‘Any idea of how much something like this would be worth to a company like Mondial?’ I asked.
‘Not specifically, no,’ she said. ‘Depends how much the Russians want for the real estate, building costs, you know. But the whole thing makes a lot of money for everyone, I know that much – the Seaport regeneration deal was worth about three billion dollars across the board, and that was a few years ago now.’
I whistled. That much money would make a clergyman turn to the devil.
‘So if C.E. is Chet Elkins,’ Christine said, ‘do you know who O. is?’
‘Maybe,’ I said noncommittally, knowing that it was almost certainly Konstantin Kozlov, the Ovcharka.
‘Anyway,’ Christine continued, not pushing me for an answer, ‘it looks like a lot of the pieces are in place for this redevelopment to go ahead. There might be a lack of political will to get the plans approved, that’s the only problem for these guys; it’ll mean public expenditure for local infrastructure, that sort of thing. Redevelopment’s been mentioned before, but I’m not sure it’ll go through anyway, even if the Russians can do a deal with Elkins over the real estate side of things.’
I smiled at her. ‘Christine,’ I told her, ‘thanks. You’ve been fantastic.’ I tapped the printouts that lay on the coffee table. ‘More than fantastic.’
‘Good,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘So does that mean you’re leaving?’
‘I’ve just got one more favor to ask,’ I said.
She sighed. ‘What?’
‘I just need to use your garage for an hour or two.’
‘What for?’ she asked, but I just shook my head.
‘Trust me,’ I told her. ‘You don’t want to know.’
Chapter Two
‘Hi boys,’ I said with a smile as I opened the rear doors of the ambulance, Kane right by my side, ready to keep them in check.
They tensed in their bindings, looked from me to Kane, saw his hackles raised in warning, and relaxed, knowing that there was nothing they could do.
Kane and I climbed into the back of the ambulance and I closed the doors behind us.
One of the brothers was secured to a stretcher, the other was tied up in a sitting position on the floor. I moved forward in the cramped compartment, pulled down the cloth gag from the guy on the floor.
‘Don’t make a sound,’ I warned. ‘Nobody would hear you anyway.’
‘You are a fucking dead man,’ he whispered through gritted teeth.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ I said. ‘But you will be if you don’t do exactly as I say. Now, which one are you?’ I asked. ‘Pyotr or Grigory?’
The man just spat at me. It was a good shot, hit me right on the chin, and I wiped it off with my sleeve. ‘I hope you don’t have anything contagious,’ I said.
‘That’s the least of your problems, suka,’ he whispered.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ I said again. ‘But don’t worry about giving me your real names, it doesn’t matter much anyway. I’ll just call you Bill and Ben. You can be Ben.’
I still hadn’t taken the gag off his brother yet, had just left him lying, tied up on the stretcher. I approached him now, drawing the Fällkniven hunting knife from my belt and looking back down to the floor at ‘Ben’.
‘Now Ben,’ I said, ‘I’m not going to fuck around here. You either tell me what I want to know, or I’m going to slit Bill’s throat from one ear to the other.’
I put the razor-sharp four-inch blade to Bill’s throat, at the left-hand corner where it met the jaw. I turned his head so that it was off the stretcher slightly, offering his brother a good view of his exposed neck, his bulging eyeballs.
The knife started to bite into the flesh, and a trickle of blood ran down onto the metal rail of the stretcher before dripping slowly to the floor.
I could see the indecision in Ben’s eyes as he battled with what to do. On the one hand, his entire upbringing had conditioned him not to talk; on the other, this was his brother, his twin brother, and I knew that was a bond that ran deep.
The blade bit in deeper, and the man started to gargle horribly through the gag.
‘I’m Grigory,’ the man spat finally. ‘Damn you, you bastard. I’m Grigory. Leave him alone.’
‘I will,’ I said, keeping the knife against Pyotr’s neck. ‘If you keep talking.’
