by Seeley James
My phone rang. Kasey Earl. We exchanged pleasantries for a moment before he came to the point.
“You got anything for me at Sabel?” he asked.
“We’re about to dispatch a clearing team to Darfur.” Clearing being shorthand for bomb-squad, or more specifically, digging up land mines so children can play without losing a leg.
“Funny.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “We need thirty guys and only have twenty-five qualified right now. Pay’s good. Accommodations suck. But the danger’s fair to high. If you want Ms. Sabel to forgive-and-forget, it would be a—”
“I got something better.” He waited for me to ask. I didn’t. After a few awkward seconds, he continued. “How would you like insider information about Roche’s contract bids you’re competing on?”
“That would be dishonest. We don’t do that.”
His despondent sigh traveled over the air all the way from NYC to my ear.
I broke the silence. “How is David Watson working out?”
“Ain’t you heard?” he asked. “He’s done gone to your side.”
“Get out. When did that happen?” I heard him snicker in the background as he moved away from the mic. “Who took his job?”
“Sure as hell weren’t me.” He scoffed.
“They should put you in. There’s something wrong there.”
He grunted his agreement.
“What did Watson do that got him fired?” I asked.
“I dunno.”
“Well, if we just hired him and he’s a terrorist or a child molester, that would be important to Ms. Sabel. So, here’s your chance to get on her good side.”
“Oh, hey, yeah. I should look into that shit.”
I clicked off and sighed. Spy handling was not my thing. I preferred shooting people to making them betray their employers. Especially when they’re as despicable as Kasey.
But I couldn’t care very much. All I could think about was crashing face-first into my big soft bed, clothes and all.
I rounded the corner off the main road into my quiet, tree-lined neighborhood, going fast. I splashed through a puddle. Water sprayed out higher than the roof of my car. I love that. The guy walking his dog was less enthusiastic. It’s shocking what kind of language people use sometimes.
When my eyes returned to the street, a pale figure stood in the middle of the road. I slammed on my brakes and skidded to a stop, expecting to hear the thud of a body hitting the hood of my car. Instead, it disappeared.
Mercury reappeared in the seat next to me, his mini-toga soaking wet. Aw, dawg, do you have any idea how much I love blowing your mind?
I peeled myself off the ceiling. Please, don’t ever do that again.
Mercury said, Bro, you got one heavy schedule ahead of you tonight. Let’s get moving.
He was wrong: the only thing left on my calendar was an appointment with the pillow.
My headlights swept the driveway. Their reflection lit up my yard when they hit the rising garage door. In that single second of illumination, I could see a dark figure huddled on my doorstep. I parked, drew my pistol, and snuck out as the garage door rattled back down.
A quick peek around the corner revealed a woman in a black hooded cape curled up on my stoop. An overhang slightly larger than a doormat kept the rain off but left her little room. Her posture was non-threatening, so I holstered my weapon and approached.
Emily Lunger, the Post’s embedded reporter at Sabel Security, and a former lover, looked up with a pale, frightened face. The hood framed her like a movie star from the black-and-white days.
I’d fallen in love with her once. Then I left her at a coffee shop waiting for a romantic weekend that never happened because … I was an easily distracted jerk.
I’ve matured since then. I left my prowling days behind and was actively seeking a life-partner. Ever since I bought my house, I’ve become serious about the matter. Whenever I look at my backyard, I can picture children frolicking in the weeds.
Maybe I should mow that.
Anyway. I’m ready to meet the right woman. I want someone worth cooking a five-course meal for. I want someone worth asking how her day went. I want someone worth listening to when she answers me with every excruciatingly microscopic detail of exactly how her day went. I’m ready to share my future with one woman—and only one woman. Probably.
So far, none of the women I’d been serious about were serious about me. For them, it’s all fun and games until her husband comes back from his business trip. Then she ghosts on me and my calls are blocked.
I had my chance with Emily. That ship sailed a long time ago. She was in love with someone else now. Someone who treated her right. Someone who invited her on romantic weekends—and went with her.
Emily had tears in her eyes.
