And Every Man Has to Die

FOUR

0844 hours

Day Shift

Renee scanned field interview reports while sipping her coffee. After she read each one she quickly entered the salient parts into her computer database, then set the actual report aside for later filing. She was nearly through the stack when she came upon an interesting FI from Officer Battaglia on graveyard shift.

Spoke with confidential informant (CI). Stated Russian gangs are directing members to disobey officers on traffic stops. Driver will stall while passenger uses cell to call for assistance. Once the group outnumbers officers, members are directed to push matters to a head by refusing to allow anyone to be arrested. Warned not to do anything that would warrant officers using deadly force. Just disobey and walk away. CI usually pretty reliable.

Renee read the brief report again. This was exactly the kind of thing she’d been trying to warn the chief about. It needed to go into the daily intelligence flyer so that officers could be aware of this possibility; she set the report aside from the rest for that purpose.

River City was growing. There’d been a time when the population was easily ninety percent white. Since she’d come to work for the police department in the late 1980s, though, the city had begun to diversify. Small populations of numerous racial and ethnic groups had filtered in and slowly grown little neighborhoods across the patchwork town. She guessed the vast majority of about two hundred thousand residents was still Caucasian-say seventy percent or so-but even in that category, they had a variety of cultural groups. Like the Russians she’d just read about.

Renee reached for her coffee. She didn’t identify much with any particular group, and while that probably took away from being able to have any sense of cultural pride, it also made her appreciate all of the cultures that were out there. In her off time, she liked to frequent different bars and restaurants, particularly those run by some sort of ethnic owner. She enjoyed getting to know more about all of them-Italian, Greek, Russian, Polish, Turkish, Chinese, Vietnamese, Mexican, you name it. What she found was that her favorite motto was almost always true: People are just people, everywhere.

That sentiment sat well with her, especially since the people she spent her days reading about and analyzing were almost exclusively bad people. If she hadn’t had some of those nice experiences all around town, she’d start to get a little bit jaded about some people.

Which brought her back to the Russians. Somewhere between twelve and fifteen thousand lived in River City. Several hundred were clearly involved in crime. That was pretty much on par with every other group she took the time to look at. It didn’t change her concern, though. And with Battaglia’s report, she was all that much more worried.

“Renee?”

She looked up to see Charlotte at her door. “Yes?”

“The chief would like to see you.”

“Now?”

Charlotte smiled, but Renee saw the strain in her face.

She set aside her coffee cup. “Do you know what it’s about?”

Charlotte shook her head. “All I know is that there’s an FBI agent in there with him.”

Renee raised an eyebrow. “FBI?”

Charlotte nodded.

Renee glanced down at the dress pants and purple blouse she was wearing. “Do these look like confident clothes?” she asked.

Charlotte’s smile warmed. “They do. The little bit of lace does the trick.”

“Good.” Renee grabbed a pen and a legal pad.

“All the same,” Charlotte continued, “I wouldn’t make any jokes like that while you’re in there. He appears to take himself very seriously.”

“Thinks he’s pretty important, huh?”

“Exactly.”

“I think I still have a power suit from the eighties in my closet,” Renee said. “You know, the ones with the shoulder pads in them. Should I run home and change?”

The two women laughed. After a moment, both collected themselves and walked to the chief’s office, where Charlotte rapped on the door.

“Come!” a loud voice bellowed.

“Good luck,” Charlotte whispered.

Renee steeled herself and went inside.

The chief of police sat behind his desk, his fingers interlaced and his elbows on the arms of his chair. Directly across from him sat a sandy-haired man in a dark blue suit. Both men looked up at her as she approached.

“Renee,” the chief said, “this is Special Agent Maurice Payne. He’s with the FBI organized crime unit.”

Renee held out her hand. Payne gave her a perfunctory, loose-gripped shake.

“Renee is one of our crime analysts, focusing on emerging trends,” the chief explained. He gestured for her to sit in the empty chair next to Agent Payne. “She’s been following the emergence of our Russian gang problem here in River City for some time.”

“Excellent,” Payne said tersely. “Do you have any sort of organizational chart that we can take a look at?”

Renee shook her head. “Unfortunately, our intelligence is not that far along.”

Payne looked at the chief, then back at her. “Oh, really?”

“No,” she said. “While I know that these particular gangs are highly organized, it has been difficult to-”

Payne raised his hand. “How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That they’re highly organized.”

Renee paused, a little confused. “I thought you were with organized crime,” she said haltingly.

“I am. I know how organized they are. I want to know how you think you know that.”

She cleared her throat and spoke slowly. “I have attended a number of gang schools over the past several years. One of them focused specifically on European gangs.”

“Who put on that school?” he asked, condescension in his voice.

“That one would have been the FBI, sir,” she answered.

Payne paused and swallowed. “Uh, good. Okay, what else?”

Why the hell was she justifying her job to him? She glanced at the chief, but his stony gaze told her that she would have to answer the question. “I read a lot,” she said, anger brewing in the pit of her stomach. “Professional journals, books, bulletins. Whatever I can find on the Internet.”

Payne took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, that’s excellent. But be careful about the information on the web. Anyone can put anything out there, you know?”

“I pretty much stick to official sites,” Renee answered, starting to fume inside. I’ve been using computers since we stored data on cassette tapes, while you were popping pimples and reading Richie Rich comics, you little dipshit. “What’s this all about?” she asked.

Payne took another deep breath and affected a grave expression. Renee waited for him to speak, fairly certain that his tone would have a similar sense of measured gravity.

“What I’m about to tell you is completely confidential,” he said in a rehearsed voice. “It is classified based both upon the nature of the information and the source. Do you understand?”

