereby controlling his life in its entirety.
“I’m having a big problem here, but it’s not my fault,” Ryan said, lowering his voice to hide the trembling fear.
Anatoly's Retribution: Book Two Page 12
