Tiger

by William Richter

  Wally lunged toward the open space in the window and there were Kyle’s feet, almost exactly where she thought they’d be. She grabbed hold of Kyle’s right leg and pulled with all her strength, bracing herself against the windowsill as she dragged him off the staircase into the room. He screamed in pain as his body slammed to the floor, and the two of them began wrestling for control. With her left arm, Wally wrapped his neck up in a choke hold, but Kyle was an athlete, after all, and he was strong—he started pulling violently at Wally’s arms, and she didn’t think she could fight him that way for much longer.

  Looking at the ground around her, she saw at least a dozen large shards of glass from the shattered window, and one still had a broken chunk of the wooden pane glued to it. Wally grabbed the shard on the wooden side and jammed the sharp end into Kyle’s shoulder. He screamed in pain, and blood began gushing from the wound.

  “Ahhhh . . . ” Kyle howled. “You fucking bitch!”

  Wally shifted the edge to Kyle’s throat, pressing just hard enough to break the skin and make him stop moving.

  “Stand up!” she commanded, and clambered to her feet while never letting go of the choke hold with her left arm and keeping the razor-sharp glass pressed tight against his neck. Kyle managed to set his feet on the ground and rise up with her. Wally heard a sound on the fire escape outside and she turned quickly—the guard from below was just raising his gun to fire. Wally pressed the glass harder into Kyle’s neck, and he screamed.

  “I’LL GUT HIM!” Wally howled at the guard like a wild animal, and he froze. Wally hauled Kyle toward the metal door on the opposite wall. It was an awkward crab walk they were doing together—Kyle was much taller than Wally, and when he stood up straight, it raised her feet off the ground, compelling her to spring free. She responded by pressing the shard against him even closer, forcing him to bend low and return her feet to the floor.

  When they reached the door, Wally released the glass from his neck for just a moment, stabbing it again into the part of his shoulder that was already wounded and seeping blood down the front of his shirt. Kyle screamed so loud that her ears hurt, and soon the metal door swung open. Alabama stood there in the doorway, his assault rifle raised and pointed directly at her, the wounds on his face still oozing liquid into his bandages.

  “Sure, take your shot, asshole,” Wally said to him, keeping her voice as even as she could and moving the glass back into tight contact with Kyle’s throat. “But be sure not to miss.”

  She could see Alabama weighing his extreme desire to kill her against the consequences if Kyle were to die in front of him. Wally pushed Kyle through the doorway and hauled him with her down the hallway to the stairs, keeping her back to the wall the entire time and struggling to keep her feet on the ground when Kyle managed to stand up too straight.

  Another guard appeared at the stairway landing from above—it was the dude with the shotgun, but just as he leveled it toward her he caught sight of the glass still pressed under Kyle’s chin. The guard held his ground but from the scared expression on his face it was clear he would not risk Kyle’s life by taking a shot at Wally.

  She kept moving, forcing Kyle onward as they charged down the stairs. Finally, they reached the ground-floor hallway. She could hear footsteps behind them as Alabama and the shotgun guy followed just out of sight, waiting for an opportunity to stop Wally in a way that wouldn’t get Kyle killed. Wally ignored them and kept her focus on moving forward.

  As she and Kyle moved down the hallway, they passed some ancient gas pipes along the wall—one had an old valve sticking out. Wally slowed down and kicked the valve hard, twice, before the rusty old pipe gave way and she could hear the hissing sound of gas being released into the air. They moved ahead, pushing toward the main doorway. She hoped that the leaking gas would prevent Alabama and any other pursuers from firing their weapons, since a muzzle flash might set off an explosion—or, better yet, that they would fire their guns and fry themselves—once she and Kyle were far enough away.

