by Skye, S. D.
Hopper nodded. “He came to see you, didn’t he?”
Dr. Badal gulped hard. “I’ve been in this country for five years and I never had an ounce of trouble until Gary Mosin darkened my doorstep…my life.”
“How did you two meet?”
“My research. My department posted one of my articles on the Internet. He said he read it, but that was a lie, just as every word he spoke from his mouth was a lie.”
“What’s your field of study?”
“I specialize in biomedical engineering. Most of my recent work surrounded the study on the side effects of the VeriChip, a radio-frequency device injected beneath the skin with a syringe which holds medical records. They use similar technology to track dogs.”
“Yeah,” Hopper said. “Thought it sounded familiar. Did he say why he was interested in this particular subject matter?”
“No, not at first. His intentions became clear as time passed.” Badal wiped his brow, which was now sweating despite the cold air. “He treated me to lunches. Gave me expensive bottles of vodka and scotch. Always asked for unclassified reports that seemed innocuous…at first. But soon his requests became more demanding.”
Classic tradecraft, Hopper thought. Dr. Badal wouldn’t be the first, nor the last to succumb to the enticement of Russian spies. Hopper kept nodding to assure the doctor his full attention had been captured.
“He started requesting more sensitive reports in exchange for small amounts of money. None of the research included classified information, but no matter how much I protested he refused to take no for an answer. Then one day he asked me about the program, and I knew…”
Hopper sat at attention. “What program?”
“The HITCH program.”
“What’s that?”
“The Human Intelligence Transport Chip. It’s a Top Secret defense program studying the impact of high-capacity radio frequency data capture devices in soldiers of war. Whereas the VeriChip can carry only one or two kilobytes, the HITCH can carry up to ten gigabytes of data, in a small chip right inside your hand. It’s bigger than a VeriChip so the implantation requires minor surgery and a couple of stitches. But there are few more secure or accessible ways to carry intelligence in a hostile territory.”
A microchip in the hand. Hopper was floored by the implications for Six’s case. He knew what was coming next but braced himself for it.
“About three weeks ago, he asked me to steal two HITCH prototypes. We had hundreds of them for testing purposes. I refused, and he threatened not only me but my family. At first he said he would out me as a spy for the Russians. When I remained unmoved, he said his people would kill us. I didn’t take his word with any seriousness until one day my car wouldn’t start. The mechanic checked under the hood and found a rudimentary bomb that failed to detonate.”
“Jesus,” Hopper said. “Did you report this to the authorities?”
He shook his head. “The local police, yes. They said whoever installed the device hadn’t armed it. If they planted it to scare me…well, the plan worked,” he said, his hand now trembling. “Oh, when I think of my wife and children, I couldn’t risk endangering their lives…or risk losing my visa. I had to give him what he wanted. I loaded many files onto two chips…I have no idea the number…then implanted them into his right hand.”
“You didn’t view the contents on the chip?”
He shook his head. “To be honest, given what he’d done…the bomb…I had no desire to know. Just wanted to get him out of my office and out my life as fast as possible. You’re not going to take my visa, are you? What I did was wrong, but I believe we’d be dead now if I didn’t comply.”
“I understand. Once I verify the facts of the case, I’ll be in touch. And the next time I set up an appointment—don’t run.”
•••
Six circled the room before he delivered the news. “The intel you stole. It isn’t out there,” he said pointing at the door with the knife in his hand. He shook his head. “It’s been in here all along.”
Mosin attempted to feign surprise and failed.
“Oh, give up, Hawk,” Six said. “The secret’s out. You see Maddix told J.J. about your doctor’s appointment before you left the country. I saw the calendar on your netbook which noted your appointment and the receipt from the tattoo parlor…and I put two-and-two together after I got some information from Dr. Badal...well after the FBI did.”
Mosin’s expression was wide-eyed and glazed.
