“What’s this?” Vincent asked, trying to sound more annoyed than fearful. Which he certainly was.
A pause from Viktor. “Are you a cop?” he finally said.
Vincent knew he had to react appropriately. Viktor was forcing him to choose between doors, and the wrong choice could land him six feet under.
“I’m fuckin’ outta here,” Vincent said as he stood up.
But the two big guys in tracksuits blocked the door.
Vincent sized them up and shook his head. “You know how I feel about cops and rats, Romy,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve got a zero-tolerance policy.”
“And you,” Viktor said, “have come knocking at my door at a, how should I put it, very convenient time.”
“The hell are you talking about?”
“I just eliminated the last guy supplying me weapons. Only two people knew about that: me and the cops. No one on the street has heard a thing about it. Until now, it seems.”
Vincent understood that. What he said next would make or break the entire situation. If a single word was out of place in his response, he knew that he’d be shot in the head, thrown in a van, dismembered, tossed in a barrel, and dumped in a river. The worst part—no one would ever find him.
Vincent turned around and looked at Viktor like a man without a care in the world. “You’re full of shit, Vik. And I’m tired of you trying to bust my balls over this. You want to deal? Fine. If not, then let me the hell out of here.”
A tense silence fell over the room.
Viktor burst out laughing. “Oh, boy,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I thought I could make you sweat for at least a second, but Ethan Brady never sweats! Ha! Sit down, you bastard. Of course, I want to make a deal with you! Come! Come! Drink with me.”
Vincent silently thanked the good Lord above as he settled back into the chair.
Viktor began fiddled with a wall calendar of some ’roided-looking Russian weightlifter clenching a barbell. “See this?” He pressed a finger onto the fifteenth of January. “This is the middle of the month. The fifteenth. You know what happens on the fifteenth day of each month?”
Vincent ground his cigarette out in the ashtray on the desk. “Some once-a-month Russian holiday I’ve never heard about?”
“I have to send guns to my boss. Every month. The fifteenth. Without fail.”
Vincent’s interest was piqued—Viktor had never mentioned having a boss in the entire time they had known one another. “Where’re you sending the guns to?”
Viktor wagged a finger. “Not so fast, Brody boy. I’m not so sure I want to make a deal with you yet.”
Vincent shrugged. “I thought you just said that you wanted to.”
“I do. But I have another buyer lined up. I just want to do, how do you say, comparison shopping.”
Viktor laughed. Vincent didn’t partake.
“What are you looking to score?” Vincent asked.
“What are you looking to sell?”
“Modified AR-15s, complete with custom hollow points crafted by a brilliant little mind over in Germany. Can’t say who it is, but I can offer you a demonstration.”
Viktor thought about it as he examined the tattoos on his knuckles, picking at them like scabs. “AR-15s,” he said. “A bit hard to come across those, considering the climate.”
Vincent saw his opportunity to strike. “Which is why I have to dump them within the next couple of days.”
“So the merchandise is hot?”
“Smoking. My guy is currently filing the serial numbers as we speak. They’ll be untraceable within the next few hours.”
Viktor cracked a crooked smile. “Why the hell would I want merch that’s as hot as you claim it is?”
“It’s not the merch that’s hot—it’s my supplier who wants his cash. I have the product in my possession, but he’s just waiting for his portion of the payout.”
Viktor tsked. “You’re waiting to pay your supplier after you sell your product? That’s bad business.”
“Yeah, well, what I do with my supplier is my business. I just need to know if you’re willing to play ball or not. Plenty of other gangbangers here on the South Side that would love a taste of what I’m cooking.”
Viktor made a steeple with his fingers as Vincent lit up another cigarette and put out an impatient vibe like he had more important people to talk to. Ball’s in your court, Romy.
“How many pieces are we talking?” Viktor asked.
“A hundred,” Vincent said. “At wholesale price.”
“How much?”
“One-hundred and fifty thousand. Flat.”
Viktor whistled. “I can get the same for one hundred.”
Vincent shook his head. “Not these pieces, I guarantee it. But I would recommend a test drive so that you can experience the goods firsthand.”
Viktor thought some more. “When can I see a demo?”
Vincent responded by standing up and buttoning his jacket as he motioned to the door.
“My man,” Viktor said with the most sinister of sneers.
5
Waiting outside a rundown warehouse shaped like a barn with white walls painted yellow from years of tobacco smoke, were two men in hoodies, their hands tucked into the pockets and breath turning into mist in the Chicago chill. The guy on the left, Ruiz, had a buzzcut and tan skin, his gaze unwavering and unblinking.
The guy next to him, Jimmy, was a white guy with a bushy crop of red hair and an almost comical demeanor offset by the eyes of a serial murderer. Both legitimate criminals. Both known to be stone-cold killers.
Vincent and Kosinski had arranged the demonstration hours before Vincent set foot in The Comrade.
Vincent had the perfect idea.
“It’s the only way we can pull this off,” Vincent had said to Kosinski hours earlier.
Having promised to vouch for Ruiz and Jimmy’s character only if they cooperated fully in this case, he figured it would help to shave off five to ten years, with both of them facing charges of aggravated manslaughter.
