by Skye, S. D.
Tony pursed his lips and rolled his eyes.
“What? He says it’s business.”
“Yeah, business may be part of it. But I’m puttin’ two and two together and this shit just isn’t adding up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. Nicky used Jimmy Toots to get rid of me. He never thought I’d have the balls to come back here. The Russians hit Dante and, like magic, Nicky’s their fuckin’ third cousin, and he doesn’t want to go after them? Don’t you see? Now, the Russians have a legit excuse to come after you and Pop. Nicky reaps the benefits, gets protection from the Russians, takes over my father’s business interests and gives the Russians a distribution partner. It all makes sense.”
Santino soundlessly chewed on his thoughts. The expression on his face spoke volumes above the silence. Nicky would exploit this Russian beef and step over the dead Donatos to climb up the family ladder and become Boss. “I hear you, okay? Loud and clear.” Santino growled and mumbled under his breath, his words searing with the bitterness of a man who’d been played like the fifth movement of a Beethoven symphony. “All I know right now is a sit-down is being scheduled with some Russian. Swifty’s setting up the meet with some guy Max Novikov.”
Tony bolted up and sat at attention. He remembered Max’s name and his ties to Troika, the narcotics leader. He now had a direct link between Troika and Russian organized crime. If they could get a wire on Novikov’s car or house, it might yield the information needed to stop the Russians and put Nicky Mumbles behind bars before any violence erupted.
“Swifty and Nicky told me I’m not invited because it’s leadership to leadership, but let me make a few calls. If I can find out anything more, I’ll let you know.”
“Hmmm…interesting. I’m surprised they didn’t ask you to be there. Seems like the perfect opportunity to ambush you. From this point forward, you keep your eyes and ears open. Any changes in plans, any mention of you meeting with this Novikov guy or any Russians, and you don’t have to guess what’s gonna to happen next.”
•••
Santino’s path ahead was clear—confirm the depth of Nicky Mumbles betrayal and deliver the news to Uncle Sal. He needed to run any proposed resolution by the other families and take care of this traitor once and for all. It suddenly struck Santino; he hadn’t received a phone call from Stevie Pics. He looked at his watch. It’d been more than 24 hours since he told that jerkoff to call him back whether he found out Nicky had ratted out Jimmy or not. Stevie’s muzzled silence set Santino’s suspicions in full drive, made him consider whether or not Nicky’s knowledge of Tony’s arrival and the planned hit were indeed coincidental. Maybe Stevie, one of Uncle Sal’s so-called most loyal soldiers, couldn’t be trusted after all.
Santino decided to pay him a house call instead of a phone call.
Stevie had some explaining to do.
Chapter 20
Friday Night — Moscow Safe House
Six’s gaze clouded; he turned away to collect his thoughts. Based on the noise erupting from inside the safe house, Ghost had definitely caught Mosin. The question troubling Six’s mind was why he tried to prevent Six from going inside. If you put a Marine and a detained enemy of the state in the same room, two things were certain: one person was going to wind up tortured — and it wouldn’t be the Marine.
Ghost just stood in silence staring back Six like a stump. “I’ll ask again, what did you do to him? You promised me seven days.”
“Listen, Six,” Ghost began, “I convinced my team to bring him in. My methods may have put you in a bind but, in all honesty, I don’t give a shit. It’s not my job to worry about your binds; it was my responsibility as a patriot to kill the belligerent son of a bitch, but I kept him alive for you. I’ve spent some time with him, and I’m telling you if you want to complete your mission, you better get okay with what’s going on in there damn fast. Report this and he disappears along with any hope of finding the intelligence.”
Six took a deep breath to center his thoughts and pushed past Ghost, bumping him at the shoulder and daring him to speak a word. He thundered into the room and zeroed on a sight that sent shivers through him like Moscow’s frostbitten winter wind. He audibly gasped. He turned to Ghost horror stricken.
