“A plan to put things right.”
“Right for who?” he asked intuitively.
“Right for both of us,” I replied.
“Is such a thing possible?”
“I believe so.”
“Then perhaps we should talk,” he said tiredly. “It is less bloody to talk than to fight.”
“There’s only one condition to our meetings, Sergei, no guns,” I informed him.
He grunted. “I’m not certain I can control that.”
“Just do your best,” I said guardedly, hoping he would catch my drift.
He was interrupted by someone jerking the door open and barking at him in Russian and the line went dead.
“Convinced?” I asked Q.
“I feel better,” he confirmed. “Still risky as fuck.”
“Yup.”
“We could just let the cops settle this,” he reminded me.
“We could,” I agreed. “Then Sergei takes the fall and gets 20 years while dickweed is out in five and never gets tied to Rafe.”
“So we’re doing this for Rafe?”
“We’re doing it because it’s the right thing.”
Chapter 29
Looking at the shipyard dock through the van cameras, the plan suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea. Predictably, Sergei’s men had searched the area thoroughly and we had to stand off at some distance and let Deek monitor them from the drone. They even had a dog and had him check the containers on the bottom of the stack. We counted three of them, including Anatoli. They were, of course, all armed. Deek also informed us they were using a cell jammer, so none of our phone tools would work. Lovely.
This time we had backups for our earpieces and Deek wouldn’t turn them on until after we sat down in case Sergei’s goons checked us for bugs. These were the latest in listening devices. The size of a jacket button they were low-power frequency hopping transmitters that operated in burst mode. The tech shit always amazed me. Even Deek agreed these were hard to detect.
Amber was going to run the cameras from the truck, the rest of the team would watch the feed at the warehouse. She did her job and was a quick study on the van camera system. There was still no word on whether her vagina and I were back on speaking terms.
“It’s time,” Q mentioned.
On the way out of the van, Amber grabbed me and kissed me. “You get killed and I’m going to be seriously pissed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
We drove one of the motor pool cars and one of Sergei’s guys...if they were still Sergei’s guys...opened the gate for us and then carefully locked it behind us. There was only one way into the facility and one person could cover the entire approach.
We drove slowly along long stacks of steel containers that rose over 50 feet into the night sky in some places. Another goon stepped out from between stacks and stopped the car, motioning us to get out. I got out with a large bottle of Stolichnaya Gold that was part of our collection that came all the way from Moscow, Q got out with three glasses.
The guard took the bottle, searched us for weapons and took our phones. I was disappointed that the search was thorough but amateurish. Sergei was definitely letting his standards slide. Convinced we weren’t armed he stepped back and opened the bottle, taking a long pull out of the bottle. Satisfied, he replaced the cap and handed the bottle back. Gross. He ran an electronic device over us that detected listening devices but it must have been an older model because it missed both our earpieces and the bugs.
He motioned us down one of the stacks to an open area where Sergei was waiting for us, seated at a folding table lit by a single battery-powered disposable lantern. Next to that was the cell phone jammer, one of the upgrade models that would also jam most bugs and listening devices, at least the ones that didn’t frequency hop in burst mode.
“zdras-tvooy-tyeh,” I said in my rusty Russian.
He laughed at the irony of the greeting, which literally means “be healthy” and motioned us to take a seat.
I set down the bottle and Q laid out the glasses. “Your associate opened the bottle,” I apologized.
“Please forgive the rudeness,” he said heavily, “but I am not entirely certain they are still my associates.”
“I understand,” I said, pouring out three glasses.
“Vashe zrodovye,” I said, raising a glass.
“Vashe zrodovye,” Q and Sergei repeated. I poured another round.
Sergei got right down to business. “You received my message today?”
“We did,” I confirmed.
“And you come here anyway,” he observed. “Why is this?”
“To apologize,” I informed him. “For not understanding what was happening sooner.”
“You are...aware?” he asked, obviously puzzled that we weren’t surprised by the revelation.
“Here’s what we know,” I said, downing my second shot. That was good goddamn vodka. “We know you didn’t order the hit on us outside Mr. Turner’s apartment.”
He grimaced at the topic. “I received a...somewhat different account,” he mulled. “That was very bad for business.”
“And we know you didn’t kill Rafe,” I continued.
He looked confused. “Who is this...Rafe?” he asked.
“Raphael Valle,” I clarified for him. “Just an ordinary working guy with a pretty wife and two awesome kids.”
“I know nothing of this,” he insisted. “This is the first I have heard that name.”
“Maybe we should ASK ANATOLI!” I yelled toward the shadows of the open warehouse. A figure separated itself from the shadows and moved into the light, close enough to light up one of those wicked AS Vals and his blond hair.
