Peter raised a brow and finished his brother’s sentence, “we still have the power to reach them.” The idea was genius.
“Exactly,” Alexander said, proud of himself. “Now, this could be our only play, but it’s a powerful one, if done right. There is no possible way that prison board would confuse either one of our cases. I’m here for life, and you’re here for another 10 years. But if we were to arrange for someone else to be accidentally released, it wouldn’t garner the attention of the Kremlin.”
“Dmitry is useful, but if he is released accidentally, he cannot stay here to do our bidding,” Peter warned. “A man like that won’t stay under the radar for long. He can’t help himself. He’s too ambitious.”
“Then, let us use the wisdom of our captors. We get him a ticket out of Moscow…out of Russia, but first we have him fix our problem.” Alexander stood up and stretched his legs. Leaning against the top metal cot, he smiled at his brother. “Dmitry’s talents are wasted here. We have a hundred men willing to die for us, but he has a particular set of skills that could be very useful on the outside.”
“Especially since I am to be released in 10 years. I would hate to come out to receive a kingdom that was more fit for a popper than a king,” Peter said, weaving his fingers together into a steeple. “Yes, brat. Your idea is clever. You’ve found a way to keep us in play after all.”
Alexander raised a brow. It felt good to be in charge again of something more than what happened behind bars. It made him feel young and relevant. “And put a workhorse out on the streets. He’ll be a great earner. I can feel it. Wherever his feet land, his allegiance will be our success.” He was certain of it, and even more certain now that Dmitry had killed Yuri in such sublime fashion. A man like that could be useful. A man like that could be Czar!
A few days after Dmitry’s fight, he was finally summoned to meet with Boss Popov and his brother in a face-to-face meeting. After cleaning himself up in the same shower that he had killed Yuri, he followed three guards, known for doing the Vory’s bidding, down a quiet hall to the last cell on the block that housed his bosses.
He had met with the Popov brothers before, but only a few times and never in their cell. In those brief meetings, he had been given strict instructions and then ordered away, but this time, the atmosphere was much different.
The tall boy with blonde golden locks, piercing blue eyes and an angelic face emerged around the corner with his hands in iron cuffs wearing a black and white uniform that itched his skin and irritated the back of his neck. Lowering his body to fit into the cell, he took a seat in the corner and sat on while the guards uncuffed him and left him alone with two older men.
He looked around, impressed. Their cell was bigger than the others and while no one else could have so much as a picture from their former life, these two men had real goose-down comforters on their cots, Persian rugs on the floor, leather-bound books and real bookshelves, a radio and television and other amenities that spoke to their power.
Rubbing his wrists absently, Dmitry waited quietly out of respect for one of the men to speak to him first. He knew that they were appreciative of his deed, but it wasn’t like it hadn’t been done before, which led him to surmise that he was not here for a congratulatory pat but a new assignment.
Alexander Popov, a man used to effect he had on his inferiors was the first to speak. “You did well the other night,” he said, sitting on his lower bunk. Being in the room with the butcher, even though he controlled him, was a bit intimidating. The young man took up room, sucked all the air from space, just by walking into it.
“Thank you,” Dmitry said, eyes still cast low.
Alexander looked at the tattoos on Dmitry’s hands. They were new, still reddened and puffy. “How many men have you killed for me since you arrived at Vladimir Central?” Alexander asked, scrubbing a hand across his silver beard.
“Seven…teen,” Dmitry answered, a barrage of faces flashing through his mind. He tried not to think of them – his ghosts - but every once in a while, they escaped from their entrapment and ran amuck, haunted his memory.
“How many have you killed for yourself?” Peter asked, feet dangling off the top bunk.
Dmitry took a deep breath before answering that question, having to make a quick mental tally. “Three.”
“You’ve served the brotherhood well.” Alexander used the point as a Segway. “Things can be hard, damn near impossible when you have to do them on your own here, but this is true of life in general. When you have the brotherhood behind you, nothing is impossible. But it comes with a cost. The other side of the coin is that you’re always a target.”