Ragged and lethargic, Mosin had been stripped down to his tidy whities. His entire body shook in endless trembles. His hairy arms were strapped to wooden kitchen chair arms from wrist to elbow. A soiled white cloth, stained with the fresh blood dripping down the blackened skin around his eyes and nose, gagged his mouth. He struggled to sip air through his mouth causing him to snort through his nostrils. At the sound of footsteps moving closer, his head bobbled and he struggled to lift it before growing tired and locking his weary eyes on his detainers. Six searched for life in his eyes but found little.
As Mosin chattered, he drew enough energy to grunt and direct Six’s glare his to his hands. Needles protruded from beneath all ten fingernails, and his feet were bound at the ankle and immersed in ice water almost halfway up his calf. He was free to remove them, but two large steel buckets containing hot coals sat on either side. Burn or be frostbitten, there was no in between. Resting on the floor was stage two – a sledgehammer and a pair of pliers with red rubber grips.
“This?” Six whispered, staring at Mosin’s gagged face. He wanted to say more, but the words lodged in his throat. No sound would come, except “Jesus H. Christ!” He covered his mouth and turned to Ghost, who was now standing next to him. “Let’s step outside for a sec.”
Six paced to the door with the crazy Marine in tow. He was no stranger to interrogations. He’d led a few harsh ones himself, and he knew a lot of guys he worked with could turn away with zero guilt and forget. Whatever bravado he masked himself with from day-to-day, his sense of right had cut him from a different cloth. Even if naturalized, Mosin was still an American—and there were laws and rules and an Intelligence Oversight Committee Chairman itching to drag the director through the mud once the report came out. And he’d have to write one at some point—to account for finding Mosin and the intel, if they found it.
It was Day 1. If he could stop it now—he’d have to nothing to say. But Ghost was ornery with a head of granite, and he’d set his strategy. Six put on his armor and decided to go head-to-head, Goliath to Goliath. While Ghost may not respond to reason, he would have to respect moxie. Six strode out into the cold and stepped aside as Ghost followed and closed the door.
Six stood in silence and stared down at Ghost in outrage. “This is step ten, not step one! You gave me seven days.”
Ghost’s eyes shrunk to slits, and his nostrils flared. “Don’t you look at me with your self-righteous indignation. Inside here,” he pointed at the door, “this is my world! He’s an enemy of the state. By my calculation, you only have six more days to find the intel before you and your high ideals return stateside and this motherfucker’s dead,” Ghost said. “How did you think this worked, huh? What’d you want me to do, hug him? Invite him in for a cup of tea and ask him play nice and tell us where the fuck the President’s information is? Because if that’s what you believed you picked the wrong goddamn Marine.”
“Outside here is my world,” Six said, pointing to the floor. “He’s still a goddamn U.S. citizen and he’s got the right to be charged and tried. This is torture—and out here … you and me? We die in prison for shit like this.”
“You listen to me, Son. We’re at war, and the war ain’t out here. It’s in there. You ain’t no preacher in a pulpit. You ain’t no butcher, baker or candlestick maker. You are a C-I-A Counterintelligence Officer.” He jutted his accusatory finger toward Mosin. “And that son of a bitch has committed treason against your country. And my country. The one we took an oath to protect, the one we put our lives on the front lines to fight for every goddamned day. We’re at war, son. This shit isn’t James Bond fun and games; it’s war.
“You have a job and a responsibility and a right by the very oath that
brought your sorry ass to Moscow to return the intel to our President, our Commander in Chief, and ensure this asshole doesn’t find his way to the welcoming arms of the FSB. You have a duty to make this son of a bitch pay for his treachery—with his life. And if you’re not here to do your job, the least you can do is stand the fuck out of the way and quit giving me shit while I do mine. Capiche?”
Treason. Oath. Responsibility. War. Every word Ghost spoke resonated like a sword to his armor of reason, slicing every shred to pieces. More than Mosin, Six loathed Ghost Man at that moment, hated him for the truth he’d spoken. Detested him for reminding him of one simple truth: while he might not fight the enemy over battle lines, every day he went to war for his country, to keep it safe from harm from enemies foreign and domestic—and Mosin was both. Six had never lost a battle, and he hadn’t planned to start now.