Renee nodded. “Don’t tell anyone. I get it.”

Payne’s eyes narrowed. “It’s nothing to be flippant about,” he said. “Violations carry federal sanctions. If you can’t be trusted-”

“She can be trusted,” the chief rumbled from his leather throne. He cast a cautionary look at her. “Just let her know what’s going on, Agent Payne.”

Payne pressed his lips together as a slight redness crept into his cheeks. He looked like a schoolboy that had just been corrected by the teacher, but it quickly passed. “Do you know Oleg Tretiak?”

Renee shook her head.

Payne sighed. “Well, you should. He’s been the bookkeeper for Sergey Markov for the last two years. You do know Sergey Markov, right?”

Renee nodded, ignoring his tone. “Markov has been a suspect in a couple cases of fencing property, but he’s more likely in charge of a chop shop operation in town. Last year our detectives raided a garage in Hillyard. His car was parked in front of the house, but he wasn’t there.”

“Did any of the suspects talk?”

Renee gave him a baleful look. “No. They don’t talk. That’s the problem. Even the normal good citizens won’t inform on them. It’s a holdover from the old country.”

“They’ll talk,” Payne said. “It just takes a lot to make that happen.”

“Like what?”

Payne smiled coldly. “Well, if you try to kill a man, that tends to loosen his tongue.”

“Not with the Russians.” Renee eyed him carefully. “Are you saying you have an informant?”

Payne nodded.

“Is it Tretiak, the accountant?”

Payne nodded again.

Renee shrugged. “Well, that’s impressive, but I think you have to consider the odds that he’s not giving you accurate information. Even with an attempt on his life, I’m not so sure he’d turn on his-”

“It was more than a mere attempt on his life,” Payne said slowly. “Someone tried to kill him and his whole family by burning down his house. Only he wasn’t home at the time.”

Renee frowned. “There was a house fire on Grace on Sunday. A woman and two children died. The arson investigator’s initial report said that it was a wiring problem.”

“Oleg doesn’t think so.”

“Hoagland conducted that investigation,” Renee said. “I read his report. He didn’t have any evidence of arson.”

“He had his gut,” Payne said. “He called me yesterday. He said something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t find anything to substantiate his feeling.”

“Then it is what the evidence says it is,” Renee said.

Payne shrugged. “Oleg knows what happened. He has no doubt.”

Renee shook her head in wonder. “So the ones who died in the fire, that was…?”

“His wife?” Payne asked dramatically. “His son and daughter? Yes, it was. And that was enough to make him decide to switch sides.”

Renee’s mind raced. An informant of this magnitude could fill in a lot of gaps, including how big a player Markov really was. He might even make it possible to break the back of the entire operation. “This is huge,” she whispered.

“It is,” Payne agreed. “And you can’t tell anyone about it.”

For once, Renee found herself in perfect agreement. “The FBI involvement? Or the informant?”

Payne looked at the chief again and shrugged. “Our assistance is probably not confidential. But the informant absolutely is on a need-to-know basis.”

Renee nodded her understanding. “What do you need from me?”

“Intelligence support,” Payne said. “We’re a small office here in River City. Most of our assets are in Seattle, which has its own organized crime problem, and not of the Russian variety. I’m asking your chief for support on a few issues, including using you as an analyst when necessary.”

“All right.”

“You’ll be given temporary clearance into our system,” Payne explained. “And I’d like you to take notes during Tretiak’s debriefings.”

Renee resisted the urge to whoop. This could be the difference maker that uprooted the Russian foothold in River City. It would be a worthwhile assignment, even if she did have to put up with Special Agent Maurice Payne.

“Not quite the CIA,” the chief said, a trace of humor in his gruff voice, “but getting close.”

Renee nodded to him. Maybe he wasn’t quite an orc, after all.

“I’ll be in touch soon,” Payne said.

Renee nodded, rose, and left the office with a smile on her face.

0911 hours

B.J. Carson lifted her glass and drained the last of the beer. The amber liquid slid down easily, the way having been well lubricated by the previous two. She set the glass down on the table carefully, but couldn’t keep it from clunking loudly on the Formica surface. The sound echoed in the near-empty Happy Time Tavern.

“Oops,” she said, and giggled.

Anthony Battaglia chuckled at her from across the table. He emptied his own glass to match her. Then he clunked his own glass on the table.

“Oops,” he said back.

Both officers laughed. Battaglia reached for the pitcher on the table and divvied up the remainder of the Coors Light between them.

Carson reached for her glass, now about a third full. Or, she wondered, was it two-thirds empty? The thought made her giggle again.

“Now what’s funny?” Battaglia asked.

“Nothing,” Carson replied. “It’s stupid.”

“But you laughed.”

“Yeah, but it was stupid.”

“Try me,” Battaglia urged.

“It’s stupid. Really.”

“I’ve got a stupid sense of humor. I’m Italian.”

Carson sighed. “All right.”

“Good.” He leaned forward and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

She held up her glass. “I just noticed that this was about one-third full. Then the thought popped in my mind, is it one-third full or is it two-thirds empty?”

Battaglia lowered his brows and stared at her.

“It thought it was funny,” Carson said, and shrugged.

“No, you were right,” Battaglia deadpanned. “It was stupid.”

“Shut up!” she said, laughing and throwing a balled-up napkin at him.

The wadded napkin struck Battaglia in the forehead and dropped directly into his beer glass.

Carson let out a squealing laugh. She covered her mouth, but her laughter continued.

