Ivan cackled as Viktor forced a smile, Vincent sensing and understanding the nature of their relationship immediately. “Well,” Vincent said, “I’m happy to be doing business with you.”
Ivan held up a finger. “Which is why I’ve asked you here, Mr. Brody. I am more than thrilled at the prospect of us doing business together, but I am, as any man would be, quite wary of engaging in a deal with someone I barely know.”
Vincent shrugged. “It’s a good thing that Romy is vouching for me, then.”
Ivan smirked. “That’s not good enough, my friend. I find that the only time a bond is truly strengthened is through a blood offering.”
Jesus Christ. What is this guy gonna have me do?
Someone shouted something in Russian, and all heads turned to a beefy guy with no shirt and a chest that would make any world-class bodybuilder stop and take notice.
The guy had his sights set on Vincent as he stretched, flexed his fingers, and balled them into fists, his feet pivoting and twisting as he crouched and waited for the word to let loose.
Vincent played it cool and laughed. “You want me to fight that guy?”
Ivan placed a firm grip on Vincent’s shoulder. “No,” he said. “I want you to kill him before he kills you.”
Vincent’s heart hammered in his chest, his breathing a little labored. “I’m not playing this game. I made a deal with Romy, and that deal is what stands, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not going to fight this man to the death for the sake of your entertainment…or whatever sick fantasy you hope to accomplish here. So you might as well forget it. It’s not happening.”
A glint shone in the corner of Ivan’s eye as he leaned into Vincent’s ear. “Understand something,” he said. “If you do not fight Anatoly, and fight him to the death, I will put a bullet in your skull.”
Vincent said nothing, though he knew the ball was in his court.
“You wish to make a deal, yes?” Ivan said.
Vincent said nothing.
“You wish to make a sale, yes?”
Vincent gave him a curt nod. “I do.”
Ivan pointed to the burly guy, Anatoly, in the corner. “Then fight him. Prove to me that you are worth all this money I am preparing to dish out.”
Vincent looked at Ivan, Viktor, and then Anatoly, his options as limited and dire as they could be.
If I don't do this, I'm dead.
If I do this, I might still be dead.
Well, shit.
Vincent shrugged off his jacket.
Here goes nothing.
Vincent had been in plenty of fistfights before, and most of the time, he had been the victor. But usually, he had been engaged in brawls with men of equal physicality and skill.
The guy standing ten feet away from him was bigger, badder, and clearly more bloodthirsty than any of the men Vincent had gone toe to toe with before.
It was a shitshow.
The circle gathered around the two men was tight, everyone looking on like eager meerkats as they drank, smoked, and placed their final bets. Vincent stripped down to nothing but his pants, stretched and flexed his muscles and debated how far the match would go.
I can’t just kill him, even if that’s what Ivan wants, even if I could pull it off.
Vincent drew a breath and tried not to let the adrenaline get the better of him.
One step at a time, he thought.
One punch at a time.
“Gentleman!” one of the men in the crowd shouted, all eyes on him. “No holds barred! Do not hold back! This match is not over until someone is dead!”
Cheers. Salutes. Puffs of smoke.
Vincent, feet on the mat, Anatoly squaring off with him from a few feet away, bounced on the balls of his feet to get the blood pumping as the circle widened and everyone waited.
The announcer held up his hand, and the room fell silent. “Go!” he screamed.
Anatoly charged at Vincent, clearly holding nothing back, looking as if he wanted to kill Vincent with one solid blow.
A mean uppercut connected solidly on Vincent’s chin. Stars burst before Vincent’s eyes as he fell back hearing the cheer of the men around the room, adding salt to his freshly opened wound.
He fell onto his rear, Anatoly circling him and pumping his fists in the air, working the crowd into a frenzy before goading Vincent to stand back up so he could knock him back down in an instant.
Vincent’s legs were unsure, and his feet were on skates. It was a solid hit like a brick was smashed right under his chin. A string of saliva mixed with blood gathered under his mouth. He spat on the floor.
