Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  “Nice,” Wolf said. “I miss being by water. I’m landlocked where I am.”

  “Pack up and move here. The beach is not far away.”

  “I’d need a good woman to share it with.”

  “I could introduce you to a dozen friends who would find you fascinating.”

  “Well…actually, I did meet a woman recently.”

  “Oh? Not another word. I want Sam to hear this over dinner.”

  “Okay, my lips are sealed. Until dinner.”

  Chapter 31

  Sam McFadden arrived like a good host—with a case of chilled San Miguel, fresh bread, and an apology. He embraced Wolf by the pool. “Sorry for the delay, Wolfman. Work, you know.”

  “Not a problem. Regina…Reggie…filled in. Got me here in one piece despite her being behind the wheel.”

  “Yeah, she’s a terror on the roads. Gotta say, you’re looking good, man. Life agrees with you.” McFadden took out two beers and excused himself to greet his wife. “Be right back. You have to bring me up to speed. Your phone call was sketchy but I gather you have a problem.”

  McFadden returned and hoisted a sweating bottle of San Miguel. “Mabuhay.”

  Wolf toasted his friend. “Mabuhay. To you and Reggie, Sam. Like her moniker, like the welcome, and especially like your choice of beer.”

  “Reggie’s idea. Glad you’re here. How did we let so much time get away from us?”

  Wolf said, “Beats me. I’ve been halfway around the world in the last month. Seen a lot of things; had a lot of close calls. Glad to be here.”

  McFadden turned serious. “Okay, what’s the skinny? Your message hinted at trouble.”

  Wolf said, “You heard about Colter.”

  “Saw the news,” said a subdued McFadden. “I remember you saying something about the two of you going to Kazakhstan for a launch. That part of this business?”

  For the next half-hour, leaving out Yana, he recited the Moscow misadventure, the Kazakhstan debacle, and the Domodedovo ambush.

  McFadden said, “Let’s get this straight. You’re on the run from the Russian mafia?”

  “And maybe some of our own people,” interrupted Wolf.

  “Our own people?” said McFadden. “That’s heavy, Wolfman. But these Russian guys have a long reach. Good news is I’ve got some folks who might help. Can’t make any promises, but it’s a start. I’ll make some calls to get the ball rolling. Meanwhile, you stay with us, out of sight.”

  Wolf gestured to the pool and surrounding hillsides. “That I can handle, Sam.” Below them a shimmering Miramar Lake, beyond it, I-15, the lake’s namesake air station, and the city. An easterly wind had chased the marine layer offshore, leaving them with a crystal-clear San Diego day. Wolf strolled to the edge of the pool’s concrete apron and looked across the hills. He smiled. “You’ve got yourself good high ground.”

  “Glad you approve.” McFadden said, joining him. “I knew this was it when I first saw the spot. You’re welcome as long as you need our hospitality. Let’s brainstorm after dinner.”

  Regina posed in the sliding glass doors, signaling both men. “Put aside any top-secret talk and come to dinner. Tom has a lot of explaining to do. I want to hear all about this mysterious woman.”

  McFadden shot a puzzled look at Wolf. “Woman? Did you leave something out of the telling?”

  Wolf shrugged. “A fringe benefit to the Moscow trip. Reggie made me promise I wouldn’t say a word until dinner.”

  Regina settled next to the former SEAL and rubbed her hands in anticipation.

  “You’re on deck,” warned McFadden. “No way you’re getting excused until the missus is satisfied. Answer honestly and she may let you off easy.”

  Wolf smiled at Reggie. “I can handle this. Remember when we first met at your hotel in Zamboanga? This should be a piece of cake compared to that. Say grace and then ask away, lady.”

  She did just that. They talked through dinner about the Philippines, Wolf’s Russian trip, Kazakhstan, Regina’s family, McFadden’s new business venture, and lastly—mostly—about Yana.

  Chapter 32

  After dinner, McFadden retreated to his home office and made several calls while Wolf sat on a leather couch, listening. When McFadden finished he reported the conversations.

  “That first call went to Steve Schmit, former army. He’s our office prankster and resident geek. He’s agreed to decode your camera chip. Second call was Gary Kurskov, a Russian expert. Third generation. Teaches at the local college. Both these guys do part-time contract work for us. Trustworthy. Good people. You heard me sketch your problem to them. They’re interested. Reggie has no need to know. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Roger that. My thoughts exactly.”

  “At least no one knows where you are right now. That’s a good thing.”

  Wolf held up a camera card. “I’ve been carrying this sewn in my jacket for a long time. If your guys are able to make sense of the files, my job is half done.”

  “I hear you. We’ll meet them at our site tomorrow. By the way, anything in your emails yet?”

  “Nothing since this evening.” He swiped his cellphone screen. A quick check showed scant traffic since his previous look. His inquiries to former team members concerning Colter had yet to bear fruit. There was a message from the State Department’s Nells requesting another interview.

  “Not gonna happen this week or the next,” he said aloud.

  “That the guy from State?” asked McFadden.