  As they emerged into the parking lot, the crack of a gunshot rang out—Wally felt a strange sucking sound to her left and realized that the shot had missed her by mere inches, flashing past her ear. The shot sounded like it had come from up high, probably from one of the guards who had been posted on the fire escape. Wally began spinning Kyle in a circle as they moved, making them a nearly impossible target. The turning motion caused the glass to slide against Kyle’s neck, slicing the skin just deep enough that he howled like a wounded animal. Blood trickled out of his neck now and ran down Wally’s hand.

  All at once, the gunshots stopped.

  Wally had a decision to make: there were five vehicles parked in the lot, three nice Cadillac SUVs, one black Humvee, and one big black Mercedes sedan. One of the SUVs—a black one that Wally recognized as Divine’s ride—was parked facing outward.

  They sidled toward the black SUV.

  “OPEN IT!” she commanded, and Kyle obeyed, reaching for the driver’s-side door.

  Wally slid in, backward, pulling Kyle along with her until he was seated behind the wheel and she was in the front passenger seat.

  “WHERE’S THE GUN?!” Wally shouted into his ear, certain that all of Divine’s vehicles would have weapons readily at hand. Kyle’s right arm flailed out, pointing desperately toward the center console. Wally clicked the console open and came away with a 9mm Glock, fully loaded.

  “KEYS!”

  Kyle reached for the sun visor, grunting in pain, and pulled down the keys. Another quick jab with the glass and he started the car, putting it in gear and steering toward the closed gate of the compound.

  “GO!” she said, keeping the shard pressed against his neck with her left hand and holding the Glock in her right.

  Kyle accelerated toward the gate as Wally lowered the window on her side. Alabama and the shotgun guy were just emerging from the door of the warehouse, both of them with weapons raised. Wally pointed the Glock and focused herself: she squeezed off two shots, aiming not for the men but into the open doorway. The two gunmen sensed what she was doing and dove away from the door, just as one of Wally’s shots hit a metal hinge and kicked up a spark, igniting the gas inside the hallway.

  The ground floor of the warehouse exploded in a ball of fire that shot straight out the door and engulfed the SUV parked nearest to the explosion. Within seconds, the vehicle exploded in flames and the fire was threatening to spread to every vehicle in the lot. Kyle accelerated, plowing his father’s SUV through the closed gate and squealing out onto the street, pulling away. Wally tossed the shard of glass out the window of the moving vehicle and now trained the Glock at Kyle’s head.

  “Keep going,” she commanded.

  A mile to the north, Wally forced Kyle to pull over, and she took over behind the wheel. She forced him into a fetal position down in the passenger-side wheel well. He didn’t resist, instead cowering into the jammed space with one hand over the open wound in his neck.

  “I’ll take you to Tiger,” Kyle sputtered, the blood still spilling out of him and clashing with his now ghostly pale skin.

  “I know you will,” she replied.

  30.

  TIGER MADE IT THROUGH THE SECURITY LINE

  easily—he was the same age as most of the local kids who were pouring into the old factory, and he didn’t have a cell phone or weapon on him.

  The inside of the building was a storm of sensory overload. House music blared at deafening levels, and a full light show strobed along with the beat, the brightest flashes burning into Tiger’s retinas until he was seeing spots everywhere he looked. A row of smoking tiki torches ran along each side of the huge, open space—their primeval glow framed the throbbing mass of youth that filled the dance floor, many of them half-naked already and stoned out of their minds on whatever party drugs Sweet’s men were passing out.

&nbs
p; As he moved along the outer edges of what was once the factory floor, Tiger had to step around the entangled bodies of partiers—some of them were obviously local kids, but an equal number were Sweet’s young soldiers, who were mingling with the locals and taking what they wanted, however they wanted.

  At the end of the floor Tiger found the staircase that led up into the tower section of the factory. There were four young men at the foot of the stairs, each holding an assault rifle and wearing dark sunglasses. How did they see anything in that room with those shades on? Two were dark-skinned black kids, probably African. The other two looked to be Thai or Indonesian. Their tight, muscular physiques were clad in classic American street-thug attire: white tank tops, brand-new oversized jeans, and spotless Timberland boots. Paired with the assault weapons, they were every street cop’s nightmare.