Battaglia let out an exaggerated sigh. He reached for several other napkins and made a small pile. Then he reached inside his glass with two fingers and fished out the soggy napkin. He held it up for Carson to see before plopping it onto the bed of dry napkins he’d created. Then he peered at the remaining beer in his glass. “Well, now my beer is either one-quarter full or three-quarters empty.”

Another squealing laugh escaped from behind Carson’s hand.

Battaglia waggled an index finger at her. “Well, now I know one of your dark secrets, B.J.”

She shook her head but couldn’t speak through the giggles.

“That squeaky laugh…” He shook his head. “Well, I just don’t know.”

The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Carson’s giggles slowly faded. When she had them under control, she took a sip of beer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Battaglia said.

“Why didn’t we go to Duke’s?”

“Huh?”

“Duke’s,” she said. “Isn’t that the main hangout bar for patrol?”

Battaglia shrugged. “Sure. I mean, some guys go there.”

Carson didn’t reply. During her stint at the academy and since being in the training car, she’d hardly heard of officers going anywhere else. It was supposed to be the one place where the cops could cut loose without everyone eyeballing them. All the celebrations-promotions, retirements, probation parties-happened at Duke’s.

So why did Battaglia bring her here instead? The Happy Time was a nice little neighborhood bar, right along Division Street, just above the crest of the hill that rose from the river valley below. When she’d parked her car shortly after their shift ended, she’d been treated to a nice view of the city core below. So it wasn’t that this was a bad choice, but it wasn’t Duke’s. Which brought her back to, Why?

Battaglia was staring down at the beer in front of him. Carson opened her mouth to repeat the question when he spoke.

“Why do you think I asked you to beers at all?” he asked. He looked up and met her eyes. “Why, B.J.?”

Carson felt a nervous pang in her chest when she met his eyes. The attraction there was palpable and even when her mind raced to factor in the number of drinks they’d downed, she knew she couldn’t write it off to beer lust. She swallowed.

Battaglia’s penetrating gaze didn’t leave her.

Carson wet her lips, then cursed herself for the obviously flirtatious gesture. She hoped it was the drink talking.

“Uh, you’re the chair of the platoon’s welcoming committee?”

Battaglia shook his head. “No,” he said softly.

Carson shrugged. “I don’t know then. Why did you ask me to beers?”

“That call last night,” he said. “The traffic stop. With the Russians.”

“Oh.” Carson hadn’t wanted to think about it again just yet.

“I figured it might’ve shaken you up a little bit,” Battaglia continued. “Thought you might want to talk about it, is all.”

Carson took another sip of beer. “What’s to talk about?”

“Whatever you want,” Battaglia said. “Tactics, feelings, whatever.”

Carson grinned nervously. “Well, Dr. Battaglia, how much does it cost to lie on your couch and spew out all my secret feelings?”

She regretted the words as soon as she said them.

But Battaglia didn’t smile. His face darkened and he leaned forward. “B.J., you can joke if you want. I like joking. Hell, it’s all Sully and I ever do. But don’t joke about a partner reaching out to you when something bad happens on the job. That’s something sacred and you don’t joke about it.”

His intensity surprised her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking down at her hands. He called me a partner.

He waved her apology away. “Not necessary. You’re a rookie. You don’t know these things. But you’ll learn. Your platoon will help, as long as you’re a hard worker and not afraid to step up when things get hot.”

Carson nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”

“I know. I saw it last night.”

Carson looked back into his face. “I was scared shitless,” she admitted. “And I didn’t know what to do.”

Battaglia’s expression softened. He reached out and patted her hand, then left it on top of hers. “This job is ninety-nine percent boredom,” he told her, “and one percent sheer terror. The stressful part is, you never know when the one percent is coming.”

Battaglia’s palm and fingers warmed the back of Carson’s hand. She knew she should casually pull her hand away. That was the signal she should send: You’re married, and we work together. That’s what she should say.

But that’s never what you say, is it?

She cleared her throat and said, “Last night was definitely in the one percent category.”

Battaglia smiled. He squeezed her hand lightly and removed his. “It was. The whole thing could have gone to shit. So you have to ask yourself, what are we doing here? What’s at stake? They had, what? Seven guys?”

“I think so.”

Battaglia took a swallow of beer. “And who knows how many of them had guns? So we’re supposed to push matters? Get into a gunfight over a traffic ticket?” He shook his head. “No, we did the only thing we could.”

Somehow, Carson thought he was trying to convince himself as much as her. She lifted her glass and finished it.

Battaglia swallowed the last of his own beer, too. “We should probably call no joy, huh?”

“No joy?”

Battaglia shrugged. “Fighter pilot talk.”

“Were you a pilot?” Carson gushed.

Battaglia laughed. “Oh, I fly my cruiser low once in a while, but that’s about it.” He shook his head. “No, I got that from some movie.”

“Oh,” Carson said. She let out a giggle that she didn’t really feel, embarrassed at sounding like a teenage girl mooning over a fighter pilot.

“Careful,” Battaglia said, standing. “That squeal might escape again.”

Carson stood as well, sending a light punch into Battaglia’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

Battaglia fished some folded bills from his pocket. Carson rummaged through her purse for her wallet. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy.

“Relax,” Battaglia told her. “I got it.”

“No,” Carson said, “I can pay my share.”

Battaglia dropped a few bills on the table. “Next time,” he said.

Carson acquiesced and the two of them made their way to the door. Her movements were a little wooden and clumsy. She was probably borderline for driving home, even though it wasn’t very far to her apartment.

When she reached her car, she felt Battaglia’s hand on her shoulder. The warm strength of it almost made her knees buckle. She froze, then turned toward him, determined not to let her emotions and the beer carry her away. No matter what, I will not kiss him.

