by Tripp Ellis
"David Cameron was in an accident last night."
My brow lifted with shock and surprise. "What? Is he okay?"
"Not really."
"What happened?"
"He was driving home to his house in the hills. A drunk driver crossed into his lane and plowed into his car head on."
My jaw dropped, and my stomach twisted. Screw the deal, the money, the TV series—David was a genuinely nice guy, and I liked him. "That's terrible!"
"He's in a coma in critical condition. As you can imagine, the studio has halted all plans with the Bree Taylor project, Ultra Mega 2, and the TV series."
"None of that matters. What's the prognosis for David?"
"I can't get a lot of answers. His people are being very tightlipped. They are in damage control mode, trying to keep the studio from bailing completely. The truth is, we just don't know what condition he will be in, if and when, he comes out of the coma. He may never direct again."
I cringed. It was truly awful news. David was so passionate about his art. "If there's anything I can do for him, let me know. What about the other driver?"
"Not a scratch. Doesn't remember a thing."
My teeth ground together. "Figures."
"I'll keep you posted," Joel said. "Sorry, buddy. Bad break."
"Have you told Scarlett?"
"That's my next phone call."
Joel gave me the hospital information for David. I planned on sending flowers and a get-well card, though he might not ever see it.
I heard JD's band launch into their set. It didn't take long for the other bands in the rehearsal hall to stop playing. It was becoming a common thing for them to filter into the practice space to watch Wild Fury rehearse.
JD's band had something special. There was no doubt about it.
I stayed in the parking lot for a few minutes, trying to process everything. If the Bree Taylor project didn't go into production, I wouldn't get the back-end payment, and my deal with Madison would fall through. Just when I thought I had everything secured, the rug got pulled out from underneath me.
I hated to think about those things when David was lying in a hospital bed somewhere.
I had a lot to be thankful for. I was still alive and breathing. I was certain I would find a way to make good on my commitment to Madison and save the property. And if not, I would adapt and overcome.
I called Isabella. "What can you find out about Vasily Kozlov and VSKV Capital Asset Management Limited?"
"Give me a few minutes and I can tell you a lot," Isabella said. "But it's going to cost you."
I groaned. "Seriously? It's just a small little favor."
"How many small little favors have I done for you lately?"
I sighed. "Name your price."
"A favor at a later date."
I'd been down that road before with Isabella and wasn't keen on going there again. But I had no choice. "Fine. I'll return a favor of equal value."
I heard her fingers clacking against the keyboard. "You should just come back to work for me. It would be so much simpler."
"No it wouldn't. Nothing about working for you was simple."
Isabella scoffed. "Please, you can't tell me you didn't have fun."
"My definition of fun has evolved over the years."
"You know, one day you'll be too old for this kind of thing. And you'll long for the days of clandestine missions in far-off lands."
I chuckled. "I'll be dead long before I get old."
Isabella laughed. "I love your optimism."
"Positivity is always the way."
"Vasily Kozlov. Head of the Serpent Syndicate. Involved in drug smuggling, money laundering, weapons trafficking. Seems like a real upstanding member of the community," Isabella said, her voice thick with sarcasm.
"Tell me something I don't know."
"From what I can tell, VSKV Capital is owned by an offshore corporation registered in the Cayman Islands. I'm sure there are a few more layers to it. In Coconut Key, VSKV owns a warehouse on Commerce Street, a nightclub on Oyster Avenue named KGB, an art gallery on Silverside, and several real estate developments throughout town. The biggest of which is the Trident Tower on Ocean Avenue, which is currently under construction. It looks like that will eventually be a 40-story luxury high-rise."
"I know the eyesore," I groaned.
"Looks like Vasily has a yacht registered in his name at the Coconut Key Country Club marina." Isabella paused. "It's none of my business, but are you sure this is the kind of guy that you want to mess with?"
"You know me. I've never backed down from a fight."
"Just don't go writing checks your ass can't cash."
"You know me better than that."
"Serpent Syndicate has a lot of resources. They're dangerous."
"So am I."
"What's your angle in all of this?" Isabella asked. "Please tell me you're not on some do-gooder crusade."
"I'm on some do-gooder crusade."
Isabella groaned.
"I need to tie Vasily to a murder," I said.
There was no encouragement in her voice when she said, "Good luck with that."
27
Vasily's warehouse wasn't far from the practice studio. It was probably a mistake, but I left JD to his pseudo-rock stardom and walked a few blocks to get eyes on the warehouse.
The industrial area was like a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The echo of snare drums slapped off brick walls, bouncing around the desolate neighborhood. Numerous warehouse walls had been tagged with graffiti and gang insignia. Walking alone in this neighborhood wasn't advisable.
It was still daylight, but that was fading fast. The amber ball hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows. Bits of trash and newsprint scraped across the concrete with the breeze. There were several industrial-sized dumpsters filled with trash and debris. A couple of homeless guys curled up on a loading dock, sleeping the afternoon away in dirty sleeping bags.
I ambled down the block to Vasily's warehouse. The chain-link fence, ringed with concertina wire, protected the premises. Keep Out signs, and Warning, Private Property placards were affixed to the fence.
