Ignoring the man’s request, Anatoly put the car in gear and sped off, throwing the phone out down the road as he chased toward the sniper.
Bandi had two immediate problems. He couldn’t draw attention by speeding wildly through the streets, because of the sheer number of police officers who had saturated the downtown area, and he couldn’t stop, because the extraction team was going to pull out with or without him, now that he’d managed to fuck up the hit. So, he found himself in butt-to-butt traffic as fire trucks, police and ambulances headed toward the health center as those who were fleeing the area and those who were clueless about the shooting mingled together at on the area’s busiest intersections.
“Come on, come on!” he said, clutching his side while he waited for the light to turn green. The gooey residue of blood trailed against his fingers. Wincing in the hot summer sun, he gripped the handlebars and clattered his teeth together.
“What’s your location?” the female liaison said over the earpiece in a rather irritated tone.
Bandi swallowed hard and answered. “Five minutes out from Beale Street,” he answered. “I’m hit, but I’m coming.”
The woman didn’t answer. Who cared if he was hit? The target wasn’t dead. The only reason he was not left to deal with the Medlov family alone was because if he was caught, he would surely reveal the entire plan once tortured.
As the light turned green, Bandi moved along with the traffic, but first he turned to do a quick check behind him. Paranoia had set in during the foot chase, and now he had to watch from every direction for one of the Medlov guards to come crashing down upon him.
“This was a bad idea,” he said aloud to himself. “I should never have taken the fucking money.” While he was only grazed, the wound would prove fatal if he was forced to flee on foot and he had left the rifle behind and only had four bullets left in his clip. Everything that could go wrong was happening.
Anatoly knew there were a million possibilities of where the assassin could have gone between the time he got on the bike and when he was able to carjack the BMW, but something was pulling him toward the straightway. He didn’t pull off into one of the winding side streets or head toward the highway, because it just did not make sense. This guy was running toward help, or at least running toward traffic where he could blend in without being noticed.
As he headed down Second Street at full speed, he saw at the next light the bike Bandi had used.
“Got you.” Anatoly pressed down on the accelerator, determined this time not to lose his target. This wasn’t a job. This wasn’t a deal. This was his family, and someone was going to pay TODAY, not later. No, fuck that. Even if it meant him being put under a jail, retribution would come down swiftly to the man who had pulled the trigger and tried to kill his father.
Hearing an engine barrel behind him, Bandi turned around and saw a droptop, red BWM Roadster with what appeared to be Anatoly Medlov in the driver’s seat only a few cars behind. Immediately, he swerved and jumped on the curve, barreling past pedestrians at deathly speeds.
Anatoly couldn’t let him get away. “Let’s see what you got, bitch,” he said to the car. Pushing his foot down on the accelerator, he ran down the side of the long line of cars in between the emergency lane and curb, ripping the sides of cars as he pressed forward. With one hand on the steering wheel, his Rolex reflecting against the sun and the other on his weapon, he kept his eyes squarely on Bandi.
Horns erupted as Anatoly passed. Paint scrubbed off cars as he railed past them knocking off side mirrors of anonymous cars, burning rubber as he advanced. Dancing in between lanes, Anatoly pressed forward recklessly, ignoring the red lights and causing wrecks behind him.
“Come on bitch, let’s dance,” he said as he shifted gears roughly.
Bandi could feel Anatoly right behind him. As a result, the hairs on his neck stood on end. Everyone knew how the Medlov family extracted information. He’d rather die first. Raising up off the motorcycle, he barreled down the sidewalk with people screaming as he passed. Jumping the curve, he shot out into the middle of the street in between the lanes of traffic, zipping in between vehicles to get away.
Anatoly pushed down on the accelerator as he ran in between a line of cars and the curb, tearing up the muffler and undercarriage, sending sparks flying. The other vehicles stopped, shocked at the mayhem, but still he continued. Veering into the middle of the lanes, he pushed the engine toward an angry growl, smoke coming from under it as cut across the traffic with his wheels burning rubber in a perfect drift. Shifting gears again, he advanced toward Bandi as onlookers watched in disbelief.