“Are you okay to drive?”

“Frobably pine,” she answered, then covered her mouth and laughed.

Battaglia smiled. “Or frobably not.” He released her shoulder. “Come on, I’ll drop you at your place.”

Carson’s heart rate kicked up. Her place?

I can not sleep with him. He’s married. He’s on my platoon. That part of my life is over. I’m a different person now.

“No, that’s okay,” she finally said.

“What?”

“I’ll just, you know, sit and listen to the radio for a while. Then I’ll drive home.”

Battaglia strolled back toward her. “Did you learn in the academy about the rate that alcohol metabolizes in the body?”

“Yes,” she answered, struggling to remember the equation.

“What is it?”

“I don’t remember the exact figures,” Carson said. “You know, I didn’t realize there was going to be a test right here in the Happy Time parking lot.”

Battaglia smiled. “Well, trust me. You’ll be here at least an hour before you’re ready to drive home. So let me take you.”

“You drank just as much as I did,” Carson said.

“I did.”

“So should you be driving?”

“I weigh at least fifty pounds more than you,” Battaglia said. “Do the math.”

Carson frowned. “I’m terrible at math.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have anything to throw.”

“Yeah,” Battaglia said. “It’d land in my glass and I’d be out more beer. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

Carson still didn’t move. “What about my car?” she asked, desperate for a last-ditch excuse.

“I’ll come in a little early tonight,” Battaglia explained. “I’ll pick you up at your house and drop you at your car. Then you can drive it to work. No fuss, no muss.”

Carson hesitated, but she was out of reasons to decline. Battaglia opened the driver’s door and popped the lock for her. She slid into the passenger seat. The cab had the slight scent of his cologne in it.

Battaglia let the engine idle for a few moments, staring straight ahead. Then he turned to Carson. “You asked me why I didn’t take you to Duke’s.”

She nodded.

Battaglia shrugged. “I guess I didn’t want people to talk.”

“Talk?” she asked, though she knew immediately what he meant.

“Sure,” he said, pointing to himself and then to her. “Man, woman. That sort of thing.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I mean, if we’d invited another cop or two along, it’d be nothing,” Battaglia explained. “Just taking the rookie out for a beer, is all. If we did that, though, we couldn’t have talked about that stop with the Russians. But if we went to Duke’s together with no one else, the River City rumor mill would start up on us. You know?”

Carson knew about the rumor mill. She’d been the grist too many times. “I guess,” she said. “I suppose it’s the same everywhere.”

“People is people,” Battaglia agreed.

They fell silent. Battaglia took in a deep breath and let it out. “So there it is,” he finally said, then dropped the truck into gear. “Your address?”

Carson gave it to him, then said, “Just go up Division until you hit-”

“I don’t need directions,” Battaglia said. “I know this city like the back of my hand.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You will, too,” he said, his voice tender. “Soon.”

Battaglia drove unerringly to her address and pulled up to the apartment complex. “Curbside service,” he announced.

Carson was glad to see that he didn’t turn off the engine or make any sign that he expected to come inside. She absolutely wasn’t going to invite him-was she? — but it made it easier that he didn’t expect it.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem. When do you usually leave for work?”

“About eight.”

“I’ll be here. Just another fine service by Battaglia’s Beers ’n’ Cab.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Batts,” she said. His nickname sounded good to her ear, felt good rolling off her tongue.

“Anytime.”

She reached for her door handle, then stopped suddenly. She leaned across the seat and brushed her lips against his cheek. The beginning stubble of his beard raked her tender lips, and the scent of his skin and his cologne filled her nostrils.

Battaglia didn’t move.

She pulled away and popped open her door. “Really,” she said. “Thanks for everything.”

He met her gaze. “Anytime,” he repeated softly.

She flashed him a grin as she stepped out of the truck and closed the door behind her. He raised his hand in farewell and she returned the wave, then he nudged his truck forward and drove away.

A jumble of mixed emotions jangled around inside Carson’s chest. What the hell was that?

At her door she fumbled inside her purse until she drew out the key ring. She was grateful to be home. She resolved not to think about it. Just jump in the hot shower and get into bed. Sleep. She just needed to sleep. Another graveyard shift was coming.

But it wasn’t the shift she was worried about.

1214 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat at the table in the corner. The Zippo lighter with the Soviet logo turned slowly in his hands. He touched it with more than an absent-minded caress, but less than actual affection. He rolled and dipped it through his fingers slowly, because slow control was the mark of a man who had mastered an act. Anyone could blaze through something with a little practice. Slow control demonstrated mastery.

Dmitri was late once again. Val had already decided that if he did not come with the converted AK-47s, this would be the last meeting the fat man was ever late for in his miserable life. If he had the rifles, though… well, perhaps he could learn from a mere reprimand.

Pyotr hovered near the cash register, watching him but acting like he wasn’t. Whenever Val glanced his way, the old man gave him an ingratiating smile and a nod. Val returned his nod with a cool gaze.

The clattering of beads announced the arrival of his waitress. Natalia slid a cup of Turkish coffee in front of him, her jasmine perfume washing over him. She placed her hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward slightly, giving him a perfect view of her cleavage.

“Will there be anything else?” she purred.

“No,” he replied.

An exaggerated pout appeared on her face and she turned away. As she walked, the sway of her hips was as pronounced as her expression.

“Natalia,” he grunted after her.

The dark-haired beauty stopped and turned around, smiling. “Yes, Valeriy?”

He waved her over. She sashayed back, resting her elbows on the table and batting her doe eyes at him.

“What is it?” she whispered huskily.

“I will gladly take you to my bed,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are most beautiful. You might even make a good wife.”