Six stood up, hulking over Mosin, then grabbed his arm just above the wrist and pressed his hand into the chair. “You had surgery. And what I had no clue about was the doctor you saw specializes in radio frequency chip implants. The intel is in your hand. And you got the tattoo to disguise the scar.” He rested the knife on his leg and slipped his fingers into the gloves.
“You’re crazy,” Mosin exclaimed. “You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I believe I do. And it’s because Ghost concocted that explosion and brought you to this safe house that the Russians don’t have the intel. With this chip, they could’ve passed you on the street with a scanner and taken possession of everything.” Six pressed his finger along Mosin’s hand until he touched two hard capsule-like forms the size of Tylenol caplets. “There they are.”
Mosin shrugged. “So you found it. What makes you think they didn’t already collect it.”
“Because they’re still looking for you. They wouldn’t waste their time if they’d gotten what they needed.”
“You said no one was looking for me.”
Six shrugged. “I lied. Sue me.”
“I’m a patriot,” Mosin said. “My country will reward me for my valor, my service, and my bravery while you spend the rest of your shitty career pushing paper at some desk facing a hole in the wall. You’ll never serve an overseas tour again after word of this debacle gets out.”
“Your country, huh? Well, I too am a patriot…and not a surgeon. Brace yourself, this is gonna sting a bit.” Six jabbed the knife into his skin until it broke and released blood, then carved into the stitches, prodding the flesh with the knife’s tip until the small devices fell onto floor. Mosin screamed and clenched his teeth gurgling and growling to endure the pain.
Six put the bloody capsules in a plastic bag and shoved them in his pocket. Then he grabbed the bottle of vodka, opened the lid, and poured it on Mosin’s hand, sending his screeching up another octave. After waiting for the noise to simmer down, Six pulled the gauze from his pocket and wrapped Mosin’s hand. He shook his head as it struck him that Mosin was a pussy. “It’s just a flesh wound and that’s 80-proof, a perfect antiseptic. I warned you. Bet you wish you had ten shots now. Keep in mind I didn’t have to give you anything.”
Mosin spat in his direction. Still dehydrated and a little tipsy from the booze, his attempts were, for the most part, dry.
“Now what? What are you going to do with me?” he asked, watching Six go to the sink and rinse the blood from the knife. He folded the blade and returned it to his pocket.
“Oh, we’ll be releasing you as scheduled. I’ve got the best part of you in this bag,” he said. “Mission accomplished. My work is done. The exfil team will pick you up later and drop you off where we found you. I’m heading back to the embassy.”
“It’s about time,” he said, his demeanor increasing in smugness by the second. He was a soulless bastard with no remorse. Always would be.
That’s why it gave Six such pleasure to hold up his index finger and say, “One more thing before I go. As a courtesy, I should advise you of a few administrative procedures the State Department has undertaken on your behalf since we detained you.”
Mosin looked at Six askance with a furrowed brow.
“First, at the request of the Justice Department, because you are a fugitive traitor, the State Department has revoked your U.S. Passport. It’s all over the news today. I’m certain that’ll blow over pretty fast when they find out your sig
nificance to my country is quite literally out of your hand and in my pocket.”
“Fine,” he said, his voice still colored with pain. “I’m Russian. I don’t need a fucking U.S. passport or your citizenship. You can take that, too.”
“Agreed. I told them you’d feel that way. So, the Citizen and Immigration Service determined that since it’s clear you lied during your naturalization process, including your statements regarding your allegiance to another country and your work in their intelligence services, they had grounds to strip you of your citizenship on the spot. So, you are now, in fact, a man with no country.”
“I’m Russian. I’m home.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy your return…except…well, there’s one little thing.”
“What?”
“Mashkov’s group? You know the most violent organized crime group in Moscow? Remember how you said I didn’t have the balls to tell them you provided information to help the FBI seize a hundred-million-dollar shipment of heroin, arms and cash out of Brooklyn? Well, you were absolutely right about that. I couldn’t do it.”