“I am,” Dmitry answered truthfully. Since he had arrived, he had been the target of many altercations. Some wanted to test his reputation. Others simply did not like such a young man in their presence. Still, he had bested all of them – their reasons were inconsequential.
“If you stay here, you’ll be fighting for the rest of your life. And eventually, even though you are quite the specimen, someone will outsmart you, outmuscle you – kill you. What if I could offer you something more than just a fight in a bathroom stall?” Alexander asked. “What if I could offer you freedom? Not special treatment with the guards or extra food with the servers but real freedom, a chance to do it all over again?”
Dmitry’s head popped up. Making eye contact with Alexander, a pronounced frown line danced over the top of his blonde brows. He didn’t speak, but his face spoke volumes. In all his time here, three years to be exact, living in the dark recesses of the forgotten, he had never imagined a chance to escape his most vivid nightmare.
But the idea of a second chance sent chills up his spine. He had a brother waiting on him, who needed him, who would not survive without him. He had made a promise to his dead mother to raise Ivan and to be there with him until his last day. That promise haunted him at night.
“He’d like that,” Peter said, voice humming. “Very much.”
Dmitry blinked fast but kept his wide-set mouth closed. Swallowing hard, he made his beating heart calm in order to keep his ears focused on their next words.
“We’d like to offer that to you,” Alexander said, getting up from his cot. These were not words meant to be said from a seated position. “Not many men will ever get the opportunity. I know I won’t. I’m serving a life sentence on the back of that suka Gorbachev and his promises to eliminate the Vory v Zakone. My brother won’t see the light of day for another ten years. But you…” His mouth quirked. “You might just see the world before it has time to change.”
“Anything,” Dmitry whispered. He couldn’t hold the words. They leapt from him before he could think.
Alexander knew that he had the young boy right in the palm of his hands. He could see the desperation lingering behind his mesmerizing eyes. Hope was a thing that drove men to do the impossible and right now he needed a man capable of just that. With two strides he made his way over to Dmitry and put a hand on the top of his head as if to knight a villager into his cause.
Dmitry’s eyes closed. Clinging on with faint hope, he waited for Alexander to speak, to tell him what he needed to do to make that dream of freedom a reality.
“I need you to kill again,” Alexander said, gripping Dmitry’s head. “I need you to send a message to anyone who might question my authority on my streets, just like you did with Yuri.”
“Anyone,” Dmitry promised without the slightest expression. He looked up at his ward and felt a kinship to him at that moment that he had never felt with a man before him.
Alexander stated his case. “Sacha Karpenko is moving in on our territory. Since my conviction, he has been very busy usurping me, and in my absence, he stands to be the most powerful man in the Moscow underworld. My brother and I have never believed in using women or drugs to advance our cause, but he is using both, destroying our women, destroying our families, destroying our legacy. If we cut him down, we will be doing more than protecting our territory. We wil
l be protecting what our brotherhood has stood for since its inception.”
Peter jumped down from his cot and walked over to Dmitry as well. His charismatic hubris was starting to show. “We want you to kill him, Dmitry. You worked for Kirill many years before your conviction. He has been loyal to us for many years. Work for him again on this job. Fulfill our wishes. He’ll handle the logistics, but you’ll need a second man for the hit. Do you have one?”
Dmitry thought of his young brother – a wild, impulsive hooligan who was always ready for anything. “I do,” he said emphatically. “Someone I can trust.” He and his brother had done a hundred deals together since they were kids. Many had ended in blood; all had ended in success. If it was a hit that Alexander and Peter wanted, he and his little brother could pull it off.
“Can you trust this person with your life and this mission?” Alexander asked.
Dmitry looked between Alexander and Peter, admiring how cohesive they were. He hoped in the years to come he and his brother would be not only as powerful as these two but as loyal to each other. “My baby brother, Ivan. I can trust him with anything.”