Sergei turned his head. “Is this true?”
“That was unfortunate,” Anatoli said, moving more into the light. He had a deep voice and well-muscled exterior. His accent was more southern Russia than north but his English was quite good. He helped himself to Q’s glass of vodka. He tossed it back and set the empty back on the table. Q frowned at the petty indignity.
“Wrapped him in a bottom dredge and dumped it into a deep spot in the Gulf Stream,” I filled in for Sergei, refilling Q’s glass.
“He threatened to talk to police,” Anatoli said easily. “I could not allow that.”
“So you killed him?”
“As I said, an unfortunate necessity.”
“There have been a lot of unfortunate necessities,” I filled in for Sergei. “Including the boat cleaner and his wife.”
This was also news to Sergei. “I was also under the impression that was you,” he said, now starting to get the whole picture.
“Let me fill it all in for you,” I suggested. I downed another shot because this was going to take a while and I was enjoying the buzz.
“Turns out Anatoli here has been planning on retiring you for some time,” I began. “He’s been in contact with your old associates in Moscow but they wouldn’t front him the money, so he needed some cash to pay off these idiots,” I said gesturing around the warehouse, “and get established.”
“The lead bars,” Sergei filled in, downing another shot.
“When did you find out?”
“While we were on the boat,” he sighed. “When those du-ra kee Pierson Brothers came to me with that plan--”
“You said ‘nyet’,” I finished for him.
“Da. It was...how you say?...stupid?”
“Stupid covers it pretty well,” I agreed. “But Anatoli here figured that was that was his chance and went back to the Pierson Brothers with a plan to steal the lead. No one was supposed to get killed -the lead was supposed to just disappear. But Rafe went back to the guy at the fish market and threatened to go to the police. That’s when Anatoli had to take Rafe for a one-way boat ride. And it was all cool for a while. He almost got away with it.”
“Until you showed up,” Anatoli filled in.
“Until we showed up,” I nodded. “Spotted us at the marina,” I guessed. �
��That fat night clerk.”
He nodded.
“So they set up the ambush at Turner’s apartment,” I continued, “but before they did that they stopped by and knocked off the boat cleaner and his wife. The whole thing turned into a Miami PD shit storm and we all had to get out of town for a while.”
“I could not understand why you were being...troublemaker,” Sergei filled in. “We did nothing. We have good girls. We have good clients. We are careful not to make trouble for the police.”
“Well, you didn’t,” I agreed. “Then you found out about the lead.”
“And I begin to understand,” Sergei rued. “Then you destroy our club! I think it is Moscow.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I frowned. “I hadn’t pieced it all together then. Besides, we owed you that for taking a shot at us.”
“Agh!,” Sergei said, washing down his distaste with another shot of vodka. “We could have found another way!”
“Yeah, but Anatoli couldn’t let that happen,” I pointed out. “Shit was getting away from him so he had to call Moscow right away when you got back.”
“When did you do this?” he asked Anatoli.
“As soon as you got back,” I answered for him, reaching for a piece of paper in my jacket pocket. Anatoli raised the Val and I moved very carefully to pull out a single folded piece of paper and slid it over to Sergei. “Any of those numbers look familiar?”
“Why did you do this?” Sergei snapped at Anatoli. “I paid you well. The girls...as many as you wanted. I gave you everything!”
“You gave me NOTHING!” Anatoli countered. “When there was trouble, I handled it. When girls came in, I took care of them. I arranged things, I ran things. You did nothing but count your money, screw and drink vodka with…,” he struggled for the word, “....big shots.”
Sergei looked hurt, crushed. It must have been the same look Roman emperors got when they realized they had been displaced by their children. It was the same look everyone got when they figured out they were getting fucked over by someone they loved.
“If you wanted more, I would have given you more,” Sergei said tiredly.
“I don’t ask anymore,” Anatoli said raising the Val. “Now I take.”
“I’m afraid not,” I told him. “You made some really big mistakes.”
“What mistakes?” Anatoli asked, leveling the gun at me.
“The GPS on the boat,” I explained. “You told the cleaner to take care of it but instead of destroying it he was going to try selling it and we got it first. It was running the day you ran Rafe’s body out to the Gulf Stream and marina surveillance cameras picked up your black Jeep coming and going.”
“That proves nothing,” Anatoli concluded.
“Well, our guys found the track in the GPS and our salvage boat managed to find the dredge and Rafe’s body. Saltwater is pretty hard on fingerprints, but not when they’re protected by layers of duct tape.”
“And since you were in a hurry in North Miami, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that ballistics will match the 9mmx39 slugs in the cleaner and his wife to that Val you’re holding.”
