Revolution: Luthecker, #3

by Keith Domingue

Ivan Barbolin stood at the edge of his rooftop patio looking over Los Angeles and nursing his drink.

  His Los Angeles home, one of several he held across the globe through various shell companies, was located high up on Tower Road in Beverly Hills, and as such, the five-thousand-square-foot dwelling had one of the most amazing views of Los Angeles.

  On a clear night, the Barbarian could see everything from Dodger Stadium to the angular building cluster of downtown Santa Monica, parts of the Pacific Palisades with the Pacific Ocean as a backdrop, reaching from Long Beach to Malibu. At twilight, when all was quiet, it was one of the most beautiful views in all of Southern California.

  Less than twenty-four hours after his meeting with Coalition Properties CEO Glen Turner, the Barbarian had boarded his private jet and headed back to Russia. Then, in an attempt to hide his whereabouts from the Coalition leader, he boarded another jet at a scheduled layover in Paris, one that he did not own but instead chartered under one of his many business aliases, and headed straight back to Los Angeles. It was a circular path filled with extraneous flight time, but it had likely thrown the Coalition of his trail, at least temporarily.

  After his conversation with Turner, Barbolin knew trouble was on the horizon. The big Russian’s years of experience led him to believe that Turner’s agreements were not only empty but dangerous.

  The U.S. corptocracy was notorious for going back on its word and eliminating their business allies once they were no longer deemed useful, often via violent means. From Manuel Noriega to Saddam Hussein, U.S. corporate interests had never failed to turn on their partners, those who were more at ease handling the darker elements of global business than their American counterparts, and the Barbarian knew that, over time, he would be treated no different.

  The Russian knew that the only way he would survive would be to outmaneuver the Coalition leader and engineer the American’s demise before the American CEO turned on him.

  And the only way to do that was to find Alex Luthecker first.

  The Barbarian had seen firsthand how the young soothsayer had taken down Lucas Parks, one of the most formidable Americans Barbolin had ever known. In the Barbarian’s mind, Parks was as cunning as he was brutal, and this mysterious young man had destroyed Park’s enterprise, while ensuring the demise of Turner’s Coalition predecessor. The Barbarian had been deeply impressed by Luthecker’s ability to destroy his enemies.

  The big Russian also understood danger when he saw it, and with what he saw of Luthecker, he knew change and the chaos it created was coming. He knew if he didn’t get in front of the situation, it wouldn’t be long before he ended up in the crosshairs himself, somehow triangulated upon by both Luthecker and Glen Turner.

  To the Barbarian, the past was—more often than not—prologue, and this was how it had been with Luthecker in the past; first, in how Luthecker took down Coalition leader Richard Brown, then Coalition CEO James Howe, along with the Barbarian’s partner, Lucas Parks. The Barbarian understood Russian history, and he wasn’t blind to the momentum behind a revolution.

  Luthecker’s influence was growing, reaching as far as the India and Pakistan border, and it appeared unstoppable. The Barbarian didn’t need to connect more dots to see a pattern emerging. The Coalition intended to eliminate their partners and absorb their assets to achieve a new world order—with the Coalition as its one ruler.

  And Alex Luthecker, who had no assets to speak of, threatened to put an end to the Coalition’s plan. It was a conflict that the Barbarian knew he could easily get swept up in, just like Parks did, should the Russian get caught in the crosshairs.

  But it was in this pattern between Luthecker and the Coalition that the Barbarian saw an opportunity for survival. He wanted to make it clear to Luthecker that he had no intention of getting in the young man’s way.

  Luthecker had taken down the Coalition’s last two leaders, and the Barbarian would be more than happy to help Luthecker take down their successor. The Barbarian understood that helping Luthecker was a way to ensure his own survival. In the Russian’s experience, everyone wanted something. Surely, Luthecker was no different. Surely, the young man could be bargained with.