  When Tiger reached the stairs, one of the African kids held up his hand and spoke in heavily accented English.

  “Mista man, we don’t know you!” the kid hollered in Tiger’s face. “Fuck off and move your ass away from here!”

  “No, bitch—fuck you,” Tiger answered, unflinching.

  All four assault weapons were in Tiger’s face immediately, fingers tight on triggers, twitchy nerves unconnected to anything that resembled a moral conscience. These boys had been through hell in their lives, and Sweet had exploited their pain and suffering, turning it to a white-hot rage ready to erupt upon the world. Tiger looked at them and saw only darkness, nothing behind their faces but greater depths of fury.

  Is that what others see when they look at me? Tiger couldn’t help but think it. Did his soul look as lost as theirs? He saw no sign that these soldiers—these children—were capable of redemption, but how could one person ever know that about another? Tiger realized that he would have no reservations about pulling the trigger on Sweet, provided he could get close enough.

  “What’s the worst way you’ve seen your boss kill a man?” he said to the boys, their rifles still in his face. “That’s how you’ll die if you do me dirt.”

  His fearlessness gave them pause.

  “Who the fuck is you, boy?” one of the Asian kids asked.

  “Tell Sweet that Tiger Klesko is here.”

  “Gentlemen, we’re in the presence of Vory royalty!” Sweet boasted—a little drunkenly—when he saw Tiger enter the room at the top level of the tower. “Here we have Tiger, son of the notorious Alexei Klesko.”

  Sweet hadn’t changed since Tiger had seen him several years earlier. He was still pale and short and pudgy, his thinning blond hair even wispier. He spoke in the smooth, precise English that seemed second nature to so many Swedes, giving him an entirely civilized veneer. But the man’s eyes—a steely, intensely focused blue with a sense of unrest lurking behind them—projected all the authority he needed to command the attention of the room.

  The man stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Tiger, but the warm gesture turned into yet another pat down for weapons.

  “No offense,” Sweet whispered into Tiger’s ear when he was done.

  Tiger shrugged—just business. Such caution was how a man like Sweet stayed alive.

  The top floor of the tower was comprised of one large room with a high ceiling and windows on all four walls. Set off to the side were remnants of what must have been the administrative center of the old factory—broken-down desks and swivel chairs and endless power cables. The sounds of house music rumbled up from far below, and the floor under their feet vibrated from painfully amplified bass rhythms. At least five of Sweet’s security crew kept post at the perimeter of the room, armed and ready.

  A dozen mid-level crime bosses were also in attendance, just as Divine had predicted. Dressed in sharp suits and on their best behavior, the hoods hovered near Sweet, eager to curry favor with the man whose international connections could instantly raise their profiles and make them very rich—if that’s what Sweet chose to do. The big man’s warm acceptance of Tiger instantly gave him cachet among the others; he could feel their envious gazes.

  Sweet took a step back and looked Tiger up and down. “Still very pretty. Not quite so much of a child as the last time we met. Not even a whisker on your face back then, yes?”

  “One grows up quickly.”

  “Ah,” Sweet agreed, with a sense of regret. “And your father?” The expression on Sweet’s face told Tiger that the man already knew the answer.

  “The Americans have him buried in a hole somewhere,” Tiger said, faking anger at the insult of it all.

  “They won’t be able to hold him,” Sweet said.

  “No one ever has,” Tiger answered, sounding like a loyal and admiring son. “Not for long.”

  Sweet nodded in agreement. “I’m pleased you’ve arrived in time for us to meet—I have only a few minutes to spend here before I’m off. And so . . . what can I do for you, Tiger-son-of-Klesko?”

  “I’ve worn out my welcome in this place,” Tiger said simply. “If you can use me, I’m looking for work. And a ride out.”

  Sweet studied Tiger, thinking, and nodded as if ready to consider the offer.