“Come on, you Russki prick,” Vincent said. “Throw a real punch.”
It was enough to get Anatoly motivated. He charged at Vincent; his right arm cocked to throw a haymaker.
Vincent, saw an opening, threw a quick one-two with his left and right and managed to break Anatoly’s nose.
His hand seared with pain, but the cheers from the crowd and the blood flowing from Anatoly’s nose made it worth it.
Anatoly with a shocked look on his face swiped at the blood now pouring from his nose, put up his guard with a look on his face like he was no longer fucking around, threw a hook with his left.
Vincent ducked and followed it with an uppercut. Anatoly bounced back quickly and grabbed Vincent’s balled-up fist as he came in for another hit before craning his head back and slammed it into Vincent’s nose.
He drew blood but didn’t hit Vincent hard enough to break it.
Vincent wobbled backward, and Anatoly sprinted toward him, tackling him to the ground, wrapping his fingers around Vincent’s throat like a vise grip.
Anatoly had Vincent on his back, clawing at the Russian’s hand and ripping at his flesh. The Russian’s grip was taut and firm as he leaned with every muscle in his body to crush Vincent’s windpipe.
Vincent looked for an opening then glanced down and saw that Anatoly was in a position that left his groin exposed and unguarded.
Vincent buried his knee into his target, taking Anatoly off guard as he rolled off Vincent and wheezed.
Anatoly was still catching his breath when Vincent swung his foot back and punted Anatoly’s head like it was a football.
A loud groan erupted around the room as the crack from the kick reverberated off the walls. But it didn’t seem to keep the big man down.
As Vincent moved in, Anatoly perched on one knee and grabbed Vincent’s foot, punched Vincent in the groin, and threw him onto his back.
More groans.
More cheers.
More bets in rapid succession.
The entire place had gone crazy.
Vincent needed a moment to catch his breath. He needed even more time to get his groin out of this throat if he wanted to continue the fight and not get killed, but he didn’t have time for all of that.
Across from him, Anatoly shook his head as if to clear it, then set his feet as if he was set to charge toward Vincent at full speed.
Vincent knew if Anatoly mounted him again that the fight would tragically over and not in his favor. The time had come for him to go all out or take the alternative.
Come on.
Get angry.
You’ll die if you don’t.
The fear of his possible demise as his motivation—Vincent no longer cared that he might have to kill Anatoly it was either him or Vincent those were the rules—Vincent pushed off the ground, charged at a speed that only anger could push him, and then threw three punches into the left side of Anatoly’s face. All three hits landed, turning it a dark shade of red.
But Anatoly was still up and moving.
Dammit!
Vincent came in for another blow but was caught in the lip by a stiff right jab from Anatoly. The two men became entangled in each other’s limbs as punches were thrown and knees flew into the mix.
A knee to the gut from Anatoly.
A punch to the ribs from Vincent.
An elbow to the jaw from Anatoly.
Vincent used his momentum and landed his fist square into Anatoly’s throat. The harsh crunch from Anatoly’s windpipe being smashed from the impact forced the room to fall silent as Anatoly clutched at his throat, fell onto his back, and writhed on the ground.
The fight was over.
Anatoly flopped around on the mat like a fish, his eyes wide, gasping for air as his face went from red to grayish-white.
The crowd slowly began to murmur and disperse, losing interest now the fight was done. No one offered the man any help as he lay dying on the floor.
“My friend!” Ivan said, draping an arm around Vincent’s shoulder. “My congratulations! You did well. Very well. Come! Please, have a drink. We talk about this deal.”
But Vincent barely heard anything as he watched the life flee Anatoly’s body, as he grasped at his throat in a desperate attempt for air.
Vincent caught a glimpse of fear in Anatoly’s eyes and couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He had to turn his head and act like he didn’t care; something that would later scar him for life.