  And the wealthy and influential Russian had much to offer. All the Barbarian required was an opportunity to make the offer. But in order to do that, he had to find the mysterious soothsayer before his Coalition adversary.

  This was why Ivan had flown back to Los Angeles immediately and enlisted the local resources he had at his disposal to find Luthecker well ahead of his Coalition rival. And it was the Russian’s years of experience as a dealmaker and a survivor that led him to believe he could strike an arrangement with the young man.

  The Barbarian would agree to help Luthecker take down the mighty Coalition, in exchange for what the Russian considered some fair business practices. The Barbarian knew that there would be more to give up in order to gain the soothsayer’s cooperation. He knew, at least in part, what Luthecker’s motivations were—freeing members of the slave class. The Russian would make it clear to Luthecker that he was willing to give up the slave trade in exchange for the soothsayer’s help.

  Human trafficking was an enormous part of the Barbarian’s business, and the oligarch hoped that releasing this would be enough to appease Luthecker in exchange for help in eliminating a mutual enemy.

  In a truth he could barely admit, even to himself, Ivan Barbolin was tired of it all. He was ready to retire, peacefully, and if his countless rivals knew that the Barbarian had a hand in taking down the mighty Coalition, the old Russian oligarch would leave the business and political world on top and step off the world stage as a legend—feared among his enemies. Therefore, he’d be relatively safe when he walked away. But none of this would happen if he didn’t find Alex Luthecker first.

  The Barbarian took one last look over the City of Angels as the sun slipped below the horizon. Then he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the first number on his speed dial. He wanted an update on the search from his most trusted friend and soldier, Ostap Kosylo.

  Kosylo picked up on the first ring.

  “Have you found him?” Barbolin asked.

  “No. But I have found the next best thing,” Kosylo said. His limited English and thick Russian accent made his choice of words blunt.

  “What is the next best thing?”

  “The Coalition dog who follows the scent. Kirby is his name. He leaves the Coalition as we speak. He has no clue that we watch. I will let him lead the hunt. He will lead me straight to the target. And when this Kirby has found Luthecker, I will intervene.”

  “Good,” Barbolin answered. “Keep me apprised of all progress,” he added, before he hung up.

  Barbolin took a deep breath and thought about the other possibility. The one where Luthecker would not work with him, and the Coalition marked the Barbarian for elimination. Ivan Barbolin had already decided that he would not go quietly.

  He stared at his phone. There was one more call still to make, one that he had mulled over for many hours, unsure if he should actually make it. It was a worst-case scenario phone call, a scorched earth back up plan only to be put into play if all was deemed lost, and the Coalition became completely unopposed on the world stage.

  The call was strictly an insurance policy, one that would cost him a great deal of money, eleven billion dollars to be exact, but one the Barbarian had calculated as necessary. This particular deal would serve as the ultimate deterrent to the Coalition, should the worst-case situation arise. It would also ensure his safety in the homeland by providing a large cash payment to an ally in power.

  The Barbarian looked at his phone. At least I’m dealing with an old friend on this deal, he thought, a friend who understands the nature of military brinksmanship. The Barbarian hit the speed dial.

  The Russian President picked up the call after the first ring.

  12

  Mission Creep

  “Empty the cash register, now!” Marcus Jones said to the
visibly terrified Indian woman behind the counter.

  Jones pointed the small revolver at the woman’s head for emphasis.

  When she didn’t move, Jones gave the woman a hard stare before briefly eyeing the camera in the ceiling corner of the 7-Eleven.

  He saw the red light blinking, indicating he was being recorded and was relieved that he remembered to wear his ski mask.

  The decision to rob the convenience store had been last minute, after getting high and playing Grand Theft Auto with his best friend Jamal, and right now Jones was beginning to regret it. But it was too late.

  It had been Jamal’s idea to begin with, and he had suggested it while the two were playing the video game in his sister’s apartment, less than an hour ago. Marcus was beginning to wonder why he had agreed to do it in the first place.