Her expression went from insulted to flattered within the space of his sentence, and her eyes grew sultry.

Val raised his finger. “But,” he said, “this is a coffee shop. Not a whorehouse. Just be pretty and a little bit friendly. That will be enough to bring the business in.”

Natalia gave him a hurt look.

Val waved her away. “Get back to work.”

The waitress turned and walked away. This time, the sway of her hips was noticeably muted.

Good, Valeriy thought.The less attention to this place, the better.

The door swung open and Dmitri strode in. He sat down without asking. After a moment he realized what he’d done and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” Val said, waving him to the chair he’d already claimed.

Dmitri sat gratefully and wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. “I am late,” he said.

“I noticed,” Val answered, injecting just a hint of disapproval into his tone.

“My apologies,” Dmitri added quickly, “but I was just finishing up the job.”

“Finishing?”

Dmitri smiled. “Da. I didn’t want to bring you anything less than your full complement of arms.”

Val nodded, impressed. He took a long, noisy sip of his harsh Turkish coffee. “Even so, Dmitri,” he said, his voice pleasant but laced with danger, “it isn’t wise to keep someone waiting. After all, I might think that perhaps you went to the police.”

“Never!” Dmitri said forcefully. “I am no stukach!”

Val shrugged. “Or perhaps it is a sign of disrespect.”

“No, no, no!” Dmitri objected, waving his hands. “I just wanted to finish the last rifle. That’s all! If I could have called you, I would have, but you won’t use the telephone.”

Val’s eyes narrowed. “Are you taking me to task, Dmitri Yuskevich?”

“Nyet, nyet!” he cried, waving his hands even more fervently. “I am only saying that… oh, I don’t know what I am saying. Please forgive me, sir. I am an armorer. I know firearms. I am not so good with people.”

Val sat back and gave the fat man a long look. Then he nodded slowly. “Very well. Tell me what you have.”

Dmitri smiled, a hint of pride shining through his previous concern. “All ten,” he whispered. “In my trunk.”

“Tested?” Val asked.

“Dry-fired, yes.”

“But not with live ammunition?”

Dmitri shrugged. “It is hard to find a place to fire such weapons. And I had thought that you wanted these as quickly as possible. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Val answered. “You were not wrong. You guarantee that they will work?”

“Absolutely.”

Val removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. He scrawled an address on it, then pushed it across to Dmitri. “Deliver them to the garage behind this address. Knock three times, loudly, on the garage door.”

Dmitri studied the address.

“Do not knock twice or four times, Dmitri,” Val cautioned, “or you will not like their response.”

Dmitri swallowed hard, but nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

“Very well. You may go.”

Dmitri rose in his chair and started to leave. He paused for a moment and turned back toward Valeriy.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I am truly sorry for being late. Please know it was only so that I could finish the final rifle. To serve you better.”

Val simply nodded. “I accept your apology,” he said, then added, “This time.”

Dmitri smiled nervously and left.

Val watched him go, pleased. One person at a time, he was solidifying his own grip on this small empire, independent of Sergey’s power and reputation. All was going according to plan.

He sipped the Turkish coffee, his mind spinning. From the cash register Pyotr eyed him with gratitude and hatred. At the end of the counter, Natalia’s look was of lust and hatred. Neither one affected him as he examined and re-examined his strategy. His plans within plans within plans.

1239 hours

Officer Anthony Giovanni replaced the microphone and cursed. Less than two hours to go and he had just been nabbed for a special detail. And the worst part was that the dispatcher who nailed him for it was Irina, who was still mad at him for casually sleeping with her four years ago. She was as bad as Ridgeway when it came to letting things go. Ridgeway was still stewing about his messy divorce that happened around the same time Gio dated Irina. Some people really needed to let things go after a time.

Gio hung a left and headed up north toward the Costco. The heavy daytime traffic slowed his response, but eventually he swung into the Costco parking lot and pulled up next to Sergeant Michaels’ vehicle. “What’s up, Sarge?”

Michaels sighed. “Well, we’re being tapped to help the feds with a babysitting detail.”

“Babysitting?”

“Yep. Apparently they have a high-profile witness or informant or whatever, and they want extra help in keeping him safe.”

“Where?”

“At the Quality Inn just up the street.”

“So why are we meeting here?”

“Because they want you to park here and walk in.”

Gio grinned. “Are you kidding?”

Michaels shook his head. “Nope. The guys relieving you will get the word to come up plainclothes in an undercover vehicle, but you’re first on the hit list.”

“What the hell, Sarge?”

Michaels raised his hands. “I know, I know. Fuckin’ feds.”

“Exactly.”

“But the chief is on board. So we have to play. Park your car here and walk in. They’re in room 420.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Though I’m sure the irony is lost on the feebs.”

“Probably.”

“And Gio?”

“What?”

“It’s mandatory overtime. Graveyard will relieve you around nine thirty tonight.”

Gio sighed. He was supposed to meet a girl for drinks at seven thirty. Tricia. Or Trina. He couldn’t remember, but either way worked. He figured she’d probably reschedule for nine thirty. If not, he could always call Angela.

“Fine,” he said.

“Thanks for not bitching, Gio.”

Gio smiled tightly. “You should have picked Ridgeway instead. He doesn’t have a life.”

Michaels laughed. “Yeah. Ridgeway and a fed. That’s not going to be a problem.”

“At least he won’t have to reschedule his personal life.”

Michaels grinned. “She’ll wait for you, Gio. Whoever she is, she’ll wait. She thinks you’re the answer to her prayers.”

Gio smiled and shook his head as he rolled up his window and killed his engine. Sergeant Michaels gave him a two-fingered salute and pulled away.