“Hmm,” Anatoli grunted. “That is unfortunate.”
“I kinda thought you’d look more worried,” I confessed. Q gave me a look.
He said something in Russian into a small walkie-talkie and a minute later a boat came roaring up to the dock.
“What I like about this place,” Anatoli informed us, “is close to Cuba. I have many friends there. I go now. You die,” and he raised the Val.
“No!” Sergei barked, pushing his seat back and lunging toward Anatoli who cut him down with a burst from the Val before turning the gun our way, but he never got off another shot. Red dots flickered on his chest and head briefly before both exploded, the bark of actual high velocity rounds from FBI snipers cracking through the night. Unlike the movies where the bad guy has time to fall against the wall and slide down, bullet hits in real life are far less dramatic. The hydraulic shock generated by bullets going 4,000 per second is instantly fatal, especially when they strike vital organs. Anatoli, as big as he was, went straight down. The guard behind us dropped his weapon immediately when more red dots appeared on his chest. The boat tried to run but the harbor patrol and Coast Guard closed them off.
Boots on the pavement started closing in and I got up and moved over to Sergei. Subsonic rounds aren’t as instantly fatal and Anatoli had caught him low. He struggled to breath, his chest making a rolling motion, blood poured through his fingers.
“I’m sorry, Sergei,” I said, doing some quick math on his wounds.
“Is okay,” he said weakly. “Please do me one favor,” he asked.
I had to lean over to catch the whisper and he breathed his last. Ted, Anita and the SWAT team closed in.
The team fanned out to round up the other two guards, who were in absolutely no mood to take on the FBI. While the guards had been careful to search the lower containers, they didn’t search any on top, especially those with both ends blocked assuming no one could get out of them. That included one container that was brought in late in the afternoon and stacked in the middle of the pile. The muscle wouldn’t have noticed the Recovery and Marine Salvage logo and it looked pretty much like any other container on the outside. This one was, however, specially built with a propane powered generator and environmental controls that were nearly silent. It also had sides that flipped open and could be opened from the top or bottom. We used those containers as mobile offices or housing and it was a great way to get groups of people in and out of countries in an age when biometrics was making it harder to get across borders without having your fingerprints and retinas scanned. It was pretty trivial to add five fat ropes for our FBI guests who slipped out while our meeting was underway.
“Goddamn it, Nick!” I barked. “You could have moved 30 seconds sooner!”
“Sorry, I had to wait for him to commit,” he said, gesturing to Anatoli.
“That’s bullshit!” I spat. “You had plenty of dirt. You could have called this any time!”
Nick shrugged. “Sorry,” he said smugly. “You should be glad you’re still in one piece.”
“And so’s your white slavery bullshit case,” I said, motioning toward Sergei.
Q moved over to my side. His unspoken way of telling me this wasn’t the time. I opened my mouth to say something else and he cut me off.
“You think maybe we could have this discussion when we’re not surrounded by an FBI SWAT team?” he said under his breath. “There isn’t anything else you can do for him,” he said, motioning toward Sergei.
Anita got between us and told Nick she’d handle it. “Sorry,” she said after he walked off. “I had no idea he was going to do that.”
“It’s not your fault,” I told her. “But there is one thing we can do for Sergei.”
It was the next night when Anita, surrounded by what must have looked like other federal agents swept through the beach brothel. The other “agents” were Amber, Q and I plus some of Teddy’s team.
They zip tied the bouncers and madam before herding the girls into one room and hustling the clients out through the side door.
“Judge Patrick,” Anita acknowledged as an older gentleman with white hair was coming out of one of the rooms. He was in his underwear and carrying his slacks, shoes and shirt.
He looked embarrassed. “Marshal Guerrero,” he said evenly.
“Seriously? Tighty Whities?” I scoffed. “No wonder you have to pay for pussy.”
He frowned at that comment and went on to the foyer where the rest of the clientele were getting dressed under the unblinking eye of Dugger’s camcorder. The importance of the clientele would virtually guarantee that this whole part of the incident would never see the light of day.
Q and Amber were in talking to the girls.
“What do we have?” I asked, joining them.
Amber gave me the list. “Two are underage, they want to go home,” she began. “
Two more think they have an option on the islands.” Prostitution was legal on some of the islands in the Caribbean and there were sex resorts in a few places, though the government tried to keep that fact quiet.
“What’s that leave us?”
“These three,” Amber gestured to a trio of girls still talking to Q.
I had to say Sergei had good taste. The girls were either Russian or Ukrainian and definitely the cream of that crop.
“This way,” I motioned them to follow me, Q brought up the rear.
The Blue Tango Salvage: Book 2 in the Recovery and Marine Salvage, Inc. Series Page 33