Grigory looked at me with a hatred that could be literally felt. ‘What do you want to know?’
Half an hour later, I had a lot more information, and it dovetailed nicely with what Christine had managed to finds out.
Impressed with the wealth generated by the Seaport District’s regeneration, the Russian bosses in Little Odessa had decided to try and get their own piece of the action. With the Irish mob lacking in muscle, it was a perfect time to move into the area.
Konstantin Kozlov had been chosen to head the charge, and was immediately put in charge of all Russian mob activity in Boston, taking over the contacts and resources of the smaller gangs who had been operating there until then.
He was the perfect man for the job, a seasoned specialist in protection rackets and in the forced acquisition of businesses and real estate. Apparently, he owned more than half of his home town of Kryukovo back in Russia.
The Kryukovskaya Bratva had been operating in Boston for several years now; the Old Harbor regeneration was a long-term project, and was just starting to near fruition.
Grigory confirmed that they were dealing with Chet Elkins at Mondial; he’d promised the Ovcharka a billion dollars in cash for the acquired waterside real estate.
When I’d asked about the political will behind the Old Harbor project, how they planned on getting it approved, Grigory had smiled, told me they had people in the right places – city councilors who sat on the Civic Design Commission, the Zoning Commission and the Boston Redevelopment Authority. I’d pushed him further though, and he’d finally admitted that Martin O’Hare – the Mayor of the City of Boston himself – was primed to receive a major payoff if the deal eventually went through.
The final piece of information I needed was – as I expected – the hardest to get; I’d asked Grigory how to contact his father, Konstantin Kozlov. I’d been forced to go as far as piercing the side of Pyotr’s neck – Grigory had actually screamed when he’d seen the quick spray of blood – before he was willing to part with that knowledge.
Apparently the Ovcharka never spent more than one or two nights in any one place, in order to elude federal authorities, and apparently his own sons didn’t know his physical location from day to day. But they did have a pager number for him, which is the only way he could be directly contacted. I didn’t realize anyone had pagers anymore, but these Russians were old-school. They would leave a number, and the Ovcharka would call them back.
I once again left Kane with the twins, and went back to the house, this time using the internal garage door that connected to the utility room.
‘Look at this,’ Christine said as I entered the living room, pointing toward the TV screen that hung on her wall.
It was tuned to the news, and I could see the scenes of chaos at Marion Manor Nursing Home. Elderly patients waited in the streets after an apparent evacuation, some still in their hospital beds, while emergency service vehicles littered the area, their flashing lights illuminating the night as media helicopters filmed from above.
‘– and we’ve heard through unofficial sources within Boston PD,’ said the female newscaster, ‘that below the existing basement level, there was apparently a sub-basement that Marion Manor administrators claim they knew nothing about. This was the site of the multiple explosions, and – although I stress this is unconfirmed – we are hearing talk of this being some sort of headquarters for organized crime. A large cache of weapons has apparently been found, alongside vast quantities of drugs, counterfeit money, and pirated DVDs, although a lot of this evidence has been damaged by fire.’
The aerial cameras zoomed in on people being taken away on stretchers, two bei
ng zipped up in body bags.
‘There are also rumors of a huge gun battle having taken place, with up to half a dozen dead bodies having been found so far.
‘This is just the latest in a string of organized crime-related shootings that have occurred over the past couple of days and terrorized the city, starting with the shooting dead of two Russian citizens in a South Boston café on Wednesday evening. Further incidents followed, including a mass brawl at Croke Park Whitey’s that eventually led to the gangland execution of a Boston policeman, and an apparent raid on a Russian massage parlor in Chelsea which current estimates say resulted in ten further deaths.
‘This is speculation at present, but it seems that a gang war has broken out in Boston – our sources are saying between the entrenched Irish gangs and the Russian Mafia, who are new on the organized crime scene here but eager to make their mark.