Six carved his fingers through his hair, rubbed his neck and exhaled a long breath, the warmth fogging in the cold air. He didn’t say a word, just walked back inside and took a seat in front of the interrogation area. Ghost stood next to him and crossed his arms over his chest.
“So, what now?” Ghost asked.
“Remove his gag,” Six said, avoiding Ghost’s gaze at all costs.
“I’m warning you; he’s a real piece of work,” Ghost said, his steps thundering toward Mosin’s seat. He pushed Mosin’s head forward to untie the gag at the back and removed his feet from the bucket and into a dry towel. “If he’d been the slightest bit cooperative do you think he would be sitting here like this? No, I’d be out locating the intel.”
With the rag in Ghost’s hand, Mosin stretched his lips and glared at Six as if he was the one under interrogation. His glower confirmed what Ghost had said.
“Listen, Hawk is it?” Six asked, waiting for a response. Hawk was the name they called Mosin when he worked in the White House. He took the name of a bird of prey—seemed fitting. Mosin stared at him with unyielding, empty eyes.
“I think you understand that there’s two ways out of here—both are life sentences; however, one will sting a lot more than the other. The faster you confess your sins, the faster you get water, food, and a one-way ticket to justice. So, are you ready to talk?”
Hawk’s lips quivered as he struggled to speak, and his words staggered. “I will get out of here…and I will cut the hearts … from the bodies of … everyone …you love …and fry them…and serve them to you … for breakfast … including that whore…FBI agent…J.J. M-M-McCall.”
Six snapped at the sound of her name spewing from his mouth like poison. Six didn’t know how his hand locked tight around Mosin’s neck. Or when his face turned blue. He just bared his teeth and snarled, “Not if I eat yours first.”
Then Six released him and revealed tight smile. He turned to Ghost Man and said, “Well, two things are for certain.”
“What’s that?” Ghost Man replied.
“First, we’re going to need to find another way to find the intel.”
“And two?”
“With that mouth, he’s without question a Russian,” Six said. “Did you find anything with him?”
“Yeah, his clothes and a duffle bag are in the closet by the front door. Nothing in there but some clothes, travel documents, and a book.”
A book?
Ghost grabbed the bag from the closet and riffled through his belongings. Travel documents. His wallet. A receipt from a tattoo parlor. A hotel claim check. A prescription. And a book wrapped in a Fruit of the Loom T-shirt with a rubber band stretched along the outside. He removed the shirt to view the title.
The Commandant’s Daughter.
Odd. They’d found the same title at the home of Lana Michaels, the sleeper agent posing as an FBI agent at headquarters. It contained the numbers for her illicit accounts.
Six unwrapped the book and found it—a possible answer to their problem.
The book wasn’t a book at all. He’d crafted the cover to appear genuine, even the pages flipped. But inside, he’d carved a space large enough to secure what appeared to be a ten-inch Netbook.
“Bingo!” Six muttered aloud. Ghost was at his side seconds later. He lifted the lid and hit the power button. “I’ll be taking this with me.”
He grabbed his coat and headed toward the door.
“What do you want me to do about our friend here?” Ghost asked.
Six glared at Mosin, turned his back, and walked out the door to the sound of Mosin’s muffled screams.
Chapter 21
Friday Evening — New York City
With the wiretap request tanked, and nothing left but a skittish confidential informant remaining their last immediate hope for penetrating Troika, the team headed to Brooklyn for a discussion with the mystery man. The single human source with a connection on the inside of Troika Technologies. The only one with direct access to the accountant.
Right now, he was their biggest—and sole hope.
Without him, the chances of shutting down the financial hub before their ten-day deadline, which was now seven days away, was slim and none.
J.J., Tony, and Gia piled into a black government-issued SUV, and Manny took the wheel with Gia riding shotgun. Seated in the back seat beside Tony, J.J. stared out of the window knowing the interview was a long shot. Scott and Manny pressed her to understand their informant was scared shitless with good reason. If the Russians would pick a fight with one of the most powerful crime families in the country, shooting the son of a boss, they’d think little of smashing this CI like a twice-boiled potato. She ran through each question in her mind, designing each to find out whether the CI was a liar and what kind of liar he was. There were degrees.