No Trespassing!
I surveyed the four-story red-brick building. The grounds looked well maintained. Unlike most of the warehouses in the area, all the windows were intact. None of them were cracked or foggy. Everything about the building seemed to be up to code.
I ambled close to the fence to get a better look. A Doberman charged at me from across the lot. He bared his sharp teeth, glistening with saliva. His ferocious bark pierced my ears. I backed away from the fence as he leapt against it with his paws. The metal fence rattled and clanked.
The attack-dog continued to bark and growl as I backed away from the fence.
I noticed wireless surveillance cameras around the property.
There was no doubt that Vasily didn't want any uninvited guests. Anyone foolish enough to scale the fence would be mauled, if they survived the razor wire.
I got the impression that Vasily didn't have much of a problem with theft, though the area was sketchy. Who would be stupid enough to steal from the Russian Syndicate?
There was no telling what was in that warehouse, but I had my suspicions. I desperately wanted to sneak inside and get a look for myself. But I didn't have probable cause for a warrant.
The dog kept barking, and I wondered how long it would be before someone came out and investigated.
I figured JD and I would come back later and stakeout the place at night—see if there was any illicit activity. But I had more immediate concerns.
"Give me your fucking money!" a voice behind me demanded.
My shoulders slumped in exasperation, and I sighed. For a split second, I thought about snatching the 9mm from my waistband. It was in a Kydex holster in an appendix carry.
I thought better of it.
I was fast, but I wasn't that fast.
I raised my hands in the air and slowly twisted around to see my
assailants. I stumbled slightly, pretending I was drunk. I made my eyes droopy, and I teetered from side to side, making it appear that I was barely able to stand.
Three men with hoodies, bandannas covering their faces, and sunglasses had approached me from behind. The leader, in the center of the gang, had a 9mm pointed at my face—the angry black barrel inches from my nose. I could smell the oil and residual gunpowder.
The owner of the 9mm tilted it sideways, holding it high in the air, angling it down at me, like he was in some kind of bad rap music video. This was clearly an individual without much tactical experience. But I had no doubt he had pulled the trigger a fair share of times.
"No need to get hostile, dude," I slurred.
"I said give me your fuck'n money," the thug demanded again.
"Chill, dude. Where's the love?"
"Motherfucker, do you not see I have a gun pointed at your head? I'll show you where the mother-fucking love is, but you ain't gonna like it."
"Alright, alright. I got like 20 bucks in my pocket. You can have it." I swayed, pretending like I was about to dig into my pocket.
I’m not going to lie, my heartbeat elevated.
"You better have WAY more than 20 bucks!"
28
The thug's two buddies shifted anxiously, trying to look tough.
One had a bat, the other had a knife.
I only had a split second to think about my options. I had a couple hundred bucks in my money clip. Part of me thought about just handing that over to diffuse the situation. Part of me wanted to shoot the scumbags, but I didn't want to deal with the paperwork. And I didn't want several patrol units down here with flashing lights as well as the medical examiner, EMTs, and the forensics team. That might spook Vasily Kozlov.
I swayed and teetered, flailing my hand slightly to catch my balance. Then, with a swift action, my left hand struck across, grabbing the thug's wrist, pushing it aside. With my other hand, I struck upward, grabbing the barrel, stripping it from his grasp. I held onto his arm, yanking him close as I jammed my elbow into his face. His nose shattered, spraying blood on his hoodie.
He groaned in agony.
His two accomplices did a 180 and took off running, their sneakers smacking against the concrete as they ran down the block and disappeared into an alleyway.
I swung a hard right into the man's gut, doubling him over, then jammed my elbow into the back of his neck. He flattened against the concrete, and I wrenched his arm behind his back and slapped the steel cuffs around his wrists.
"Looks like you picked the wrong guy to rob, dickhead!"
"Man, fuck you!"
Blood drizzled from his nose and mouth onto the concrete.
I yanked him to his feet and dragged him down the block away from the warehouse. He kept mouthing off, and he may have accidentally tripped. He fell face first on the concrete. With nothing to break his fall, he hit hard with a heavy slap. I'm pretty sure he lost a tooth in the process. I saw the pearly thing dance across the concrete.
He screamed in agony.
"Motherfucker, that's police brutality! I'm gonna sue you, the city, the department, the mayor... I'm going to be rich."
Blood drizzled from his lips.
I probably shouldn't have inadvertently shoved him. It was a shitty thing to do. But so was pulling a gun on me. He got what he deserved. "I don't know what you're talking about. You tripped and fell. You tell me who your buddies are, and I’ll see what I can do about getting you a lesser charge."
"I ain't saying shit to you!"
"Suit yourself. But you're going down for a long time. Assault with a deadly weapon, attempted robbery." I searched his pockets and found several baggies of methamphetamine. "Possession of a controlled substance. I don't know. It's not looking good for you."
"This is bullshit. That ain't mine. You planted it."
I chuckled. "Good luck with that one."
