Danger Mine: A Base Branch Novel

by Megan Mitcham

“Good job, Isay.” Street patted him on the head. The reforming punk sat strapped with duct tape to the recliner Khani had used. His knees gaped. His fingers spread wide. His head remained free to see the horrors his limbs would endure, if he refused to make the call. Street crouched to eye level. “I think we’ve finally arrived at an understanding. You get your uncle here without him suspecting anything, you live. You alert him in any way, you die. And then we find your uncle anyway.”

  “He’s my only family.” The young man hung his head. Tears dripped off the end of his nose, spilling into the puddle at his lap. “He gave me this house, his old office, to live in after my parents kicked me out.”

  The progress bar zipped across the computer screen, and then flashed confirmation. “It’s ready.” Khani squatted in front of the keyboard and struck off a few lines of code. They allowed her to end the call at any moment.

  “Remember that. You want him to live, you cooperate.” Street pressed send on Isay’s phone, activated the speakerphone, and then held it out for the kid. “Just like we practiced and tomorrow this will just be the worst hangover of your life.”

  “Isay, damnit, you cost me double last night,” Vasaya answered without greeting. “The whole goddammned street called the station about your party. Winslow demanded double what I usually pay him to look the other way. It’s your good fortune I had the extra den’gi to pay.”

  “I…I’m sorry, my boys got out of control.” Isay gulped. “Look, I need to talk to you about something.”

  “You didn’t get girl knocked up again, did you? Because I don’t think you’re lucky enough for two miscarriages.”

  Khani’s stomach tucked and dove into her lower intestines. She wanted kids like she wanted a bullet to the head, but it didn’t mean she didn’t have a soft spot for the helpless things. Street’s upper lip arched in a silent snarl.

  “Naw. Naw. It’s about that thing you had me do the—”

  “Have I taught you nothing? Don’t talk about shit over the phone. You want to talk about stuff, you come see me.”

  “I can’t.”

  Her hand hovered over the disconnect key, while Street’s trigger finger poised on the guard of his customized Smith & Wesson E-series.

  “Excuse me? What do you mean you can’t?”

  “I’ve got the shits. I can’t leave the toilet for more than a couple minutes.”

  “I swear to Christ, you’re more trouble than you’re worth sometimes.” Vasaya huffed a protracted breath, crackling the line. “Can it wait?”

  “Naw. I wouldn’t ’a called you out to see me like this, if it could.”

  “I’ll be there in five,” the uncle said before disconnecting the call.

  “Good choice, Isay. You know, life is the consequence of the choices people make. Choose wrong and the ripple effect is beyond the scope of your ability to reason.”

  No shit.

  If Khani had known how deep that first touch of Street’s skin would pull her, she’d have sheared off the tips of her fingers before she’d lay one on him. Or would she have? Wasn’t that the thing about hindsight. Most of the time, it just gave you a blinding headache.

  “What’s your uncle mixed up in?” Khani closed down the computer and stuffed it into her pack. It wouldn’t take much research to uncover Polzin’s poison. They’d do it later though. This called for old-school face time.

  “I don’t know,” Isay cried.

  “Now, I thought we’d moved past the dishonesty.” Street sank the pistol into his holster, and then braced his hands on his knees.

  “We have. I’m not lying. I don’t know what he’s into. All I know is sometimes he has me drop boxes for him and every once in a while me and the boys go rough somebody up.”

  Maybe Zeke happened upon the Polzin operation and poked around for answers. But her brother was sly enough amateurs like these wouldn’t have pegged him. It did add a layer of questions to the mounting pile.

  “What’s in the boxes?” Khani demanded.

  “I don’t know.” The kid’s head jerked back and forth. “He told me a long time ago if I ever looked in one of the boxes the next one would have my head in it. So, I ain’t fuckin’ looked. Would you?”

  “This isn’t about me, Isay. It’s about you and your uncle’s wayward path.” She straightened and resumed pacing between the two windows. “Who’d you beat around?”