“Why won’t this motherfucker just back off!” Bandi screamed, back arched low as he moved through the cars. He turned around even as he advanced forward and let one of the four bullets he had in his chamber loose. The echo of the bullet on the tight lane lined with towering bullets sounded like a cannon.
But it didn’t deter Anatoly from his objective. He really didn’t give a fuck at the moment if he died, as long as he took this worthless coward with him. Sticking his gun out the window, he returned fire, barely missing Bandi.
The sound of gunfire sent tires screeching. They all halted as the two men raced toward an uncertain end.
Dancing in between lanes with the motor roaring, Anatoly chased Bandi until he was right on his tail. Sirens of police cars behind them exploded as the chance went from two-party to multiple.
As they zipped across Second and Gayoso Avenue into the entertainment district, Bandi made a sudden sharp left and turned into the alleyway behind Beale Street. He knew he needed to get to a place where Anatoly could not follow in his beaten up BWM, now mangled from the chase. But determined not to lose Bandi again, Anatoly quickly whipped his small droptop into the alley and followed, knocking crates into the air as he got closer and closer to Bandi. It was only when he reached a large garbage bin that he had to stop.
“FUCK!” Anatoly screamed, beating on the steering wheel as he came to stop. Jumping out, he pointed his weapon toward Bandi and took a shot. While it did not hit him, it scared him so that he skidded and slid right into the side of the 172 Dance Club building.
“What’s your location?” the female liaison asked Bandi calmly, even though she could hear the ruckus of police officers in pursuit.
Bandi, torn from road burns, bleeding from his wound, limped as fast as he could away from Anatoly and ducked down a side alleyway toward Beale Street. Just a few steps closer and he could be free. “I’m on fucking Beale Street!” he yelled into his earpiece. “Meet me…NOW.”
The liaison rolled her eyes and moved away from the souvenir store. Pushing a stroller with a baby bump tucked under her shirt and wide-brimmed hat to cover her face, she stepped out of the store onto Beale Street. “Your exact location.”
Frantic, Bandi looked around. Anatoly was only a few feet away. “I’m…” He turned to see the neon lights of a restaurant. “I’m at Shandy Lounge,” he said, fighting for air.
Anatoly was right on his heels. Gun out, he ran down the alleyway, following the trail of blood that Bandi left as he tried to flee. His heartbeat started to race. He was close – so damn close he could taste it.
Bandi pressed his earpiece. “He’s on my tail. You have to send someone to extract me. I need back up.”
The female liaison spotted Bandi just a few hundred feet from her as he emerged on Beale Street in a bloody shirt, covered in sweat and carrying a weapon. As soon as the tourists saw him, they bolted for cover.
“Where are you?!” Bandi screamed into his earpiece.
“We are…five minutes away,” she lied. This could play out to her advantage yet. The money Erik Popov had paid was still on the jet. “Stand by for directives.”
“I don’t have the fucking time, you fucking ice bitch!” Bandi yelled, turning to look behind him, just in time to see Anatoly approaching. As he lifted his weapon to take aim, he knew it was already too late. The young man had the drop on him.
&nb
sp; “There is always time,” the woman said, sure that she’d never have to account for her words, at least to him.
Anatoly stood in the cool shade of the alleyway out of sight of cameras or eye witnesses, covered in his father’s blood and sweating profusely. With his custom Glock pointed, he aimed straight at Bandi’s head and pulled the trigger. The first shot went through his frontal lobe. The second bullet went through his chest…for Dmitry, and the third went through his groin…because fuck him…that’s why. His blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction as the man died right in front of him. Peeling out of the shirt covered in his father’s blood, he felt the vindication he deserved. Sometimes, when you wanted to get a job done, you just had to do it yourself. When he was certain the deed was done, he stepped out into the sunlight, ducking into the souvenir shop where the liaison had just come from and stole a shirt and hat.