“Viktor is known for sniffing out cops,” Vincent continued. “So only known criminals can help me pull one over on him.”
Kosinski said, “Yeah, well, let’s hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces. I know for sure we won’t get another shot. Not at this guy, we won’t. So your plan needs to work.”
“You can count on it.”
The headlights hit Ruiz and Jimmy in the face as two cars pulled up in front of them outside the warehouse.
“Those your people?” Viktor asked from the passenger seat of Vincent’s souped-up Cadillac.
Vincent killed the engine. “Yes, indeed.”
Viktor looked at Jimmy. “I know him. I bought dope off him once.”
Vincent couldn’t help but smile.
So far, so good.
They got out of the car, the two men in tracksuits in the Benz followed suit as they approached Ruiz and Jimmy, fists clenched and eyes darting around with suspicion.
“Stuff’s inside,” Ruiz said to Vincent, talking to him like he knew him and selling his part of the theatrics.
Guy really wants to get out of prison early.
“Let’s do it to it,” Vincent said, the pink guy taking the lead and moving toward the front door of the warehouse.
Everyone was on edge and on guard, a pack of lone wolves forced to move together for the sake of mutual rewards awaiting them all.
Jimmy opened the door and moved inside. Viktor’s men had their hands on their weapons just in case. Being ambushed during an exchange of illegal weapons was never out of the question.
A single light bulb illuminated an empty warehouse, save for the canvas bag sitting on top of a folding table.
“That it?” Viktor’s gaze was on the bag.
Vincent motioned to the bag. “By all means, Vik.”
Viktor approached the bag and unzipped it; the weapons inside were painted a flawless matte black that seemed to draw in the light—AR-15s.
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“Clip is in the side of the bag,” Jimmy said.
Viktor found the magazine, slapped it into place, and racked back the slide.
A round clicked and locked into place, causing a slight shudder to travel up Vincent’s spine.
Viktor tested the weight of the rifle; checked the scopes, examined the trigger. He nuzzled the stock into his shoulder and aimed at a trio of bottles resting about thirty yards away on a rusted oil drum.
Viktor squinted, held his breath, and squeezed.
Three shots fired.
All three bottles were demolished and turned into something that looked like vapor. As the sounds of the gunshots reverberated off the walls, Viktor held the gun in the air and pounded on his chest.
“Oh, I like this gun!” he said. “Very much! Ha! You weren’t kidding about those modifications.”
“I’m not selling you snake oil,” Vincent said with a wink. “That’s for damn sure.”
Viktor ran a hand over the weapon. “I get all one hundred guns,” he said. “Yes?”
Vincent nodded. “All one hundred. As long as you agree to one hundred and fifty thousand.”
Viktor sucked air through his teeth, approached Vincent, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Brody,” he said, extending his hand, “we have a deal.”
6
Ruiz left with Jimmy to meet Kosinski eight blocks away.
It was a gamble, and Vincent knew it, letting cons walk around with machine guns in their hands, more than capable of turning on him and killing him and the others at any moment. But he also knew the allure of freedom was a powerful thing. And if that didn’t work, they were fitted with trackers.
After they took off, Viktor and Vincent lingered near their vehicles and finalized the details for the exchange.
“How soon can you get me my guns?” Viktor asked.
“Twenty-four hours,” Vincent said. “Just need to tie up a few loose ends before then.”
“Such as?”
“Those are my problems, Vik. The only problem you have is making sure my cash is stowed in those nifty little canvas bags I like when we make the exchange.”
“I’ll provide you a location in a few hours. Then we set up a time.”
Vincent held up his hand. “No way, man. I pick the location. Last time I let someone tell me where I was doing a drop, I ended up doing nearly a dime.”
Viktor shrugged. “How about this,” he said as he placed his hand on Vincent’s shoulder. “We go to a club that a friend of mine owns and finish the details over drinks.”
“I’ve got shit to do in the morning. No dice.”
“I insist. And you know what it means when I say this.”
Vincent knew what that meant. He recalled a time back in the day when Viktor stabbed a mobster in the eye for having the nerve to decline his offer to pay the tab at a local bar.
Guy paid the bill then got killed over it.
Vincent had to remain in cover. No question.
“Where are we going?” he said as he lit another smoke.
Viktor hooked his arm around Vincent—who was getting tired of the smell of sweat and way too much cologne. “Meet me at the Chevron Club. We drink on me.”
Viktor got into the Benz with his tracksuited thugs and backed away from the warehouse. Vincent followed them in his car.
Viktor took his cell out of his pocket as his thugs drove him toward the heart of the city.
The phone rang once—a gravelly voice answered.
“Da?”
“It’s me,” Viktor said. “I just met with Ethan Brody.”
“And?”
“He wants to sell us guns. Lots of them. AR-15s. Modified ammunition.”
“Did you see them with your own eyes?”
“Yes. It’s a solid product. Brody is willing to sell them all for one hundred and fifty.”
“How many guns?”
“One hundred.”
“Did you make the deal with him?”
“I did. Yes.”
“Without my permission?”