She rose and stood before me with a despondent mixture of longing and pain. She held something in her hand. It was hard to see in the dark, but it looked like a small velvet box from Tiffany’s. She pushed it to me like an offering. I looked at the box. I looked at her.
She twitched a pained smile and opened it.
A giant diamond ring sparkled in what little light spilled from my living room window.
I gawked at the size of the thing. Shafts of light radiated in all directions like the big scene in a romantic movie that blew its budget on special effects. I didn’t know they could do that in real life. I was frozen with curiosity and fear at the same time.
“What should I do?” She broke down in sobs.
Mercury said, Dang, dude! Do you always have women hanging around waiting for a chance to propose?
I said, In my dreams.
When I slipped my hand around her to unlock the door, she snapped the box shut and curled under my arm. I opened the door. Anoshni ran out, jumping and barking with excitement. I pushed them both inside.
I took Emily’s coat and hung it while she stood in the foyer, staring at the ring. She wore a sleek black dress, tight and short, with heels and pearls. Her matching black pumps showed off her legs. She was dressed to impress. I moved to the kitchen, gave Anoshni a treat, and pulled a shrimp ceviche out of the fridge.
She followed slowly, stopping between every step to break down in soft tears.
When she reached the archway to the kitchen, she leaned against the wall. “You don’t like it?”
I pulled a shrimp from the lime sauce, held it over a cocktail napkin, and offered it to her. She crossed to the kitchen island. Her gaze locked on mine while she leaned forward and took the offered bite.
As soon as her mouth was full, I said, “It’s not my size.”
She was in the middle of an eyes-closed culinary orgasm—because I’m that good a chef—when her eyes blew open. She almost spat her shrimp. She chewed and gulp-swallowed keeping one hand up to stop me from talking. “It’s not for you, idiot. Bianca proposed.”
Mercury said, Idiot. That’s a lot nicer thing than she called you the last time you two were alone. You’re coming up in the world, homie.
I said, Can you give me a minute? She’s upset.
Mercury said, Whoa, Sherlock, the power of your deductive reasoning is awesome. Just don’t forget, she shot a guy in the face with a shotgun once. So. Like. Be chill here.
I said, Forget? She saved my life with that shotgun—no thanks to you.
I handed her a tissue. She looked up at me and sniffled.
I didn’t know what to say. “Uh. Congratulations, then?”
Wrong. Apparently.
She broke down again.
Anoshni had enough with the tears. He darted out the doggie door.
There are things a veteran with eight tours of duty under his belt can do well: call in airstrikes, shoot bad guys, make playgrounds safe for Afghan kids. Consoling someone after a marriage proposal isn’t on the list. I tried handing her another shrimp. She waved it off. I pushed the dish to the center of the counter and grabbed some red leaf lettuce and arugula. I tore the lettuce into bite-size
d pieces and added tomatoes that I cut into thin wedges. Slivered olives and figs with torn basil topped the growing bowl. Then, goat cheese crumbled with care. I drizzled olive oil and balsamic vinegar over the top, and coarse-ground salt and spicy pepper. I twirled it and dumped the mixture onto a salad plate, added two forks and handed her a napkin.
Emily’s eyes watched my preparations with growing interest. She placed the ring, open, on the counter where she could see it and climbed the bar stool.
I leaned over and took the first bite. I waited until we were three bites in. “Bianca is the smartest person I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah, she is.”
“I’ve only known you for a couple years, but these last six months, I’ve never seen anyone as happy as you.”
“I know.”
I ate my salad and waited.
Mercury, standing behind her, pointed at the backyard. Hey homeslice, you need to keep your ears open. You hear that?
I said, I’m busy. Warn me if I need to chase the neighbor’s dog again.
Emily focused on eating. After she whittled it down to the last couple bites, she looked up. Then her gaze fell to the ring and tears streamed down her cheeks.
Mercury said, Homie, this is all nice and sweet, but have you checked out your back window lately?
I took a quick glance out the kitchen window and saw lots of dark. Leave me alone, she’s in pain.