Bandi fell with his gun still in hand on Beale Street as the tourists and workers went running. His head hit the cobblestone with a thud and blood gushed from his body as his eyes faded. The money hadn’t been worth it after all. Blood required blood. And he had paid the price.
Pushing her baby stroller to the side of the street, the liaison finally patched through a call to her employer as her guard opened the door to her vehicle. She jumped inside and inhaled a deep breath of failure before the call finally went through.
“Yes,” Erik Popov answered on his cell phone. “It’s been long e-fucking-nough. You better have good news.”
But she did not.
She rested on the headrest in the backseat and closed her eyes. “Dmitry Medlov is not dead, sir,” she said emphatically as the team headed toward the jet to get the hell out of Memphis before it was too late. “You need to make plans.”
Dropping the cell phone, Erik Popov pushed Zoya’s lush mouth off his rock-hard shaft and stood up from his bed. With a blank look on his face, he stared at himself at the ceiling-to-floor mirror across from him and screamed.
The war had officially begun.
Chapter Twelve
Memphis, TN
Medlov Compound
C ode Red. Those two short words were the proverbial launch codes for the nuclear football that could only be ordered by a sitting Medlov Crime Family council member. Its purpose was to alert the global syndicate that the head of the organization had been assassinated or fatally injured in order to begin certain crisis protocols, and for key security personnel responsible for the protection of the family to enact evacuation procedures - relocating the family members to an undisclosed location until further notice.
On yesterday, Code Red had been a strategy in a dossier, locked in a digital vault on a secure server across the ocean, but today, it was uploaded on the cloud to every phone of every decision maker on the council. Today, it became a living, breathing thing, rearing its mighty head in preparation for Doomsday. Today, it became the Medlov’s only priority.
And it all started with a phone call.
Never skip back-day…
The sound of metal clanging against metal echoed through the newly renovated man-cave. The previously white walls had been given a facelift with floor-to-ceiling cedar planks, recess lights, a ten-foot mirror on the ceiling and another mirror covering the south wall. Televisions were mounted on the east and west wall and large while columns spaced from one end of the room to the other were used a partition between the weights and cardio area. At the far end of the room, a door opened to a sauna, Jacuzzi, indoor pool and tanning booth. The other door opened to a kitchenette that had been filled with whey protein powder, protein bars, supplements, blenders, and everything a man would need to complete his workout.
Man was the key word. Like little boys who had just built a new tree house, they barred the women-folk from entry, citing they had their own hormone-laden girly gym upstairs on the first level of the house complete with pink weights and automated air fresheners. Here they could play offensive music, curse like sailors and occasionally even pass gas without the complaints of being “animals.”
“Alexa, play my trap house playlist,” Gabriel said as the last song on his other place list ended. Resting his back against the bench, centering himself mentally.
“The devil is lie!” The rapper Rick Ross declared on the first track of his Mastermind album. “The devil is a lie!” The musician’s voice boomed over the basement gym’s sound system matched in power only by the base in the beat. It was Gabriel’s favorite playlist – trap house music only, each song picked by him to match his mood when he was in this very hollowed place, where women, babies and bullshit were not allowed. And after spending the first half of the day at the hospice center with Anil and the family pulling another woman in their family off life support due to cancer, he needed to work out more than he needed to breathe.
Days like this made him think of his mother, how she would never meet her grandchildren or her daughter-in-law, how she had dwindled away into nothingness before he pulled the plug, how he still missed her and her irritating advice. Being there with his family had drained the energy right out of him. Traveling for the last few days, had made him miss his regular routine. Now it was time to re-up.
Inhaling a deep breath as he unracked the heavy bar with his veiny, muscular arms extended, he brought the bar down to his meaty bare chest and pushed back up again. A hiss escaped him as he moved with precision in a repetitive motion to complete his sixth set. He bit down on his bottom lip, using all his power to follow through each time with equal commitment as the first set. When he counted ten, arms shaking from exhaustion, he reracked the bar and sat up.