They pulled up to an apartment building on the edge of Brooklyn, not far from Emmons Street on Sheepshead Bay’s main drag. Manny told them that in the Sheepshead area, Russian gangsters guzzled vodka, clubbed until dawn, and extorted local businessmen for protection money while their wannabe-brigades patrolled the stoops keeping trouble close and their enemies in line. The meet took place at a safe house. The informant was so paranoid he’d refused to be seen on the streets, at his home, where he worked, anywhere without security access. So the Bureau rented a dive safe house, which doubled as a lookout post. There, the Bureau could eyeball the streets for shady Russian characters wandering in and out. The most dangerous bad guys concocted schemes from indoors, but when they came outside to play, they played hard, and in full view of the FBI.
When they buzzed inside and entered the apartment, J.J. and Gia followed Manny inside; Tony paced a step behind. Her eyes locked on a bubble-headed man sitting with his back facing the front door. The greasy dark hair with limp curls looked familiar to her, and his voice strummed an odd pitchy chord she’d recognized. She’d definitely heard it before. Her eyebrow furrowed as she elbowed Tony and glanced at him. When Tony’s face reflected her thoughts, she knew his identity, the way you know milk is bad. Everything around them soured.
Manny announced, “We’re here,” and the slug turned to face them, confirming her suspicions.
“Misha?” Tony and J.J. yelled in unison.
“Oh shit!” Misha snapped his head toward Scott. He jumped up and backed toward the nearest wall like a trapped rat. “You didn’t tell me they were Washington agents.”
“What the fuck’s goin’ on here?” Manny said.
“Wait, wait. You know this guy?” Scott’s eyes volleyed between the three until locking in a scowl on Misha’s duplicitous mug.
Gia stood frozen like a stump; she had no idea what to do.
Misha’s eyes grew saucer wide, and his jaw slammed into his lap.
“So this is where you disappeared to. Couldn’t fucking stop while you were behind, could you?” Tony asked. He and J.J. stormed over and snatched him onto the couch. He sat dead center, and they took up seats on either side. His breathing sped up, and he gulped hard. His lip quivered as much as his hands as he leaned forward to stand. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”
J.J. and Tony grabbed him by each shoulder and pressed him deep into the cushion. “Hold it!” Tony barked.
“Don’t you know agents are like brothers and sisters, Misha,” she said. “You’ve been playing my family for fools again. I warned you. The last time was the last time.” J.J. shifted her gaze to Manny. She refused to acknowledge Scott any more than she had to. “He’s a fraud. They call him the Magic CI. Been bilking the Bureau out of thousands of dollars for years, selling half-accurate intel. New identity for every field office. Seattle, San Francisco, Miami, D.C., and now New York.”
“Yeah, now you understand why he insists on all the security,” Tony added in. “He’s not paranoid or even conscientious. He’s afraid to get caught. What name’s he going by today?”
“Vanya,” Manny replied.
“Fucking douche bag. Wastin’ our time.” The revelation threw Scott for a loop. The confusion took him off his game, left him looking to J.J. and Tony for answers he didn’t have.
“Misha, you’ve gotten yourself in a real pickle. These New York agents, they have anger issues.” J.J. looked at Scott until her eyes met his. She shifted hers toward the second exit from the room, the window. Scott looked over his shoulder. She hoped he got the hint. “What kind of tail-chasing bullshit have you been feeding to my brothers here, Misha? Tell me so I can calculate how many charges I can tack on to your existing obstruction warrant. Feeding false information to an agent during a federal investigation?”
Scott grunted and growled and snatched Misha up like a rag doll, dragged him to the window and pressed Misha’s face against it until his neck almost bent backward. “What games are you playing? Spit it out or I swear to God I’ll bury you so far down, the Earth’s core will burn a hole in your ass.”