‘As of now – ’
The newsreader continued, but I could see that Christine was no longer watching; instead, her eyes were on me.
‘You’ve spilled something,’ she said, pointing at my shirt, which had been covered by the short spray of blood from Pyotr’s neck.
There was no point in even trying to wipe it clean, or to deny the inherent accusation.
‘He’s still alive,’ I told her.
‘Who have you brought here?’ she asked. ‘Who do you have in my garage? Who have you been torturing in my fucking garage?’
She’d tried to start off calmly enough, but the emotion got the better of her and by the end she was screaming.
I went forward, held her arms with my hands; looked in her eyes, tried to get her to calm down.
‘Who are they?’ she continued crying. ‘Who are you?’
‘You don’t want to know who they are,’ I told her. ‘Trust me, it’s better if you don’t know.’
‘You brought them to my house . . .’
Her voice was a whisper now, the fight drained out of her, and I felt her go weak in my arms.
‘They were blindfolded all the way,’ I told her. ‘They have no idea where they are, who you are.’
‘Are you with the Irish gangs?’ she asked softly, and I shook my head emphatically.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Absolutely not. I’ll tell you exactly who I am. I’m the Thousand Dollar Man, maybe you’ve heard the name.’
‘The Thousand Dollar Man?’ she asked in confusion, and I nodded.
‘Yes. You’ve heard of me?’
She nodded weakly, not quite believing, and I continued. ‘I came to Boston, got a message in the paper, someone needing my help. Their family was being threatened by the Russians, they wanted me to protect them.’
‘But . . .’ she said, pointing back at the news coverage on the television, ‘you’re killing all of them . . .’
‘I guess I am. Self-defense though, mostly,’ I argued. ‘And it’s a pretty good way of protecting the people who hired me.’
‘But where does it stop?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to kill them all?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘no, I’m not. Because now I’ve got a better plan.’
Chapter Two
‘What have you done with them?’ the heavy growl came back over the telephone.
To his credit, the Ovcharka didn’t threaten me, didn’t tell me what he was going to do to me if I harmed a hair on their heads; he was a businessman, and was treating this like any other negotiation.
‘Your two boys are okay,’ I said. ‘If they stay that way, well, that’s up to you.’
‘What do you want?’ Kozlov’s voice was low, rough and gravelly, but his English was good.
‘Your operation’s blown to hell anyway,’ I told him. ‘As we speak, the police are going through that hospital basement, it won’t take them long to put things together. You, the cops you’ve got on the take, the politicians you’ve got in your pocket, your deal with Chet Elkins.’
‘That may, or may not, be the case,’ he replied, seemingly unperturbed. ‘But you haven’t answered my question. What do you want?’
‘It’s simple,’ I said. ‘I want you to hand yourself in to the police, and tell them everything.’
There was a rough chuckle on the other end of the line, then silence for a moment. ‘You are serious?’ the voice said finally.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m going to give you a location where you will hand yourself over to the cops, and then – once you’re in custody – I’ll let your boys go. You know I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. If you’re not there, I’ll send them both back to you in pieces.’
There was a long, painful pause on the other end of the line, and I wondered what his answer would be.
Finally, he spoke.
‘When and where?’
Chapter Three
The location for the handover was back where it had all started, Medal of Honor Park.
I’d remembered what Gerry had told me, how he had some honest friends on the force, and I had contacted him, given him the lowdown on what was happening. He’d spoken to the cops in turn, and they’d agreed to the meeting. Hell, I bet they’d jumped at the chance – it wasn’t every day that one of the biggest names in organized crime was going to climb willingly into the back of your police cruiser.
They’d also be bagging Pyotr and Grigory Kozlov alongside Konstantin, as that was part of the deal; I’d let the twins live, but they had to hand themselves in, too.
There was going to have to be an element of trust on both sides here; I had to trust that Kozlov wouldn’t bring a goon squad and try and shoot-up the park, try and get his boys back by force; and Kozlov had to trust that I wouldn’t kill his sons after he’d turned himself in.
