Outsourced

29

Shrini arrived at the Middlesex Diner shortly before eleven. After driving around the parking lot so he could look for Petrenko and satisfy himself that the Russian wasn’t there, he parked and hobbled to the diner’s entrance. He still hadn’t gotten used to the crutches. It was slow going and by the time he got to the cashier’s station he was winded. He knew it was partly due to the adrenaline pumping through him. This was a bold move he was making, but to succeed in life you have to make bold moves. Dan could act meekly if he wanted, but he sure wasn’t going to!

One of the waitresses showed him to a table and he ordered coffee and an egg-white omelet. He checked his watch. It was seven past eleven. The numbers seven and eleven struck him. They were a good sign. The strutting peacock was going to crap out, not him.

The anticipation wore on him while he waited. His food was brought over and he nibbled at it, every minute or so straining his neck to look out the window. He checked his watch. Eleven twenty-eight. He told Petrenko what would happen if he wasn’t there on time and he meant it! His fingers tapped the table as he waited. It was now eleven thirty-two. He started to get up but indecision slowed him. Crossing his arms, he decided to give Petrenko ten more minutes.

When those ten minutes vanished he got up and paid the cashier. He took a step towards the door and froze. He couldn’t walk away. It wasn’t just the money. He had to make sure that peacock got paid back. His face flushed as he told the waitress he’d like to sit back at the table and have another cup of coffee.

At twelve thirty he gave up. Petrenko wasn’t coming. For some reason he must’ve thought Shrini’s call was a crank. Dejected, he gathered up his crutches and hobbled towards the diner’s entrance. The steps leading out were tricky. He had to hold the crutches with one hand while he held the railing with the other, all the while hopping on one foot.

When he got to the bottom of the steps, he readjusted the crutches under him. He took several steps to the curb and then stopped to position one of the crutches more comfortably under his armpit. Right before the blow to the kidneys he sensed the two men behind him, but he didn’t have time to react. The blow paralyzed him. For several seconds he couldn’t breathe. His knees buckled, hot tears flooding his eyes.

They grabbed him from both sides. A car swung around, the trunk popping open. He was tossed into the trunk. This all happened within five seconds from the time he was hit. He tried to struggle and claw his way forward. Something hit him hard on the side of the head. Then blackness.

Pain brought him back to semi-consciousness. Every part of him seemed to throb with pain. While he wavered in his semi-conscious state, he had the sensation of spikes being driven into his broken ankle. Every few seconds there would be a dull thud followed by a jolt of pain shooting through him. One horrific jolt knocked him back into consciousness. His eyes opened to catch Petrenko swinging back a golf club. He started to scream as Petrenko drove the club into his unprotected ankle. The pain exploded inside him. At some level he knew his eyes were open, but the room flickered on and off into darkness. Sort of like a light bulb crackling on the edge of blowing out. Barely, he maintained consciousness.

“Our guest has woken,” Petrenko announced.

Behind Petrenko stood three other Russians, all looking on with mild amusement. Shrini’s arms were pulled tight over his head, his feet dangling, barely touching the floor. Something cold and hard bit into his wrists and he realized he was handcuffed, probably to a pipe. He looked down and saw that his injured ankle had swollen to the size of a large eggplant, its color an unnatural deep, darkish blue. The sight of it made him light-headed. As his eyes started to roll up in his head, Petrenko grabbed him by his hair, jerked his head up and slapped him hard across the face.

“No, I do not think so,” he said. “For now you’re staying awake.”

When Shrini’s eyes could focus again, he saw the corners of Petrenko’s lips turn up into a dull smile while his eyes remained vacant. Then Petrenko’s hand wrapped into a fist, and in a blur, threw a quick jab catching Shrini hard in the ribs.

Time seemed to hold still as he tried to gasp in air. For a long moment he didn’t think he’d be able to, not with the way his stomach muscles were convulsing. Then somehow he started breathing again. Labored, but he was breathing.

“No more,” Shrini tried to say.

Petrenko tapped him again in the ribs. A sharp, jagged pain ripped through him.

“Please,” Shrini forced out, tears streaming down his face. “Don’t hit me again.”

“No?” Petrenko asked. “And why not?”

“Believe me, I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t hit me again.”

“You’ll tell me everything, huh?” Then in a low, menacing voice, “Where are my belongings that you stole?”

“New Hampshire.” Shrini gave him Joel’s name and address, his words spilling out of him.

“Everything of mine is there?”

Shrini nodded.

“Why?”

“He took it all. There was nothing we could do.”

“Who else was part of this?”

Shrini shook his head. “This peacock has everything of yours. Isn’t he enough?”

Petrenko picked up the golf club, settled into a golf stance, and slowly brought the head of the club back.

“Fore!” he hollered good-naturedly. One of the Russians behind him snickered.

In a breathless, frantic burst, Shrini told him all about Dan.

“That makes three of you,” Petrenko said. “What about the other three?”

“There were only two others.”

Petrenko eyed him suspiciously. “The newspapers claimed there were six of you.”

“They’re wrong. There were only five. The other two are dead.”

Petrenko raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Is that so?”

“Kasner killed them both.” Shrini stopped, the pain throbbing through his battered ankle choking off his words. When he could, he added, “The person shot outside the bank was one of us.”

“Who helped you from inside the bank?”

Shrini gave Petrenko a confused look.

“Don’t act dumb now. Someone inside the bank helped you.”

Shrini shook his head.

“No? Then how did you find out which safety deposit boxes I owned?”

“My friend hacked-”

Petrenko tapped him on the ankle with the golf club.

“Names!” he demanded.

“Dan Wilson hacked into the bank’s database,” Shrini said, grimacing as tears welled up in his eyes.

“And the security system?”

“He rigged the software so it would be disabled during the robbery.”

“This bank manager, Craig Brown, wasn’t involved?” Petrenko asked with some disappointment.

“No.”

Petrenko stroked his chin, considering what was said. He had to admire the execution of the bank robbery. This Dan Wilson could be useful and for a moment he thought about forcing Wilson to work for him, but decided against it. The man had tried once to steal from him; he couldn’t be trusted. More importantly, a message had to be sent. Wilson and his family had to be taken care of and it would have to be bloody. First, though, he would retrieve his belongings and take care of this zhid up in New Hampshire. After that, he’d take his time with Wilson and his family.

He told Shrini that he was going to go on a ride with them. “If you make any noise or do anything to upset me I will leave pieces of you along the highway.”

Shrini nodded weakly.

The handcuffs were taken off and Shrini was thrown on to his stomach and hogtied. Yuri Tolkov started to push a soiled rag into his mouth, but Petrenko stopped him. In Russian he told Yuri that he didn’t want to risk Shrini choking to death during the ride. “He might be useful for now. Later we’ll dispose of him.”

Two of the Russians carried Shrini to a blue BMW sedan that had been stolen hours earlier and dumped him into the trunk.