“As I can trust my brother,” Alexander said proudly. “Do this thing for us and you will have your freedom. I may not have a chance to get out of here, but my brother does, and I need him out there not only protecting my interest but also my two sons. One day, they will lead the brotherhood, and a way must be paved for them.”
“I’ll do it. You have my word,” Dmitry promised.
Peter put his hand on Alexander’s shoulder and nodded. They had picked the right man for the job. “Well, little butcher, pack your things. You’re about to go on an adventure of a lifetime.”
Chapter Two
Vladimir Central Prison
100 miles from Moscow, Russia
Spring 2018 (29 Years Later)
I t had been nearly thirty years since Dmitry Medlov was accidentally released from prison and had escaped to a better life abroad after fulfilling Alexander Popov’s wishes to kill his enemy. Much had changed since then. But the red bricked fortress of Vladimir Central Prison stayed frozen in time – at least in its physical form. This place - where Stalin’s son once was held captive, thousands had met a tortured, murderous end, and over a million more had been sentenced in its 228-year existence - remained a constant, gloomy reminder of dreams deferred. Such was its macabre design. Such was its definitive purpose.
While the rest of the world evolved, experiencing the boom of technology, the pain of wars, the rise of democracy, and the fall of morality and humanity in all its recesses and corners, Vladimir Central stood unwavering. It was still just as imposing as when it was first erected, especially for those banished to its iron clutches for life.
Guards still paraded its emasculated convicts around in black and white uniforms with shaved bald heads and little sailor hats, handcuffed backwards, bent over in the stress position and blindfolded. The infamous monster Caucasian Shepherd dogs the size of bears still barked in demand of human flesh and terrorized the grounds under the careful watch of their handlers when they were not pacing around their steel cages like lions. There still was no prison yard for men to even gain the slightest hope or view of the blue skies above them. The food was still slop – a mix of tasteless soup and bread, void of taste or enjoyment.
And Alexander Popov still drew breath in a solitary cell where he was allowed his expensive comforters, Persian rugs, leather bound books, television and radio. The television, of course, had been upgraded along with the radios, but the cell size was still the same. The walls had been painted to hide the blood splatter and dirt, and the electrical wiring fixed to prevent fires, but it still was a dingy, dark place. The air was not as dank with the removal of lead walls and leaking ceilings wrought with mold, but it was still void of the smell of freedom.
And since his brother, Peter, had been released nineteen years ago, the strong, bold, leadership, Alexander had sought out and killed to protect for his family had dwindled. All his amenities had become a cruel joke over time.
All his dreams of running an underworld empire from his imprisoned walls had turned to heavy burdens and nightmares. Now, he was a feeble, rickety, old man who had lost most of his brilliantly silver hair due to stage-four cancer. The taste of fine foods smuggled in for years was lost to his feeding tube. Glaucoma filled his blue eyes and the lost of his hearing in one ear had led him to nearly scream when he spoke.
Still, like the prison that had become his home, he remained. Most days, he waited for the angel of death to come calling but did not pray for him. Defiantly, he held on to what little life was still inside of him, energized by the letters that came from his sons and the messages and pictures sent by his brother. They were the last hues of gold and yellow in the twilight of his life.
In truth, Alexander Popov was afraid to die, like many who had chosen the same road before him. Because upon his last breath, he would have paid for his crimes against man, but upon his death, he would have to pay for his sins against God.
Three guards with the clinking metal of AK-47 weapons hitting against their camouflage uniforms and a guard dog out in front of them on a heavy chain escorted Lt. Guard Kuznetsov, the warden of the supermax prison, toward the last cell on the long corridor of Korpus 3.
Kuznetsov was a petite man in stature, only made authoritative in physical appearance because of his distinguished, well-pressed, green uniform boasting medals and insignia and his customized boots with two-inch lifts that barely made him five-feet-five-inches tall. Beady green eyes glared out under wire-rimmed frames situated on his pointy nose that overshadowed thin lips and a weak chin. And an unsightly mole on his right cheek added to his homely and unfortunate features.