It was the early hours of the morning now, the sun just threatening to rise, and the park was bathed in the mysterious glow that came with the pre-dawn.
I was watching the park from a safe distance, checking that Kozlov came alone, as requested.
The center of the park was shielded from sniper fire by the trees, and any assault would have to be direct; and the open expanses of the park would mean I would see people coming from a long way out.
I was parked up in the ambulance – which I’d partially repainted in Christine’s garage, disguising the nursing home livery. The paint job was spectacularly poor, but wouldn’t be noticed until the sun was out – by which time, I hoped to be long gone.
The twins were still trussed up in the back, ready for the transfer to the police cruiser.
The plan was that Kozlov would turn up, sit on a bench by the war memorial, at which time the cops would pull their vehicle into the park and drive up to him. They’d cuff him and put him in the back of their car, at which stage I would drive in from the other side and offload the other two.
Then the cop car – with me following as back-up – would make its way to the nearest station, District C-6 on West Broadway, South Boston.
After that, I’d make my way out of there and hope that justice would take its course. At the very least, it was unlikely that Gerry or his family would ever be bothered by the Russians again.
It was five in the morning, dawn still more than an hour away, when I saw the man enter the park.
He was a bear of a man, well over six feet and looking to weigh at least two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe three hundred. The Ovcharka was well-named.
As he came closer, I began to be able to make out his craggy features through my binoculars. They weren’t a military-grade night-vision model, just what Christine had lying about at home. Someone had bought her a pair for bird-watching, which she admitted she’d done only once; she’d found it boring, and had never tried again. But they still did the job, and as I focused on Kozlov’s face, I saw that he shared some features with his sons, including the square jaw and the large brow-line, covered with thick, bushy eyebrows that took attention away from the slightly hooked nose and scarred lip.
He was a man who looked like he’d had a hard life, one of the originals out of the Soviet gulag
s.
But he was well-dressed, sporting a nicely-cut suit and a cashmere overcoat. I saw gold rings on his fingers, and a diamond tie-pin.
He approached the monument and sat on the bench, as instructed.
Again, I swept the park with my binoculars, searching for other members of the Kryukovo Brotherhood; and again, I was relieved to see none.
But then I did see a vehicle pulling off the street at the western gate, mounting the two small steps that led up to the wide path that led to the monument.
I froze, hand on my UMP as I assessed the situation; relaxed as soon as I recognized it as a police SUV, a big Ford Expedition wearing Boston PD livery.
I had to hand it to Gerry’s friends, they were brave coming to a hand-off like this with no back-up. Good for them; I guess there were still some decent cops in the big city. I hoped they’d get rewarded properly for it. They probably wouldn’t be, though; the good ones are seldom recognized, they just do their jobs and get on with it.
I watched through the binoculars as the SUV rolled to a stop by the monument and three armed cops got out and approached Konstantin Kozlov.
Again, I primed myself ready for action; I was nervous for the cops down there, was on the edge of my seat. Things could still go wrong, the Ovcharka could still have hidden assets, waiting to attack the cops.
But, true to his word, Kozlov just stood up and placed his hands in the air, giving himself up.
The cops moved in immediately, one of them bending Kozlov over the bench as he frisked the gang boss for weapons while the other two kept watch. One of them had an AR-15-type assault rifle, the other a semi-automatic shotgun, and I was pleased to see they were taking this seriously. One kept the rifle trained on Kozlov while the other surveyed the perimeter over the barrel of the shotgun.
The cop who’d frisked Kozlov then put the old man’s hands behind his back and cuffed them; and then all three cops moved to the vehicle, one man still controlling the Ovcharka while the other two provided cover.
THE THOUSAND DOLLAR CONTRACT: Colt Ryder Is Back In His Most Explosive Adventure Yet! Page 14