Mosin’s mouth curled into a sinister smile.
“Fortunately, Ghost had no problem with it at all. When you speak to them later today, they may claim the FBI told them you turned over the information so we’d release you.”
“When they talk to me?”
“Yes. They somehow managed to intercept the details regarding the time and location of your release from U.S. custody. Ghost promised me not to say anything but…I’m not entirely certain he can be trusted.”
Horror filled Mosin’s eyes. “What did you do? They…they’re gonna fucking slaughter me. I can’t stay here. I can’t…I have to leave. You can’t take me to them. You have to take me back to America.”
“Back to America? Why would I do that? You’re Russian now.”
“I’ll turn myself over to the FBI. I will. Don’t leave me here!”
“Sorry, the FBI gets involved with crimes involving U.S. citizens or, in your case, those possessing U.S. government information—but you no longer fit in either category. Seems you’re no longer in their jurisdiction. Welcome to Moscow.”
Six stood up, walked to the door, and spun around to glare at Mosin. “Who’s your daddy, now?”
Chapter 49
Thursday Evening — New York City
A chill went through Nicky Mumbles’ spine as he listened to the news report. He turned away and covered his mouth. Then blinked in rapid succession. He grabbed the remote control and flipped channels until he could find another.
There his name was again, scrolling across the blue banner along the bottom of the screen.
Bonanno family associate Nicolas “Nicky Mumbles” Muzzatto implicated in the double-slaying of Russian mob bosses, Pavlov and Lev Mashkov. Gun with his fingerprints found at the scene.
His gaze blurred as he sat in disbelief. How could this happen, he asked himself in a repetitive cadence. He paced the bedroom and opened the closet door when it hit him. The money, the gun they robbed from his house.
It was a setup all along.
He reached under his bed, pulled out a black duffle bag, and thought about how he’d torture the motherfucker who did this. As he ran through the list of possibilities, two stuck out in his mind. Had to be them. Fucking Santino smiling in his face, pretending to be loyal. The son of a bitch had it in for him all along. The plan was smart. The Donatos wanted to get rid of him as much as he wanted to kill them. Now they could do so without causing a rift or turning half the family against them. They’d be united more than ever against the Russians. He wondered who thought of it first. Sal or Santino? Musta been Sal. He was one of the smartest bosses of any of the families, even if a pain the ass. Nicky forgot Sal’s imprisonment reflected the stupidity of a few idiots in his family, not Sal himself.
Nicky loaded into his bag a few stacks of bills, his favorite Beretta, and a couple of clips. Then he covered them with underwear and T-shirts, a couple pairs of pants. He picked up his phone. Funny he’d not received a single call from anyone in light of the news reports.
Nobody called to ask him what was going on. The dead silence struck him as strange as seeing his name on the screen. If nobody was asking questions that meant everyone had answers. The traitor against him was in the family. All those backstabbing sons of bitches would pay.
For now, he’d go on the lam. If he knew anything about the Russians, they’d never let this ride. Killing the Mashkovs was like killing two bosses. Even if Max Novikov’s people had no money tied to them, they wouldn’t be happy with both being gunned down like animals in the street.
Nicky checked out the window. His neighborhood was dark and lifeless. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mrs. Cantrell walked her ugly mutt as usual in the front. He decided to go out the back door. Didn’t want her seeing him leave in case the Feds came nosing around and asking questions.
He turned off the TV and the lights and crept outside, careful not to make a sound. He’d walk through the alley to the end of the block where he’d parked his Chrysler and sack out at his stash house in Jersey.
A few steps out of his yard, he heard a voice with a heavy Russian accent.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Nicky froze but didn’t turn around. Just dropped his bag and put his hands up.
“You’ve got this all wrong. It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill ‘em.”
Nicky turned around in slow motion, quivering inside, but keeping a brave face. His weapons were in the bag. He couldn’t pull them out. He looked to the left and right. There was nowhere to run, and he had the sprinting speed of a slug. He had no choice. Just closed his eyes and waited for the bullets to pierce him.