  “Nobodies. Low-lifes.” The arch of his thin upper lip revealed the silver caps she’d grown too accustomed to seeing during the first part of his interrogation.

  “Lower than you?” she gasped.

  “Hey, fuck yo—”

  Street’s leather boot kicked the recline lever. His big hand pressed into the top of the pleather headrest. The punk reclined in a flash with his mouth agape. Street hovered over the bloke. When Khani expected him to shout he whispered so quietly she strained to hear.

  “You know governments spend millions of dollars a year teaching their soldiers how to persuade people to comply with their directives, how to pry information out of them. All they really need to do is put those soldiers in a foster home or two.” Street rose to his full height and strode into the kitchen.

  “What’s he doing?” Isay screamed. “What the fuck’s he doing?”

  Khani couldn’t answer if she wanted to. Her boots suctioned to the floor and refused to move. Her gaze locked on the spot where Street had disappeared. Her brain processed the nugget of information she’d been given about his past. The water ran for a few seconds, and then shut off.

  He returned a second later carrying a gallon container of bleach. “If bleach is diluted enough, it doesn’t burn the esophagus on the way down. It is hard to get the ratios correct without a measuring cup, and I couldn’t find one for all your mess.”

  Isay thrashed against the tape. Khani’s heart sank into her shoes. She imagined Street as a brilliant and beautiful child held down and pumped full of chemicals by an overweight house mum bent on world domination. Only her world consisted of children incapable of fighting back. When she thought about it, maybe she and Zeke hadn’t had it so bad. At least they’d had each other. Who did Street have?

  The closer Street got to Isay the whiter the boy’s clamped lips became. Street set the container on the ground by the chair. He clamped a hand under the boy’s clenched jaw and stilled it. His thumb and forefinger pinched Isay’s large nose.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t cuss her again. Just please don’t do that,” he begged. Tears poured down his cheek.

  “Okay.” Street righted the chair. “But I think you need to apologize.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t cuss you ever again.” Isay sucked at the boogers dripping down his lip. His eyes rimmed with red.

  “Apology accepted.” Khani schooled her gaze on the punk, yet she really wanted to study her unlikely partner. An engine rumbled toward the cockeyed cabin. “Sock him.” She moved to the nearest window and watched a shiny granite truck complete with a neon 2015 sticker, wench, and off-road tires, dodge mud puddles as though they brimmed with lava.

  A man in hiking pants so crisp they’d never seen a trail stepped out. He slammed the door and sinewy muscles flexed under his extra-medium long sleeves topped with a navy fleece vest. With bounding strides and careful footfalls he maneuvered the worst parts of the slushy yard. The only rugged thing about the man was the leather holster strapped to his hip and the fixed blade protruding from it.

  Khani moved to the door. Rapid, heavy stomps on the first step shook the entire house. She pictured him slugging the mud from his pristine Merrell’s and a smile flirted with her lips. If he hated mud on his shoes how would he feel about blood on them? When his treads neared she opened the door and stepped into the opening with her hand extended.

  “Hi. You must be Vasaya.” She let her smile shine. “Isay has told me so much about you.”

  Light brown eyebrows shot to a buzzed hairline. “Who are you?”

  “A recent acquaintance of your ne
phew’s,” she purred.

  His gaze roved her tight pants and fitted top, and then rewound over her legs. “Sorry. I, ah, wasn’t expecting anyone besides my nephew.” He wrapped a warm hand around hers and caressed the back with his thumb. “Especially someone so much better suited for a mature audience.”

  “Oh, your nephew and I aren’t acquainted like that.” Khani narrowed her gaze, but maintained her smile.

  “Even better.” Vasaya’s grip tightened.

  “Isay is tied up at the moment and couldn’t get the door. Please, come in. Let’s talk.” She tugged him forward with an expectant twinkle in her eyes.

  “Just talk?” A few feet inside his gaze swung from her. It lit on Street, and then fused to his bound nephew. His eager steps faltered.