In a pair of red, jersey Nike shorts that hung just below the distinguished v-line of his carved lower abs, Gabriel sat on the end of his work bench heaving deep breaths. Sweat dripped down his neck and rolled over his striated pecs after what he considered to be a decent workout.
For most, it would have been a great workout, but he had always been an over achiever, especially when it came to his body. In this family, a man had to be. Even the old bull worked out at least five times a week. There were no little alphas. Everyone carried their own weight both in business and in the gym.
As he caught his breath, he focused on his reflection in the mirror. Dark arched brows wet with perspiration danced over mossy green, brooding eyes. A new tattoo, still red from the needle, had been etched into his chest. This one a symbol of his hatred for authority. It had been 18 months since he had been abducted by neo-Nazis in Ukraine, but their torture still haunted him. Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the scars, forever marring his skin. He ran a hand over one of the long knife marks under his nipple and rolled his neck.
“Come on, bitch. You can do one more set,” he said, easing back down on the bench to push his body a little harder. With his feet planted firmly on the ground and his back pressed against the leather, he adjusted his back and raised his hands to unrack again when his cell phone rang.
“Not now!” he grunted, rolling his eyes. But he knew he had to answer. The phone was set to Do Not Disturb, which meant the number was marked important. “Alexa, answer my phone,” he grunted, sitting back up.
“Boss!” a driver said in a heavy Russian accent, driving Anil away from the hospice center after the shooting. “A code red has been issued.”
Gabriel froze as his stomach constricted. “Is he dead?” He could hear his heart thudding in his chest. It seemed to take forever for the man to answer.
The guard shook his head, as though his boss could see him, then checked the rearview mirror again. “I don’t know, boss. I have your cousin, Anil. We are headed to the exchange point.”
“Do you have me on speaker? Can Anil hear me?”
“Da, he can.”
“Anil,” Gabriel said, standing up.
“What the hell is going on?” Anil asked, too shocked and angry to cry. “I was shoved in the back of this fucking truck, and I don’t know where this guy is taking me. Someone shot Dad! They wouldn’t even let me stay a
nd help him.” It wasn’t like he was some rich kid who had never seen a bad thing in his life. He was raised on the streets, capable of handling a weapon. He was a grown man now, seven-feet tall and able to knock down a fucking wall with his bare hands, but they were treating him like he was made of glass.
Gabriel picked up his phone and pressed it to his ear. He wanted Anil to hear him clearly and understand that now was not the time for blind bravery. “If you want to help your father, do as the guard instructs. No one thinks less of you, least of all Dmitry. If anything happened to you, however, the guard who is escorting you would be responsible. He would lose his life. Do you understand?”
Anil looked at the back of the driver’s head as he navigated through traffic and felt sorry for him. He was not about to cost anyone else their life. “I understand.”
With a long stride, Gabriel moved to the back end of the gym and put his thumb up to a reader that unlocked a small armory. As soon as his foot crossed the threshold, the motion-detectors turned on a low blue light. Fully automatic, military-grade weapons were attached to the walls, along with ammunition, bullet-proof vests, magazines, and knives. He cast a glance up to the surveillance TV mounted in the corner to see if any unusual activity was happening anywhere in the house.
“Gabe, man. They shot him,” Anil said, putting his head in his hands. “He just collapsed. What if he thinks I cowered out?” His head popped back up at the thought.
“He won’t,” Gabriel assured, voice flat, mind racing.
“What about Royal? What about everything?” Anil felt hysteria threatening to take over and drew in a ragged breath. “And where the fuck is this guy taking me?” Spittle flew out of the young man’s mouth as his face turned a deep red.
Weapon in hand, Gabriel walked out of the gym into the hallway where a guard was approaching quickly. “You’ll be taken somewhere safe. I’ll reach out when I can.”
Dmitry's Redemption: Book One (The Medlov Men 7) Page 18