This incident didn’t sit well with Vincent. He had killed plenty of people in the line of duty, yes, and in many ways what he had just done was the same thing. But somehow, Vincent felt, perhaps for the first time, that blood was on his hands, both physically and emotionally.
And no amount of scrubbing would ever wash it away.
Vincent still shook as the adrenaline wore off and Viktor thrust a shot of vodka into his hand. “Here,” he said. “Have a few. It’ll take the edge off.”
One of the men in the circle, a guy with long hair and a gangly body, inserted himself into the conversation and pointed to the dying Anatoly. “Don’t think it’ll help him too much, though.”
Laughs were shared as Vincent stared at Anatoly. He on the ground, helpless, his pupils dilated, when a ghastly, sickening gasp of air released from his body as he finally departed the realm of the living.
10
After many shots of vodka, Vincent was back at his motel. The killing of Anatoly weighed heavy on his heart and mind as the early morning sun rose in the east with the blood-red hue peeking through the blinds.
I had to do it.
I had no other choice.
Vincent paced the room. His mind raced with a jumble of thoughts, thoughts that had plagued him in the past twenty-four hours, in which he hadn’t slept a wink.
He was a scumbag. Probably killed more than one innocent person in his lifetime.
Vincent sighed, pulling at his hair as he wondered how a man such as himself, a man who had killed plenty of people in the line of defense before, was so racked with guilt.
They made me do it.
They forced us to fight.
They forced me to kill that man.
It was self-defense.
Vincent was having a tough time dealing with his new reality, but he continued to tell himself that it was something that needed to be done, and there were far more pressing issues at hand than worrying about some dead brawler.
Vincent retrieved his other burner phone, which he hid under the mattress, and punched in Stone’s number.
He was eager to drop the bombshell on her and Kosinski that someone else other than the infamous Viktor was running the show.
She answered, “Special Agent Stone.”
“It’s me,” Vincent said. “We got a problem.”
“Are you all right?”
Vincent shrugged. “Banged up a little, but I’ll live.”
“What’s going on?”
“I just had a little last-minute meet-and-greet with Viktor.”
“Why? I thought you just saw him.”
“I did. Tonight, I met his boss. A man by the name of Ivan Petrov.”
Vincent thought he could hear her almost choke. “Ivan Petrov?”
“Have you heard of him before?”
A sigh from Stone. “Yeah. We have. His name has popped on and off our radar in the past couple of years. He’s a former KGB spy who worked alongside men like Putin. The only difference between the two of them is that Petrov advertises the fact that he’s a damn mobster instead of lying about it or trying to hide it.”
“Political opinions aside, what does that mean?”
“Can you meet me?”
Vincent weighed the options. “Quickly.”
“Will do. Greyhound station in downtown. One hour. And I’m bringing Kosinski with me.”
“What the hell for?”
“Because Petrov’s name came across my desk a month ago in regards to this case, and the prick said it was nothing to worry about.”
Vincent clenched the phone with a tight grip, not surprised in the slightest by the fact that Kosinski—once again—had lied to him.
“Who the hell is Ivan Petrov?” Vincent asked Kosinski inside the Greyhound station near the heart of the city. Stone sat to his right with her arms crossed and an irked expression.
“Ivan Petrov?” Kosinski asked, a confused look on his face.
“Cut the shit, Kosinski,” Stone said. “Agent Winslow reported that name to us when he was working undercover on Viktor. You said Petrov was nothing to worry about, and now you have amnesia all of a sudden?”
Kosinski dropped the act and smirked as he took a beat to gather his composure. It was dark in the station. Only a single homeless person rested on the thick plastic orange benches, and a bored and fatigued-looking employee sat behind the counter in a half-stupor as the smell of disinfectant permeated the air around the terminal.
“Ivan Petrov,” he said, “is Viktor’s boss. They call him the Ghoul of Serbia. He’s a bad man. A really bad man.”