“I can’t do it.” She caught a rolling tear with the back of her wrist. “I’m not gay. I mean. Well. Sure, you might call the last six months … whatever. And there was Carmen. And before her, there was Julia and … But I’m not gay. I wear makeup. I’ve never owned a Subaru.”
“You? Kicking out the stereotypes?”
“I know.” She looked embarrassed and sniffled into a tissue. “I don’t know if I could be gay the rest of my life. I mean. I’m still attracted to men. Maybe. I don’t know what I prefer.”
Mercury’s grin grew like the Cheshire cat’s. Oh dawg, you’re in for some hot sex tonight. Hot hot hot.
I said, No way. She’s not hitting on me.
Dude, help-me-find-my-gender-preference is the best kind.
I said, And you wonder why nobody worships you anymore.
I heard a strange noise at the back of the house and cocked my ear.
“Maybe.” Emily reached across the island to put her hand on mine. “You and I had some great times, Jacob.”
“You had better times with Bianca.”
“But. What if I cheat on her?”
Mercury said, Not hitting on you? Brutha, you’re in! She’s going to jump your bones. You should get Bianca over here and squeeze in the middle. Everybody loves a sandwich.
I said, I will not take advantage of the situation.
CRASH.
The window in my back door exploded. A hand reached in and turned the knob. The door swung open, and a slim man in a sleek Brioni suit stepped in. His Prada shoes crunched on the broken glass.
I reached for my pistol on the far end of the counter.
Mercury said, Oh yeah, tried to tell you. Russian gangsters are crawling around your property. You’re surrounded.
I said, You tried?
You were one zipper away from having Emily’s dress on the floor, homie. Tell me the truth. What’s more important: your heartbeat or your sex life?
We looked at each other and whispered in unison as if reading from the Sacred Book of Men, Sex life.
I added, But, for the record, I wasn’t going to take advantage of the situation.
Mercury shrugged. Shuuurre.
My senses picked up two more figures entering from different directions. One stepped behind me and grabbed my wrist, the other behind Emily.
“Do I interrupt special occasion?” Brioni-suit said. His mostly-gray hair was styled by a pro. His watch glittered behind the PSM Baikal-441 in his hand. If I remembered my Ranger training correctly, the initials stood for Pistolet Samozaryadny Malogabaritny, meaning compact self-loading pistol. A small gun that was all the rage among high-ranking Communist Party members and top KGB officers back in the Soviet era. In today’s Russian Federation, it’s passé.
In his other hand, he held Anoshni. My puppy had been fitted with a duct tape muzzle. The dog’s failure to subdue three large men weighed on him. His puppy-eyes looked to me for forgiveness.
Emily and I stared at Brioni with blank expressions. He nodded at the sparkling diamond on the counter. Her eyes followed his. She burst into tears again.
Brioni gave me a sympathetic shrug. “Not so good night for you?”
“What can I do for you?”
“I want Pozdeeva drive.”
“Poz-what?” I tried to free my wrist from a man built like a refrigerator.
“Don’t be dumb with me. Ilya Pozdeeva die at your boss feet six weeks ago.” He gave me an ice-cold stare.
Refrigerator-guy pressed a barrel to my temple, let go of my wrist, and slipped a leg-sized arm around my neck. I put my hands on the counter. Emily sat up straight. The goon behind her put her in an equally hope-crushing headlock and pulled her off the chair.
“We came for Pozdeeva drive.” Brioni put his gun away.
“You came to the wrong place.” I turned my hands up.
“You are Sabel’s lover, no?”
Emily gurgled her words. “She has more class than that.”
I did a long slow turn to look at Emily.
She gasped. “Just saying.”
“Lover, boy-toy, whatever—” Brioni snapped his fingers “—does not matter. What matters is she want her Jacob to have all finger and toe—and everything else—attached.”
Mercury leaned over Brioni’s shoulder. Boy-toy? You been holding out on me, bro?
I said, If you’re omniscient, why don’t you know he’s lying?
“Want me to make a call?” I choked out.
“You know where it is?”