Gio removed his wallet from his patrol bag and began the two block trek north to the Quality Inn. As he walked, he reminded himself that he was being well paid for his troubles, though probably not as well as the federal officer that he was pretty certain he wasn’t going to like one little bit.

He arrived at the front door of the hotel a little bit sweaty and in a worse mood than when he left his patrol car. The door swung open and a rush of cool air washed over him. He reveled in it for a brief moment, then met the eyes of the front desk clerk.

“Elevator?” he asked.

The young clerk, who resembled Ebenezer Scrooge at twenty with some acne issues, pointed a wavering finger to his left. “Is there, uh, some problem?”

“Nope,” Gio said. “Just meeting my girlfriend.”

The clerk swallowed.

“Just kidding,” Gio told him, walking toward the elevator. “I’m taking a theft report.”

“Oh,” the clerk replied, obviously relieved. “Okay.”

Gio found the elevator and punched the number four. Room 420 was nestled at the end of a hallway. Gio rapped on the door. There was a long pause before a cautious “Who’s there?” came from inside.

“Rent-a-cop,” Gio announced.

After another pause, a rattling chain told Gio he’d guessed the secret password. The door swung open. A small, dark-haired man in a black suit greeted him with a nod. “Officer. Come on in.”

Gio stepped into the hotel room and the agent closed the door behind him. Gio scanned the room. Two king-sized beds dominated the main area; a desk and a TV stand filled out the rest. The TV was on, playing a popular music video that Gio vaguely recognized and happened to like.

The agent stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Greg Leeb,” he said, his elfin features breaking into a smile. “Looks like we’re cellmates.”

Gio reached out and shook the agent’s hand. It was firm but not overbearing.

“Who’s our principal?” Gio asked.

Leeb jerked a thumb toward the bathroom. “Oleg Tretiak. He’s… incapacitated.”

“Sick?”

Leeb shrugged. “Nerves. He’s been through a lot.”

“Like what?” Gio asked.

Leeb gave him a curious look. “They didn’t brief you?” Gio shook his head. Leeb smiled. “Well have a sit, brother. I shall enlighten you.”

Gio smiled back. He was going to like this guy.

2101 hours

Graveyard Shift

Chisolm watched Lieutenant Robert Saylor step up to the lectern. The chatter around the drill hall dried up as the officers in the room gave the shift commander their full attention.

Saylor looked out at the assembled group, meeting their eyes as he spoke. “Number one on the hot board tonight,” he said, “is a bulletin from Renee in Crime Analysis. It is twofold. The first is an officer safety warning from a CI. You all have a copy of the details in front of you. Apparently some of the Russian criminals in our city have devised a strategy to disobey minor infractions.”

Chisolm had already skimmed the memorandum. He waited while the rest of the shift did so. A few astonished exhalations were the only sound.

“Now,” Saylor said, “a situation like this puts the officer in a difficult position. You have to be able to justify your use of force based on the behavior of the suspect. What can we do in this type of situation?”

Chisolm raised his hand.

Saylor nodded at the veteran officer. “Tom?”

“Don’t go code four, for starters,” Chisolm said. “That way, you always have adequate backup. After that, I’d say you have to judge each situation by its own merits. If you can act decisively and take someone into custody, then you should. But if the risk outweighs the reward?” Chisolm shrugged. “Forget it. We’ll get them eventually.”

Saylor nodded and looked around the room. “Is everyone listening? Your safety is number one.”

There was a murmur of understanding throughout the assembled group.

“That said,” Saylor continued, “if any events such as what this CI describes do occur, I want to know about it immediately.”

Heads bobbed collectively. Chisolm knew Saylor cared about his men and took care of them, which is one of the reasons he respected the shift commander.

“Okay,” Saylor said. “Now, secondly, Renee is reporting that we now have the assistance of the Federal Bureau of Investigation at our disposal when it comes to issues of organized crime.”

A smattering of groans and a titter of laughter went through the room. Chisolm couldn’t resist joining in. “An FBI agent, El-Tee?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Saylor answered. “Why?”

“Well, sir,” Chisolm replied, “excuse me for saying, but those guys are about as helpful as a hostage negotiator with Tourette’s syndrome.”

The room exploded in raucous laughter, and a slight smile appeared on Saylor’s face. Chisolm tipped him a wink. He knew one of his roles was to keep roll calls loose and that his commanding officer appreciated it. Some things weren’t very different between the military and police work.

Once the guffaws tapered off, Lieutenant Saylor turned up his hands to the assembled group. “Their effectiveness aside, the Bureau is at our disposal.” His voice turned slightly more serious. “If we get anything on the intel side, they might actually be helpful, so forward it to Renee. Any questions?”

No one raised a hand.

“All right, then,” Saylor said. “All that potential support from the feds doesn’t come free, though. We’ve got a babysitting detail to rotate through up at the Quality Inn on Division. Sergeant Shen will have the assignment. It’s an all-nighter.”

“Glad I work south side,” Officer Aaron Norris quipped from the Charlie Sector table.

“You’re assigned south,” Chisolm shot back. “I don’t know about the work part.”

Another chorus of laughter and a few “Oohs” went through the room. Norris paused a moment, searching for a reply. He settled for the tried and true-a middle finger.

“Is that your IQ or the number of parents you know?” Chisolm asked him, sparking another round of laughter.

Saylor raised his hands to settle things down. “Okay, that’s enough. Does anyone else have anything besides verbal jabs?” No one replied. “Okay. Then let’s hit the street.”