I kept him facedown on the ground and called Sheriff Daniels. He sent Erickson and Faulkner over to pick up the perp in a patrol car. They arrived 15 minutes later and stuffed the scumbag into the back of the car. I gave them the description of his two accomplices, but it wouldn't do much good—with sunglasses and bandannas, they had concealed their identities well.
Erickson and Faulkner decided to cruise around the warehouse district, looking for the perps before taking the thug down to the station. The squad car rolled away and disappeared down a side street in the desolate neighborhood.
As I walked back to the practice hall, I could hear the muffled sounds of JD's band rocking out. Even at this distance, they sounded good.
A white van rolled down Commerce Street, heading to Vasily's warehouse. I craned my neck over my shoulder as it passed and watched it stop at the gate. The automated gate slid open, and the van rolled into the parking lot.
I jogged back down Commerce to get a better look. Two big guys hopped out of the van, moved around to the back doors, and swung them wide. There were several black duffel bags in the cargo area.
The two meatheads grabbed the duffel bags which were loaded to the gills with something. They hauled them toward the warehouse, climbed the steps to the loading dock, and entered through a locked door on the side. The veins in their necks puffed.
The bags were heavy.
These men had broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and traps that must have taken hundreds of daily shoulder shrugs, or consistent doses of steroids. One was blond, the other brunette. The two men were Ivan and Gregor. Isabella had texted me images and information on the two enforcers. Either could have been the one who assassinated Brynn.
I watched from behind a telephone pole at the corner.
The goons emerged 15 minutes later, hopped in the van, and left the premises.
I made a mental note of the license plate, then headed back to the practice hall.
I pushed into the main entrance, ambled down the dim corridor, and waited in the hallway outside the practice room. Maybe I was getting older, but it was too loud. Even in the hallway, the bass guitar and kick drum vibrated my chest.
I stayed there until practice was over. Cheers and applause erupted when they finished playing their last song. I opened the door and stepped into the small space. It was packed with groupies and members of other bands. People were drinking beer and smoking joints. It was like a small nightclub.
JD high-fived the rest of the band, then spent another 20 minutes talking to his adoring fans.
Some of the groupies were pretty damn good looking. They probably came with more baggage than an international flight, but they looked like they'd be fun for an evening. JD collected numbers, and I hung back until the crowd dissipated.
If this was rehearsal, I couldn't wait to see the real show.
"So, what's your story?" a girl asked me.
She had big, blonde hair, and wore sunglasses, a black bustier, faded jean shorts, fishnet stockings, and strappy stilettos.
"I'm a friend of JD's," I said.
Her face crinkled with confusion. "Who's JD?"
"The singer," I said.
She looked at me, equally as confused. "You mean, Thrash?”
I looked at her with amusement. So that was his new stage name? “Yeah, Thrash.” I said, playing along.
29
"Thrash, huh?" I said, teasing JD as he left the practice room.
"What? You don't like it?"
I shrugged.
"It's totally metal," he insisted.
"Sounds more punk to me."
JD's face crinkled dismissively. "All the ladies love it."
That was all the validation he needed.
I told Jack about Vasily's warehouse, and his other business endeavors.
"I say we break in and see what’s inside," Jack said with excited eyes.
"That would be illegal, and that place is secure. Cameras, guard dog, razor-wire fence. No way!"
"Where's your sense of adventure?"
"My sense of adventure is limited by the dem
ands of procedure."
JD continued to scowl at me dismissively. "When have we ever followed procedure?"
He had a point.
"I can get past the guard dog, no problem."
"What about the cameras and the razor wire?"
Jack's face crinkled. "I'm working on that."
"Let's not go breaking any laws just yet."
“So, what do you want to do? Sit on the warehouse all night and watch them unload more suspicious bags?”
The idea wasn't very appealing. Stakeouts sucked. They were long and boring.
"For all we know, that is a legitimate warehouse, and there's nothing illegal in there," JD said.
"Doubtful."
"If Vasily is smart, his name isn't connected to any of these shell corporations. He's not stupid enough to get his hands dirty. He lets his little flunkies do that. The bar he's got… KGB… it's a perfect front for money laundering. Lots of cash sales. He's probably got several operations like that where he's cleaning the money, then running it through these shell corporations and purchasing hard assets like real estate. I say we do a little recon at the club tonight. We've got to find a way to tie him to this shit, or he'll walk. Even if that warehouse is full of narcotics."
I gave JD a skeptical glance.
"If you want to play it by the book, we just dig and dig and dig until we find something." Jack paused. "Or we could just take him out the old-fashioned way."
"I'm actually trying to limit the number of people I bring to a premature demise," I said.
“Taking out a scumbag like Vasily wouldn’t be premature. I’d say it’s right on time, if not a little late.”
“Rules, Jack.”
Jack scoffed. "Oh, right. We have to play by the rules, but they don't. Seems fair."
I rolled my eyes.
"Okay, fine. We do this your way. By the book." He paused. "Speaking of digging, we need to take all the new gear I bought, get ourselves to Angelfish Key Island, and find that chest of treasure that you claim is out there. You could use the funds."
"I'm telling you, it was there. You saw the coins."