I shook my head. “I know someone who knows. Probably.”
He tilted his head to the side and waited for me to tell him.
“If you let Emily go.” I nodded at her.
He shook his head slowly.
“Your guys killed Pozdeeva two months ago.” I struggled for breath. “Why wait so long to find it?”
“Concern yourself with keeping your lady alive.”
“I can get you a copy,” I said. “They said there was nothing on it, just some old emails from a couple decades ago. A few fake-news pools that are closed. Nothing that means anything today.”
“Pozdeeva was old-school,” Brioni said as if thinking out loud. He shifted Anoshni’s weight in his arm. “I want original drive. You find it, give it to me, tomorrow. I give you woman back.”
Brioni turned and opened the back door. The guy holding Emily leaned back, pulling her off the ground, and started to follow him.
“You’re not very smart then.” I waited for Brioni to look over his shoulder. “Taking a reporter from the Post will bring down the wrath of every journalist in the city. It’s the only thing worse than cop-killing in terms of getting unwanted attention.”
Brioni faced Emily. “This is true? You are reporter?”
“Journalist.” She squeaked over the musclehead’s arm.
Brioni nodded at his man. The guy dropped her. She staggered and put a hand to her throat. He squeezed Anoshni. “I keep dog.”
He stepped outside.
“Hey!” I called into the darkness. “How am I supposed to find you?”
“Not worry. I find you. Tomorrow.”
“I’m scheduled to be in Istanbul tomorrow.”
“Too bad for dog.” His voice trailed into the distance.
The guy holding me took my Glock and let go. He covered for his buddy as the two of them followed their boss into the dark.
“Tell me you have security cameras.” Emily had eyes the size of Frisbees. “Holy shit, Jacob—Viktor Popov just stole your dog.”
“You’re welcome. I’m not sure Anosh
ni thinks trading his life for yours was worthwhile though.”
Mercury said, Sometimes you should listen to your girlfriend, homie.
I said, She’s not my girlfriend. She’s Bianca’s—when she comes to her senses.
Emily scrambled to her phone and started dialing with shaking hands.
Mercury’s advice made its way through my thick skull.
“Wait.” I grabbed her wrist. “You know that guy?”
“Director of the SVR. Kremlin spies.” She pulled her hand away and resumed dialing. “But he comes to the USA pretending to be the cultural attaché at the Russian Embassy. That guy is a legend.”
I texted Bianca from my secure Sabel phone. “Get yourself and the original Pozdeeva drive to Sabel Security HQ or Sabel Gardens, whichever is closer. Don’t reply or ask questions. Do it NOW!”
My expertise with Arabic-speaking jihadis didn’t help in this situation. What little I knew about Russians came from a few incidents in strange corners of the world. Corners where there weren’t supposed to be any Russians. Whenever I ran into them, they made Mafia goons look like altar boys. “So who is Viktor … whatever-his-name-is?”
Emily had reached voicemail and disconnected. She dialed another number. “In 1985, Hezbollah kidnapped three Russian diplomats in front of the Beirut embassy. Popov was a young, green lieutenant back then. He picked up the brother of Hezbollah’s leader, stuffed the man’s severed genitals in his mouth, and dropped his carcass on the front steps of Hezbollah headquarters. An hour later, the Russians were released.”
“And you let him walk away with my dog?” I asked.
She failed to see the humor in my question and pressed the phone to her ear. “What the hell is on that drive, Jacob?”
I shrugged and called Montgomery County Detective Czajkowski to report a kidnapped dog, extortion, home invasion, etc.
“You’ve come up in the world, Stearne.” CJ sighed. “Last time it was felons on parole. Now you’re going global. If the body count is under a dozen, I’ll send a squad car over in the morning for the details.”
“Morning? CJ! Did you hear the part where the top Russian spy kidnapped my dog?”
“We’re not your personal police. If he’s who you said, he has diplomatic immunity—nothing we can do. Besides, you’re the great big fancy security guys. Why not invade the Russian Embassy with your super-secret special-ops team?” He clicked off.