Chairs scraped as officers rose to leave. As Chisolm stood, Norris called out to him. “Hey, Tom, I heard that at your age, ‘getting a little action’ means you don’t need to take any fiber today.”

“That’s not what your wife said,” Chisolm said. “By the way, you need to pick up some bread on the way home after work.”

“Really?” Norris said. “What brought that up? The yeast infection?”

Chisolm raised his palms in a half shrug, half surrender. He couldn’t top that. Instead, he gathered up his patrol bag and headed for the basement to get his car.

2249 hours

Valeriy rapped lightly on the front door. After a few moments Marina appeared in her bathrobe. When she recognized her brother she smiled and opened the door.

“Good to see you,” she said, giving him a short embrace. She planted a light kiss on his jaw. “But you always come so late, Valera. If you came earlier, you could have some dinner with us.”

Val shrugged. “I don’t want to intrude on your family time.”

She waved his words away. “Don’t be foolish. You’re my brother. You are family. Besides, Pavel loves you. I think perhaps you are even his hero.”

Good.

“And Sergey?” Val asked.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Sergey loves you, too, silly. You are like his brother.”

“I feel the same,” he said. Like Cain and Abel.

Marina slid her hand into his and leaned her head onto his shoulder. “We were right to come here,” she said, her voice soft. “America has been good for us.”

“Yes,” Val agreed. “It is a place where a man can shape his own destiny.”

“A woman, too,” she reminded, nudging him with her shoulder.

Val nodded, though he didn’t understand. What was she doing any differently as Sergey’s wife in America that she couldn’t have accomplished back home in Ukraine? There wasn’t much difference, other than some luxuries. Not like how his own vista of opportunity spread open for him when he came to this country.

“A drink?” Marina asked him.

“Sure.”

She squeezed his arm and drifted away. Val watched her slim form as she walked toward the kitchen. His sister was a beautiful, pure woman, perhaps the most beautiful woman he knew. Sergey didn’t have any idea how lucky he was to be married to her. Though Sergey didn’t treat her poorly and was very discreet with his mistresses, Val didn’t believe that he was close to worthy of her. Of course, Val knew he would probably not find a man alive that would be worthy of Marina.

So what would she do when Sergey was gone?

The creak of the stairs pierced his thoughts, and a moment later Sergey entered the living room, still fully dressed. That meant that his boss intended to go out, whether to see a mistress or otherwise. Val would have to convince him not to. It was important that he be at home tonight.

“Valeriy,” he said. “You are coming by late again. More business?”

Val nodded. The two men moved into the kitchen and sat at the small wooden table in the corner. Marina put a short glass of vodka in front of each of them. Val smiled his thanks to his sister but Sergey merely grunted and threw back the drink with one hard swallow. Then he tapped the glass with his wedding ring. Marina refilled the glass without pause, then left the bottle on the table.

“Bed for me,” she said pleasantly before kissing both men briefly on the cheek and leaving. Neither man spoke until the creaking sound of the stairs faded.

“What is so pressing?” Sergey asked. His voice was a little sharper than Val was accustomed to.

“The first move is in motion,” Val said.

Sergey considered for a moment. “You mean the black move or the brown move?”

Val suppressed a scowl. He tried to keep his discussions with Sergey somewhat encoded so that anyone listening wouldn’t be able to connect the dots. Their most direct and pointed conversations usually took place outdoors, away from their vehicles, while walking. There was less chance that someone was recording them that way. He knew that he was likely being overly careful on this matter, but the memories of the KGB refused to leave him, so he kept his vigilance. Perhaps the Americans were not so invasive. Perhaps their organization was not yet interesting enough to the police to garner this level of attention. But the vigilance was his discipline and he kept to it, so it bothered him when Sergey strayed so far.

“Black,” he said reluctantly, “then brown.”

He didn’t like this simplistic code-speak. Anyone listening would immediately break out the racial meaning, particularly after the events to come.

“Good,” Sergey said. “And Ivan?”

“The judge set bail at $20,000.”

“For disciplining his wife?”

Val shook his head. “The police officer he fought with suffered a broken ankle. They are charging him with assaulting her as well.”

“Her?”

“The police officer was a woman,” Val said with a shrug. “It is America.”

Sergey sighed, but nodded. “Of course. Who will take Ivan’s place?”

“Ivan is free,” Val reported. “Yuri bailed him out.”

Sergey frowned. “For twenty thousand? That is a steep price to pay for one man’s freedom, brother.”

“We used a bail bondsman. It only cost ten percent.” Val gave Sergey a cold smile. “As I said, this is America.”

Sergey gazed at him for another moment, then returned the smile, just as cold. “I see. Sometimes I forget how easy it is here.” He paused, then said, “Very well. Proceed as planned.”

“Yes, Sergey.”

“But after our second move, I will meet with the leaders of the gangs.”

Val’s desire to scowl grew. Not only was Sergey abandoning careful talk, he was now changing their previous plans. “I thought you decided that I would go to them.”

“I changed my mind,” Sergey said.

“Why?”

“Do I answer to you now?” Sergey snapped.

Val didn’t reply. He wrapped his fingers around the vodka glass and brought the drink to his lips. As he sipped and swallowed, his mind raced. Why the change of plans and attitude from Sergey?

“I asked you a question,” Sergey pressed. He tapped his thick fingers on the table to accent each word. “Do I answer to you now, or am I still the boss?”

Val set the glass on the table. “I didn’t answer the question because the answer is apparent. You are, and always will be, the boss. I answer to you completely.”

“So you say.”

Val gave Sergey a hard look. “You are my brother’s wife. You are my captain. Do you doubt my loyalty?”