Plagued with a Napoleon Complex, he often delved out severe punishments to convicts who dared make jokes about his size and used excessive force to put fear in others. Others being anyone was not a former Russian oligarch.
With his bird chest poked out and his shoulders squared, he waited as the guards entered Popov’s cell first to ensure their superior’s safety. When all had been checked, he turned into the cell and eyed Popov, who was lying on a wooden bunk bed that was pushed up against the wall with an IV attached to his right arm.
Popov’s left hand, tattooed and wrinkled, sprinkled with liver spots, was resting on his chest. His nails were long and yellowish now that he was unable to trim them. He rested quietly, even though the dogs had made a fuss, refusing to acknowledge them or their handlers. But when he felt a presence close, his eyes flashed open to find Kuznetsov standing directly over him, looking down with quiet judgement.
“Are you well today, Popov?” Kuznetsov asked, pulling the wool throw up around the man’s mid-section.
Popov grunted but managed to speak in a gurgled tone. A breath escaped his mouth with a foul odor. “I am.” He tried to sit up, but Kuznetsov stopped him. “What brings you to see me?”
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Kuznetsov answered. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a folded letter. “Your son, Erik, asked me to read this to you verbatim instead of just sending a message. Because of the nature of it, I felt inclined to agree.” A tone of underlying enjoyment betrayed the frown lines on his face.
When he was first assigned to the supermax prison twenty years ago, Kuznetsov had been fearful of Alexander Popov. It was said that he ran all the most dangerous criminals on the campus and his reach outside its walls was even greater. So, he had treaded carefully with the crime boss – done Popov’s bidding, turned his head to retribution delved out by the Vory v Zakone, treated the old man with the utmost respect. But over the years, younger and more ambitious men dethroned the former underworld boss – both inside the prison and out in the world. More dangerous and influential crime lords were convicted to the prison and the power struggle began among the men. Alas, when all the smoke cleared, Alexander’s supremacy was only a glimpse of what it once was, and his influence diminished to a lack-luster st
atus.
Now that Popov was dying, Kuznetsov relished in the man’s weakness. He waited daily for reports from the nurses hoping for the man’s demise. The only reason he had come today was not out of loyalty or respect to Alexander, but to watch as the last hope and life as it drained from the man’s face.
Unfolding the letter, Kuznetsov cleared his throat, making his large Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed down a gloat, he raised a brow. “Are you ready for me to read your communique?” he asked rather formally.
The slow batting of Alexander’s eyelashes alluded to the fact that he knew the words were going to be his death sentence, but he held his composure. He nodded, hearing the monitors beep beside him. “Yes, I am ready, boy. Read your words and be done with it.”
“Father, your first born, my older brother, Alexei is dead. His murder was ordered by Dmitry Medlov after a disagreement over territory. It was carried out by Chinese Triads to add injury to insult. Our family has been wounded. Our name has been slighted. The man that you honored with your blessings while in prison has dishonored us all with his treachery. Because of Dmitry’s status on the Oligarch Council and as acting-Czar of the brotherhood, no action can be taken without your expressed approval. But while there is still life in your body and power in our name, I need you to avenge Alexei’s death. Sincerely and with deep regret, your son, Erik.” Kuznetsov folded the paper and put it back in his jacket, then bowed his head.
The world was spinning out of control for Alexander. It was no mystery that over the years, his sons had not always gotten along with Dmitry, but the idea that the man he had given a second chance was responsible for cutting down his first born was unfathomable. WHY? WHY? WHY? Questions erupted in his mind, and tears, hot as volcanic lava, rushed down his cheeks. His heart raced. His hands trembled. Visions of Alexei as a child, a baby, swaddled in his arms, almost choked him. Why would Dmitry betray him? Why would Dmitry take from him in such a way? All that he had ever done was for family, for brotherhood. He had taught Dmitry to do the same and yet the man he had trusted and elevated had turned on him like a mad dog. Well, there was only one way to handle mad dogs. They had to be put down!
Dmitry's Redemption Page 3