  “I expect you’ll scream a little too.” Khani divested him of his blade and slung it into the wall. At the same time, she lifted their clasped hands and twisted clockwise. She clamped onto his presented wrist with her throwing hand. Her thumb pressed his lower limb into an L. She used her freed hand to lock his elbow in place and shove everything against his shoulder blades.

  A bellow erupted from his throat.

  “See? Screaming.” With minimal, well-placed pressure, she drove him to his knees. “You have two choices, Vasaya. Tell me what I want to know or I’ll pry it out of you. Just look at Izzy and you can see fighting is valiant, but futile. Besides, we both know you’re not the valiant type.”

  “You’ll pay for this, bitch.” He lunged forward.

  Isay whipped his head in rapid shakes. A suppressed cry erupted from behind the sock.

  Khani maintained her hold on the chap’s wrist, but released his elbow. He landed on his left hand, his right arm extended behind him. His legs kicked blindly.

  Her gaze honed on his protracted arm, specifically his knobby elbow. She cocked her right palm. Khani powered through the joint. A crack ricocheted around the room.

  “That’s gotta’ hurt.” Street winced.

  She stepped back and allowed his wail to roar without muffling it. Most of the people that lived on the street weren’t home. She guessed they wouldn’t bother to call the police if they were.

  Vasaya cradled his misshaped arm. He balled into the fetal position.

  Finally his howling abated to sniveling. Khani leaned over him and stared into his glassy brown eyes. “Why did you order junior to lead Zeke Slaughter into the middle of an ice-field and leave him?”

  His gaze livened with a series of blinks. Shrewd brown eyes shifted back and forth between her, Street, and his nephew. He shuddered. “Jesus. Look, I’m small time. A few shipments of coke a year. I’m not in with these guys.”

  “What guys, Vasaya?” she asked, her interest piqued.

  “I don’t know,” he groaned.

  Khani snatched his good hand and flipped him over.

  “No. No. Listen,” he squealed. “My cousin, Aleksey, lives in New York. He set me up with his supplier to funnel through Alaska. Low risk. Low income. Just enough to help during the long winter.”

  “But…” Khani offered.

  His breaths condensed, misting the dark wooden floor. “A week before this Slaughter guy was due to show for a tour I got a note in the shipment. It said I’d find a quarter million wired into my shadow account for my compliance. If I didn’t, I’d find my wife’s severed head on my kitchen counter the next day.”

  “You’re married? What a lucky lady,” Street interjected.

  Khani barely heard the aside. Her brain calculated the meaning of the news. A bigger force worked against her brother than she ever imagined. “What exactly did they order you to do?”

  “Usher him to the middle of the ice-field, leave him, and…” A sob shook his torso. “And never speak about it or I’d lose my head.”

  “I want the note,” she demanded.

  “I burned it and the picture they included of a man’s severed head. An actual head,” he hollered.

  Khani released his hand. “When you brought him to the ice-fields, how’d you know where the middle was? It’s an expansive place.”

  He rolled onto his back and shielded his crooked arm with his good one. Dirt smeared the front of his vest and his white sleeves. “They gave coordinates,” he sniveled. “Latitude and longitude. It took forever to figure out the actual location. I’m a businessman, not a militant or boy scout. Heck, I’ve only been on the neatly paved paths that run in front of the glacier and that was for a photo shoot.”

  Vasaya had a point. Only boy scouts, pilots, sailors, and militants used specific coordinates. Her gaze met Street’s. From the look in his eyes he thought the same thing, and it didn’t bode well for her brother.

  11

  He strummed the keyboard. After a few passwords and a fingerprint scan, Street searched the Base Branch database for Vasaya Polzin. It pulled information from every national and international database that knowing or unwittingly allowed them access. In seconds he had the bloke’s tax returns for the last decade, bank accounts, real estate, email and social media profiles ready to be accessed in the fancy dashboard. A few more pecks had some high level software decrypting the wire transfer into Vasaya’s account and tracing it to the source.