The first ones burned through his knees and legs. The next in his gut, his shirt soaked fast as he crumbled to the ground in anguished pain and cried out. One turned to the other and pulled out a small ax from his interior pocket.
“You know,” one of the men said, his voice grainy and sinister. “In some Middle Eastern countries, when a man commits a crime they cut off the offending limbs. Which part offends you?”
His partner hoisted the axe over his head as Nicky pled for his life and said “All of them.”
The next day they found Nicky. Headless and all of his fingers missing except one. That’s how the NYPD identified him. The remains lying next to him belonged to Misha and Dani.
Chapter 50
Thursday Evening — New York City
North 10th Street was quiet when Santino arrived at the meeting. Max Novikov had summoned him despite the tit-for-tat attacks clogging the local news headlines. Law enforcement feared war but Santino knew—one way or the other—the conflict would end today.
He tightened his coat around his neck as he shut his car door. The last time he arrived at Max’s warehouse offices, he was Nicky’s sidekick. This time he was an equal. Nicky Mumbles was dead at the hands of a set of Russian executioners, just as Uncle Sal had planned. Now that his hands were clean, in relative terms, and his family more united than ever, it was time to solidify a deal that could ensure the Bonanno family prospered for years to come. Knuckles, his muscle, stood at his side, ready to help him deal with the devil.
The mountains met them at the door and escorted them inside the area where Max sat at the table waiting, his expression stoic. Judging from the look on Max’s face, Santino began to question the true motivation for the gathering. He wondered whether the reason for the sit-down had anything to do with the Bonanno family future…and began to doubt whether he’d walk out alive. Max had told him that the Mashkovs were more liability than asset, that they’d cost him more money than they earned. But he didn’t appear the least bit thankful.
He appeared ready to kill.
Walking heavy, Santino took a seat and leaned back with a cocksure attitude as if he’d done Max a favor. If Max disagreed with Santino when they started their discussions, he’d concede by the time Santino left through the
front door…and on his feet.
“Well, well, well…the great Santino. Captain, right? You’ve been busy since we last met, yes?”
Santino nodded and looked him in the eye. “Bad news travels fast.”
“Or good news,” Max replied, “depending on which side of the ground you’re on.”
“True. True.”
“Am I correct in assuming you’ve heard about the unfortunate demise of my former partners?”
“Yeah. I also heard they hit a top earner in my family, too. Funny how those nasty rumors get started, eh?”
“Funny? Perhaps,” Max pulled a gun from the seat beside him and pointed the barrel at Santino. “A sign of misfortune for you, however. We Russians aren’t famous for our senses of humor.”
He snapped the trigger.
No shot fired.
The gun was empty…and Santino never flinched. Instead, he let out a strained chuckle and said, “And you say Russians don’t have senses of humor.”
Soon the entire room enveloped in depraved laughter. The mountains, Knuckles, and Max, who looked at his puppets and said, “You see? This is why I love this guy. Nerves of fucking steel. You, on the other hand, I say ‘boo’ and you jump. Leave us alone, please.”
His people filed in line and exited the room, then Max pulled a briefcase from beneath the table and opened it on top. “Here’s the other half of your money.”
Santino scanned the contents, lifting several stacks and fanning them out to see the twenties and hundred-dollar bills. “This is beginning to smell a lot like business,” he said, closing the case and sitting it on the floor. “We can discuss the details later.”
They shook hands, and Santino left…with the family back in business. As they prepared to drive back to Bay Ridge, Santino’s phone rang. It was Frankie Z.
“Hey, we got a problem,” Frankie said, his voice lacking its usual upbeat tone. “We all got a problem.”
Santino dismissed Swifty’s attempt to start drama; he was full of it. “I’m carrying a briefcase heavy enough to wash all of our troubles away.”