Sergey didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “I am wondering something, Valeriy Aleksandrovich. I am wondering why the men I talk to speak of their loyalty to you. I am wondering why they all speak so highly of you. I am wondering why they stand ready to do anything for you.”

“Their loyalty to me is based upon their loyalty to you,” Val answered evenly. “They know my loyalty to you is absolute.”

“Is it?”

Val clenched his jaw. His eyes narrowed. “Sergey, I will do anything you ask. But you break my heart when you question my faithfulness.”

“I wonder, sometimes, if you even have a heart to break, Valeriy.”

Val didn’t answer. He wasn’t about to show Sergey, or anyone, his secret heart. Instead he pushed back slightly from the table, reached into his pocket, and removed a heavy-bladed folding knife. With a flick of his thumb he snapped the blade open into a locked position.

Sergey watched.

Val placed his left hand on the table. He left his small finger extended and curled the others into a fist. He looked directly into Sergey’s eyes before lowering the tip of the knife onto the table next to the first knuckle of his extended finger. The razor-sharp point dug into the wooden tabletop. “How many knuckles do you want?” he asked, his voice flat.

Sergey seemed to appraise him. Then he asked, “How many will you give me?”

“All that you ask for,” Val answered without pause.

The tension between the two men hung in the air like an invisible fog. Val sat easily, his knife poised above his small finger, his eyes boring into Sergey. Sergey stared back, his expression contemplative. He lifted the glass to his mouth and drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I want the whole finger,” Sergey said softly.

Val shifted the knife so that it rested near the base of his finger. He gave Sergey a meaningful look and pressed downward.

Sergey’s hand shot out and caught Val’s at the wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong. With a hard pull, he moved Val’s hand away. Blood coursed from the deep cut on Val’s small finger and he could see the white of the bone at the bottom. But his finger was still whole.

“Put your knife away,” Sergey instructed. He rose from his seat and wet one of Marina’s kitchen towels in the sink.

Val snapped the blade shut and slid it into his pocket. Sergey thrust the damp cloth toward him, and he pressed it against the cut on his finger.

Sergey sat down. “I’m sorry I doubted you, brother,” he said. “But this is a dirty business we are in. Loyalty is a rare commodity.”

Val lifted the dishtowel and inspected his cut. He was going to need some stitches.

“There is a saying in our country,” Sergey continued. “Maybe you know it. ‘An enemy will agree, but a friend will argue.’ Do you know this saying, Valeriy?”

Val nodded. He dribbled some vodka onto his wound. It stung, but he resisted wincing. “I know this saying,” he said. “I live it.”

“I can see that,” Sergey said. “Now, tell me why you came here tonight.”

Val pressed the towel back against the injury, then looked up at Sergey. “You need to stay home tonight,” he said, “so that you will not be connected to anything that happens.”

“Very well. I had certain plans, but…” He shrugged.

Val ignored the obvious reference to Sergey’s mistress and went on. “After our business tonight, I planned to sit down with certain people to discuss the future operations here in River City. If you want to be the one to do that, I will step aside.”

“What do you recommend?” Sergey asked.

“I recommend you stay as insulated as possible,” Val said. “Let me be your voice for now. Everyone who knows anything knows that I speak on your behalf, but no one who wants to prove that will be able to.”

“You mean the police?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t think they are a realistic threat,” Sergey said.

Not now, Val thought. But when we expand, they will be our greatest threat.

Sergey took another sip from his vodka glass. “I think that in matters such as this, people need to see that I am the one in charge. Their people, and ours, too.”

“I am certain you are correct,” Val said. Perhaps it would work better for him, too.

Sergey nodded. “I am.” He reached out and patted Val on the forearm. “You are a good lieutenant, Valeriy, but I am a better general. You must trust my vision.”

“I am yours,” Val said.

Sergey laughed, a short barking sound that filled the small kitchen. “We saw that tonight already, didn’t we?” He reached for his glass and drained it. Then he stared down into the empty bottom. “What about the bookkeeper?” he asked.

Val shifted and turned his left hand over, pressing it down to the tabletop to maintain pressure on the cut. With his free hand he picked up his glass and raised it to Sergey in a silent toast and swallowed its contents. Then he held it out toward Sergey.

After a moment the older man smiled and poured them both another. Val turned his glass in his fingers. “They also say in our homeland that the tongue always returns to the sore tooth,” he mused.

“This particular tooth is rotting,” Sergey replied. “And the dentist failed to pull it.”

Val felt the warmth from the vodka brewing in his stomach. He raised the glass and sipped. This felt like old times to him. They could have been sitting in a Kiev flat, huddled against the cold and sipping vodka. Those times were simpler, back when his ambition was simply to become Sergey’s right hand.

He pushed away the sentimentality. “Our man did his job. He is not to blame that the target was not present.”

“But where is the target?”

“I don’t know. But I will find out.”

Sergey stared down into his vodka with a concerned expression. “What do you think, Valera? Is he on the run? Or did he go to the enemy?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Val replied. “But I will ask you this. If someone took from you what we took from him, would you simply run away? Or would you seek out your revenge?”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

Val nodded. “For me, as well. And I don’t think that Oleg is so different from either of us.”

“No,” Sergey said. “He was bold enough to steal money from me and to complain about how I ran matters.” He shook his head. “What a fool. You would think that a man who was stealing would remain as quiet as possible, so as not to attract attention to himself.”

“Not every man is capable of remaining silent,” Val said. “But don’t worry, Sergey. The horse may run quickly, but it cannot escape its own tail. I will find him.”

“Do whatever it takes,” Sergey instructed. “I am not a man to be trifled with, nor betrayed.”

Val only nodded.