  Marcus turned his attention back to the Indian woman. She was heavy-set, perhaps in her early thirties, and she still stood frozen.

  “Now!” Jones screamed. His voice echoed louder than he had planned, and the woman jumped.

  She hit several buttons on the well-worn cash register, and the cash drawer popped open.

  Marcus quickly hopped over the counter and began filling the pockets of his jacket.

  “Take what you want, just don’t hurt me,” the Indian woman managed to say to Marcus, her voice barely above a whisper.

  The woman’s words rattled Marcus, and he could hear genuine fear in them. He watched her cower in the corner, knocking over a rack of cigarettes in the process.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said in response. “I just want the money.”

  Marcus continued to fill his pockets with cash until the register was empty. He hoped his friend and literal partner in crime Jamal was having luck in the back room.

  “I got the safe. Let’s bounce,” Jamal yelled from the back, as if answering Marcus’ thoughts.

  Marcus turned at the sound of the voice and saw Jamal emerging from the storage room carrying a duffel bag.

  Jones noted that the duffel bag swung heavy, hopefully full of cash. Jones breathed a sigh of relief underneath his mask, before he hopped back over the counter and followed his partner out the door.

  “Get in, get in,” Jamal screamed as he got behind the wheel of the 2012 Toyota Camry, Jamal’s mother’s car.

  Marcus hopped into the passenger side as Jamal put the keys into the ignition and started the car. Marcus noted that his hands were shaking.

  Jamal put the car in gear, and the 2012 Toyota Camry spun its tires before roaring out of the parking lot and onto Crenshaw Boulevard. They had gone three blocks when both men dared to rip off their sweaty ski masks. They carefully scanned the streets and saw that no one was watching, before looking at one another. They both smiled.

  “Slow down, slow down,” Marcus said to Jamal, after they had fled another six blocks. Marcus’ eyes scanned the streets one more time.

  People stood at bus stops, moved along the sidewalks, in and out of shops and apartment buildings. No one paid any attention to the Toyota Camry, or the men inside. No one knew that they had just robbed a 7-Eleven. Marcus took one last look behind them—no cars were in pursuit.

  Jamal eased off the accelerator, allowing the car to slow to the speed of traffic. The two young men, both only twenty-two years old, still held their breath. They listened carefully for several more minutes. No sirens. They let out sighs of relief.

  “We did it, bro,” Jamal said to Marcus, and the two men high-fived one another.

  “How much was in the safe?” Marcus asked.

  “Five thousand. Give or take.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Told you we could hit that place and walk!”

  “You mean run!”

  Both men laughed.

  “We’ll be safe at home in ten minutes like nothing happened.”

  The Camry was abruptly rammed from behind, pitching both men forward in their seats.

  Jamal oriented himself after the impact and immediately looked in the rear-view mirror. “What the fuck…” was all he could say.

  Marcus looked through the rear window to see who or what had rammed into the back of their car.

  It was a brand new Cadillac Escalade. Its front grill was smashed from the impact into the rear of the Camry. But that’s not what had Jamal’s attention. What had his attention was that the vehicle had no driver. There was no one inside the Escalade at all.

  The Escalade accelerated and rammed them again. The impact was much harder this time, and it caused the Camry to slide sideways into traffic.

  Jamal attempted to correct the Camry’s direction, but the force was too great to stop the slide. That was when the second car hit.

  Both men were jarred again when the Toyota Camry was broadsided just behind the driver’s side door by another vehicle. The second vehicle was a brand new Tesla Model S sedan, and it too had no driver.

  The force of the collision sent the Camry spinning off the side of the road, and the vehicle came to a stop when it slammed against a fire hydrant.

  The impact caused the rear passenger door to break open. The duffel bag from the 7-Eleven robbery jettisoned from the Camry and split open when it hit the sidewalk. Cash, snacks, and soda bottles spilled onto the street. Then the hydrant began to leak.