  “We might have something for you,” he said. “Let me think on it. I have some business to finish up, first. Noblesse oblige. It’s what we do.”

  Sweet patted Tiger on the shoulder and then returned to his other guests, listening patiently to their praise and proposals. Tiger scanned the room and found the bathroom door near the northwest corner of the room. He made his way there, finding that one of the security boys was lurking just behind, shadowing him. Tiger stopped at the door of the bathroom and turned to the kid.

  “What? You want to come in and hold it for me?” Tiger said.

  The kid backed off, and Tiger entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him. As soon as he was alone, he exhaled heavily, releasing the tension he had fought back in the room with Sweet. Tiger hated any kind of pretending—he was always better at the shooting part.

  He looked up and saw that the bathroom had a paneled ceiling—all sagging and yellow and water-damaged—but the panels closest to the wall were more or less intact. He stood on the toilet lid and reached up, pushing the corner panel up and sliding it out of the way. He felt around in the empty space above, his fingers finally making contact with two items, which he pulled down and set on the sink: a small 9mm Browning with an eleven-shot clip and a cell phone.

  He picked up and checked the Browning’s mag and slide, making sure it was in working order. He chambered the first round. The cell phone was the folding kind, and when Tiger opened it he found a small note taped to the screen. It read: Text to speed dial #1 when in position. Tiger opened the texting app and typed, In. His thumb hovered over the “send” button, but he paused.

  He considered his options. There were two ways Wally would survive the night: if she somehow managed to escape the Ranch, or if Tiger carried out the hit and Divine kept his word to let her go free. Tiger had faith in Wally’s resourcefulness, but the odds were steep against her escaping on her own. The second possibility was equally unlikely—he couldn’t trust that Divine would keep Wally safe—but that scenario was the only one Tiger had any control over. If he went ahead and killed Sweet, his action might at least give Wally more time to break free.

  Tiger checked the gun a second time, making sure every part of the mechanism was working smoothly. He slid the weapon inside his waistband, just near his right hip, where he could draw it quickly. Sweet’s security boys would gun Tiger down almost immediately, but not soon enough to stop him. In that final moment, Tiger would have held the value of someone else’s life—Wally’s—above his own. If that didn’t prove how different he was from his father, nothing else would.

  Tiger opened the door and stepped back into the big room.

  WALLY STEERED

  31.

  TH
E ESCALADE OFF THE INTERSTATE and onto a two-lane county road, following Kyle’s directions. She passed by a large suburban housing development, but after that the road turned dark and rural—mostly farmland to either side of the road, as far as she could tell.

  “How long before the turnoff?” she asked.

  Kyle was still curled up in the passenger’s-side wheel well, mostly quiet except for his pained, labored breathing.

  “Kyle,” she repeated, keeping her eyes on the road ahead of her and impatient with his weakness, “how long before the turnoff?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, in a weak and pathetic voice that made Wally cringe, disgusted all over again that she had allowed herself to be made a fool of by someone so unworthy. “A mile, maybe three . . . I’d have to see it for myself.”

  “Fine. Sit up in your seat.”

  Kyle slid up and onto the passenger seat, unfolding himself slowly until he was seated upright. The bloody marks on his neck had mostly dried, but the wounds still looked angry and raw, ready to bleed again at any time. He stared out through the windshield, the SUV’s headlights stretching far ahead on the country road. After about two minutes of driving, he pointed to a blue reflector on the right side of the road, marking a paved service road that ran northeast off the county road.

  “There,” Kyle said. “Up that way.”

  Wally steered the Escalade onto the service road, which was well-paved but completely dark, surrounded by dense woods on either side. Wally was on edge now, anticipating the location that Kyle had eventually described to her on the way: a large, abandoned factory space that was being used as a site for a massive rave. There would be a tower to one side of the factory, where Tiger would be headed. The entire facility would be well defended by the security team of a man named Sweet—who was also Tiger’s target.