Viktor swallowed the lump in his throat. Not many men could intimidate him, but the man on the other end of the line possessed the ability to make the cold-hearted Viktor shake in his boots.
“I apologize, Ivan,” Viktor said with a tremor in his voice. “I was just restocking our weapons supply—”
“You should have given me a heads-up,” Ivan said. “You said you were arranging a deal with Mr. McCready.”
“Brody had a better price. Better guns. I thought you would approve.”
“You should have still run it by me. You’ve worked for me for long enough now to know that I take something like this as a sign of disrespect.”
Viktor was on edge, uncertain, nervous about his next move. “I apologize, Ivan,” he said again. “Truly. I should have informed you first.”
“What’s done is done,” Ivan said. “I’ll inspect them myself.”
Viktor furrowed his brow. “I do not understand.”
“I am coming to Chicago. I will be there in twelve hours.”
Viktor felt the rug being pulled out from underneath him, that queasy feeling of weightlessness slapping him in the face. “Twelve hours, you said?”
“Da,” Ivan said. “And be ready for me. I’m coming to make sure that these girls you are about to ship off are sent away properly. I cannot have this deal going south on me. Do you understand?”
“I-I… I thought I was in charge. I have everything ready to go—”
“I don’t pay you for your opinions, Viktor. I pay you to manage a business. Or do you need to be reminded about where your place is in this little operation of ours?”
Viktor swallowed again. “No. I understand. I understand completely, Ivan.”
“Good. I will be there soon. Just make sure all of our men are ready. I want drinks. Food. The finest women.”
“Of course. I will arrange it.”
“And Viktor…”
Viktor gripped the phone tight, his heart rate increasing as he waited for Ivan’s next words.
“If the deal we have set up does go bad,” Ivan said, “I don’t need to tell you what kind of consequences you’ll be facing.”
Viktor dabbed at the beads of sweat forming on his brow. “I understand. I will not fail you.”
“I hope that you won’t,” Ivan said before hanging up.
Viktor put away his cell and tapped his fingers on his knee, thoughts of his boss, the infamous Ivan Petrov, a.k.a. “the Ghoul of Serbia,” swirling in his head.
Viktor was not a man who feared many things; death itself was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. But the Ghoul was the one thing he did worry about, because Ivan Petrov was the walking embodiment of evil.
Pure, unimaginable evil.
7
Vincent arranged to meet with Stone the following morning after the close of the deal with Viktor and the bouts of excessive drinking after that.
He had sensed that something with Viktor was off, as far as his attitude during the meetup, having been focused on something—or someone—else the entire they spent at the bar.
Vincent checked into a cheap motel, got a little shuteye, got up at six a.m., and arranged for Stone to meet him at a diner far from Viktor and his crew.
Vincent walked into the dinky and cramped diner around seven, hands in his pockets as he strolled past several photos of old blues musicians and joined Stone at one of the booths in the back.
“Jesus,” Stone said. “You look hungover as all hell.”
“I am,” Vincent said, flagging down the only waitress in the joint for a cup of coffee. “I was throwing back shots with Mr. Viktor until two a.m. last night to celebrate closing our deal.”
Stone smiled. “So he’s in? He’s willing to buy the guns?”
“Absolutely,” Vincent said as the waitress placed the mug down and filled it to the rim. “Willing and ready.”
“This is great news, Vincent,” she said, nothing but
smiles. “I knew we picked the right person to do this. I just knew it.”
Vincent held up a hand, his eyes almost rolling in their sockets as he said, “We’re not out of the woods yet, Miranda. Don’t forget that Viktor is a complete psychopath. He might call up at any moment and cancel on my ass for no good reason whatsoever.”
“We’ll play the hand we’ve been dealt. So far, so good.” Vincent sipped his coffee as Stone looked at him. “How are you holding up?”
He shrugged. Sipped. “Good as I can be. Just trying to wrap this thing up as quickly as possible. God knows where these girls are.”
“When we find them—”
“If,” Vincent interjected.
Stone pointed a finger. “When we find them,” she said defiantly, “they’re going to have one person to thank.”
Vincent leaned forward. “Please don’t blow sunshine up my ass, Stone,” he said. “I don’t need to be motivated here. I’ve got plenty enough motivation.”
Stone said nothing as Vincent sipped his coffee and rubbed his temples. After seeing how racked with stress Vincent was, she couldn’t help but ask, “What happened?”
“What are you talking about?”
“With Kosinski,” Stone said. “That case you volunteered for ten years ago. Sounds like you guys closed it.”
“We did.”
“So, what happened? What made you so pissed off at Kosinski that you tried to rip the guy’s head off after not seeing him for ten years?”
Vincent sat back in his chair, smirking and shaking his head and trying to find a way to dodge answering the question. What happened ten years ago had paved the way to an addiction problem and several fractured relationships. Vincent understood that what happened that cold day in November turned him into the man he was today and that venting that story might relieve him of the pain he had kept stored up inside.
He opened his mouth to confess his sins to Stone…but then he said nothing. He just wasn’t ready.
Not yet, at least.
Hollow's End Page 3