  Jamal and Marcus crawled out of the vehicle, dazed and confused. They looked at the Escalade and the Tesla. Both vehicles suffered considerable front-end damage but were still functional. They sat idling, passengerless and seemingly sentient like predators working in coordination, and now waiting to go in for the kill.

  “What…what the hell just happened…” was all Marcus could say.

  Marcus Jones heard the siren chirp of an approaching LAPD patrol car, and he broke from the shock of the moment.

  He realized he still had a gun in his hand.

  “So let me get this straight—you’re saying that the driver’s of the Escalade and the Tesla fled the scene,” Captain Vanhelter said to Officer Rodriguez.

  “No, sir. I’m saying that witnesses reported seeing the vehicles operating with no drivers.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Were they stolen?”

  “Possibly. But again, witnesses reported no drivers in either vehicle. First calls in saying so came in about four blocks from the accident.”

  “Where were the vehicle owners?

  “The owner of the Escalade was out of state. The investigation at his home showed that the alarm had been turned off, and the garage door had been left open. Owner claimed that he’s sure he left on the alarm and shut the door before he left.”

  “Someone they know took it for a joyride? Someone who had the keys and alarm codes?” the Captain offered. It was the only thing that made sense to him.

  “All keys were accounted for and away from the vehicle. It gets more strange, sir,” Officer Levy added. Both patrol officers stood at attention across from the desk of Vanhelter. “The Tesla driver. He claims he watched it happen.”

  “Watched what happen?”

  “He reported that his car simply activated and took off out of his driveway, with no warning whatsoever.”

  “He just watched it leave the driveway?”

  “That’s what he said, sir.”

  “Impound the vehicles.”

  “Already done, sir.”

  Vanhelter turned his attention back to Rodriguez. “And you said you got a text message about the robbery in progress?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “From who?”

  “Unknown.”

  “We can unlock an unknown number pretty quickly, officer. You should have done that by now.”

  “Yes, sir, but I couldn’t, because the text did not come from a telephone number. It didn’t come from any number at all.”

  “Are you saying it just appeared on your phone?”

  “Yes, sir. Tech guys said they couldn’t trace the source.”

  Vanhelter gave both officers a look.

 
; “We’re just as baffled as you, sir. We had barely left the motor pool when I got the text. We decided to check it out and came upon the scene.”

  Vanhelter rubbed his face. “Okay fine. I’ve seen weirder things. And the perps?”

  “Couple of kids. First offenses. Stupid. We’re holding them until the parents and public defender get here.”

  “Should we contact the manufacturers of the vehicles?” Levy asked.

  Vanhelter shrugged. “No. We’ve got enough shit to do. Let’s just be glad we caught them. Put it all in the report and file it. If the Feds want to investigate it, it’s up to them. We simply don’t have the manpower. Dismissed,” Vanhelter said, waving his hand.

  Rodriguez and Levy looked at one another briefly before exiting the captain’s office. They waited until they moved past the desks and ringing phones, through the front doors, and out of the building before speaking.

  “So what do you think happened?” Levy finally asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rodriguez answered, “but I have a hunch. And there’s one person I know who can confirm it.”

  “Who?”

  “A friend with the Block. And I’m hoping she’s where we were headed to before I got the text.”

  13

  We Got This

  “How many people?” Yaw asked Joey Nugyen.

  “A dozen. Maybe more. It’s tough to get an accurate head count,” Nugyen answered.

  “Where are they now?” Chris asked.

  “They get moved around. Never in one place too long. They were in City of Industry last week—a sweatshop in a rundown warehouse. Last I heard they were being held in an abandoned building downtown. Garment district.”

  “Who’s moving them?” Yaw asked.

  “Only thing I know is it’s not the Russians this time. Streets say new player, but I can’t pin it to any one person or institution,” Joey explained.

  “In other words, business as usual,” said Chris.

  “We can follow the money. That’ll tell us who,” Joey suggested