  It had taken precious time to secure the Polzins in the local precinct in solitary confinement until further notice. Well, time, plus two faux FBI badges and a call to the “Director of the FBI”, which actually led them to Vail’s cell phone. Luckily the chappie knew how to work off the cuff. It had also taken the proper amount of leverage with the knowledge that members of their force had taken bribes from at least one person over the last year. They’d burned a bit of daylight, but they couldn’t have either of the bastards blabbing about their interrogation. Not until after they found Khani’s brother.

  Street leaned back from the small hotel desk while the computer did its thing. He threaded his hands behind his neck. Across from him, slender fingers clacked frantically on the keys of her laptop.

  “Are we going to talk about this?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she snapped. “We don’t know anything yet.”

  “We know more than we knew this morning.”

  “And I don’t like it any better because Zeke isn’t sitting in front of me.”

  “I’m sitting in front of you. I’m trying to help you, but I can’t do that if you won’t trust me.”

  Her bruised knuckles hovered over the letters. She shouldn’t have punched the wall at Isay’s. It showed a lack of control that might cost them in a head-down, balls-tucked situation, and yet, at the same time it showed a level of humanity he’d never expected from her rigidity.

  At long last, the leaden striations or her eyes shimmered in his direction. “I’m activating a tracker I put in Zeke’s wallet before he left for the States.”

  His fingers slowly unthreaded and fell to his sides. “You had a tracker on him and you’re just now activating the thing?”

  “It was in case of emergencies only.”

  “And your brother missing in Alaska wasn’t an emergency?” He shrugged. “You came here looking for him.” His mouth hung open for a minute and he inhaled her scent across his tongue. “I don’t understand.”

  She ticked away on her laptop. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  “If you won’t even try and explain it, how can I?”

  Her chest rose and fell on an exaggerated huff. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

  He held his tongue and her gaze.

  “Zeke put a tracker on my car three years ago. When I found it I didn’t speak to him for a year.”

  His brow quirked in question.

  “It’s not the fact that it was there. It’s the fact that he didn’t ask my permission or even tell me when he put it there. We’ve been through hell together. We tell each other everything. He’s the only person I trust completely and he broke that trust.”

  “He did it to keep you safe.”

  “Doesn’t matter.
Once it’s broken you can never really get it back. You can try, but it’s not the same.”

  “So you put a tracker on him out of spite?”

  “No. After we started talking again—”

  “You mean after you started talking to him again?”

  She slammed back into the chair. “Yes. Okay? When I started talking to him again. We agreed to have trackers on each other as a safety net, used only in the case of extreme emergencies.” One of her shoulders bobbed. “I had to be sure.”

  “You are an interesting creature, Khani Slaughter.”

  “You can’t tell me trust comes easily for you? Not after what you said at Polzin’s.”

  “Since when am I a fan of easy?”

  After a pile of seconds her gaze dropped and she plunked on the computer again. Street watched the gears work their magic on his end.

  “I think it’s about time you tell me exactly what you know about your brother’s hobbies.” He didn’t tack on his, ‘because this doesn’t look good,’ opinion to the end.

  She clamped her mouth shut and considered him for so long he thought she might never speak again. “He works for a US-based private security firm.”

  “Private securities, a.k.a. guns for hire?” She loved her brother despite his shoddy moral compass. Yet, she treated him like an airborne strain of the plague. Street shook his head. “And I’m the bad guy.”

  “You’re not the bad guy. I’m the bad girl.” Khani looked away and toiled with the zipper on her jacket. When she’d stepped foot in his room she’d refused to take the thing off, wearing it like a coat of armor.

  Street’s gaze centered the screen and the completed diagnostic. His fists clenched. “Grisha Filipov.” He tested the name on his tongue, hoping it wasn’t the same Grisha about whom he’d heard tales wicked enough to keep him up at night.

  “No.” Khani's hands flew to her mouth.

  Damn. It was.

  Apparently she’d heard a horror or two about the man. He thought to wrap her in his arms, to protect her from this, but it wouldn’t give her comfort. The only way for him to help her was by finding her brother.