“And he just got put on the playing field,” Vincent replied. “And you never gave anyone the heads-up. Why? What game are you playing?”
“You know as well as I do that this kind of work is a delicate dance. This is espionage, Vincent, and sometimes I have to play certain pieces of information close to the vest until I know what’s at stake.”
“Bullshit. There’s something else going on here. What is it?”
A pause from Kosinski, as if he was sizing Vincent up and choosing his words carefully before he spoke. “We want Viktor so we can get him to flip on Petrov. We nail Viktor, we get Petrov, and both of them will answer for the death of Agent Winslow.”
Vincent huffed. “Why the hell didn’t you say this before?”
“We didn’t want to spook Petrov,” Kosinski said. “Besides, we had no idea he’d even show up.”
Vincent took a moment as he paced the scuffed and worn linoleum floor. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he said. “And I can’t put my finger on it…”
Vincent’s cell phone buzzed. He held up a finger to Stone and Kosinski and answered it. “Yeah?”
“It’s Viktor. The deal is on. Ivan says we’re good for one hundred K for one hundred pieces.”
“What?” Vincent said. “That’s bullshit, Romy. We agreed to one hundred and fifty.”
“You agreed to new terms after the second shot of vodka tonight.”
Vincent hung his head when the memory of Ivan bullshitting/conning/flattering him at the bar, while being drunk off his ass, flashed through his brain. “Shit…”
“That’s what Ivan does, man,” Viktor said. “He wears you down and fucks with your brain.”
Vincent was pissed. How could I have not seen this coming?
“Fine,” Vincent said. “I’m not going to fuck with Ivan’s wishes.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t,” Viktor said. “Trust me.”
“When do we do this?”
“Three hours.”
Vincent's eyes widened. “Three hours? Romy, that’s too soon.”
“It’s what Ivan wants,” Viktor said. “So do it. We’ll call you with the location in a few.”
“I’m choosing the location.”
“Not anymore. It’s Ivan’s way or no way at all.”
The phone disconnected, and Vincent stood ther
e staring at it.
“What’s going on?” Stone asked.
Vincent barely spared her a glance. “We need to move,” he said, his words clipped. “Now.”
“Move?” Kosinski said. “What are you talking about?”
Vincent headed toward the door. “The deal is now going down in three hours,” he said. “This is the only chance to save these girls. This is the only way we can nail Romy and get him to roll over, and we need to take it.”
Kosinski pulled his cell out and left the station to coordinate with his people, scrambling to make their final move.
11
Viktor hung up the phone inside his office at The Comrade and looked at Ivan, seated behind him at Viktor’s desk with his feet up on the table and a cigarette in his hand. “We’re on,” Viktor said. “Brody is on the hook.”
Ivan smiled, like a man entertained by the punch line to a joke only he knew. “How long did you say you knew this man Brody?”
Viktor shrugged. “Ten years, maybe. I haven’t seen him since our last deal.”
Ivan flicked the ash from his smoke with a flick of the wrist. “That’s what fucking astounds me, Romy…”
Viktor felt the air around him becoming thin. “What do you mean, boss?”
Ivan took a long drag of his smoke. “I think,” he said, “that you are, by far, one of the most incompetent employees I have ever met in my life. You are so…” Ivan held his hand up, clenched his teeth, formed a fist, and shook it at God. “I don’t know the words,” he finished, letting his hand fall into his lap. “I don’t think there is a good enough adjective to describe your stupidity.”
Viktor’s heart raced, Ivan’s turn in personality, making him feel a little on edge. He needed to charm his boss. Kiss his ass, if necessary. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to offend you, boss, but—”
Ivan held up a hand. “I don’t have the time or inclination for a back-and-forth about how or why you failed, nor do I want to discuss with you the severity of your punishment.”
“What?” Viktor said. “I don't understand.”
“That,” Ivan said, as he calmly pulled a gun from his jacket, “is exactly my point.”
Hollow's End Page 5