  Nodding, Wolf asked, “What do you know about Threat Finance, Sam?”

  “Was that what Colter was into?”

  “I believe so. I know a guy Colter worked with. This guy’s a retired Marine gunny in Virginia Beach. He’s done some freelancing for The Company. He hinted that Colter was tied up with SOCOM—Special Operations Command South, ISAF—International Security Assistance Force, Afghanistan; and EUCOM—European Command.”

  Hands behind his head, McFadden said, “Lot of alphabet soup there. What the hell did you and Colter get yourselves into?”

  Wolf passed the camera card to McFadden. “Dunno, Sam. I’m counting on your guys to unpack what’s in this. My future’s in their hands.”

  Chapter 33

  Brighton Beach, Brooklyn

  To disappoint Boris Levich is to sign one’s own death sentence. As pakhan—godfather—he demanded blind obedience. From his inner circle to the lowliest shestyorka—recruits not yet sworn members of the criminal fraternity—Levich’s word was law. No one knew the rule better than Dimitri Ivanov. His latest assignment, the brutal beating of Mikhail Drogenev, had been carried out within hours of being given the task. Summoned to a meeting with the boss, Ivanov had no reason to suspect anything other than a pat on the back or an intimate lunch with Levich.

  Instead, after entering the towering seaside condominium’s ground floor restaurant, Ivanov was met by two bull-necked byki—bodyguards—belonging to Anton Sheveski, a Levich ally and notorious drug and arms dealer. Halting Ivanov, the pair gruffly asked him to surrender any weapons he carried before entering the dining room. Instantly wary, Ivanov was surprised to see another Levich familiar, the bearded Sasha Mikoyan, pacing in the inner sanctum’s hallway just beyond the guards.

  Given no choice, Ivanov gave up his weapons, a 9mm Glock and a Spetsnaz tactical knife. Ivanov was told to join a visibly nervous Mikoyan and wait until Levich called both. Mikoyan was exhibiting all the symptoms of a man on a wire.

  “You’ve heard about my boys in Virginia Beach, I take it.”

  “Yes. I thought it foolish to send them, Sasha. They’re in trouble.”

  “I’m in bigger trouble,” whispered Mikoyan. “What should I do?”

  “Hear what the boss has to say. Then promise him anything he wants. But make sure you deliver. You won’t get a second chance.”

  Hushed by one of the sentinels, the two followed the hulking bodyguard down a paneled hallway lined with dimmed sconces. They stopped at a set of curta
ined French doors. A rap on the glass and the two were shown into a smaller side room set for a private party. A dozen linen-covered tables sat beneath glittering chandeliers floating in a bluish layer of cigarette smoke. Heavy damask drapes had been drawn across tall windows, blocking the view of the sea. Glasses, carafes of water, over-flowing ashtrays, and half-full bottles of vodka clustered in the center of a table with a half-dozen chairs.

  Mikoyan and Ivanov were facing three men. The first two were nameless byki—automatons wearing the ubiquitous jogging suit. The frowning pair stood behind Konstantin Verlov, a recent arrival from Donetsk. Like a dangerous scarred bull, Verlov had stormed Levich’s inner circle with a mixture of charm and menace. Bulky and pocked-faced, the mercurial Ukrainian was unfailingly polite and threatening in turn. For the past month he had been glued to the godfather’s elbow, gaining influence at the expense of others. It was the man’s hold over Levich that disturbed his lieutenants most. Ivanov in particular thought the interloper bore watching.

  At today’s meeting it was the little things the newcomer did that troubled him. When Levich drained his vodka, Verlov refilled it. When Levich paused, groping for the right word, Verlov filled in the blank. And when Levich hesitated, Verlov picked up the godfather’s unraveling threads to finish the thought.

  Levich began. “So, Sasha, do you know what has become of those two idiots you sent to Virginia Beach?” Downing his vodka, the old man slammed the empty shot glass on the table.

  Sasha has a right to be nervous, thought Ivanov.

  As Mikoyan fumbled for an answer, the Ukranian, Verlov, filled Levich’s glass and said, “I’ll tell you what has happened, Boss. Both of Sasha’s boys now sit in jail awaiting rescue in the wake of their failure.” Like a frowning Buddha, Verlov sat back, a malevolent hint of a grin beginning to show. Levich drummed his fingers on the linen, awaiting a reply.

  Knowing Mikoyan’s predicament was one of his own making, Ivanov ignored his fellow gang member’s unease. Silence his wisest course, he stared at a spot on a tapestry behind Levich. The assignment in Virginia Beach had been too vague to suit Ivanov. Something about a computer. Something about a particular man. Something about damaging information and precious little else. Risking the godfather’s ire, he had counseled Levich against sending men to Virginia Beach. Not to be denied, a furious Levich had dismissed Ivanov, turning instead to one of the more ambitious crabs in the bucket. Eager to best Ivanov, Mikoyan had volunteered two of his crew. Having curried Levich’s favor to win the assignment and then failing, Mikoyan was on the spot.

  The manipulative Verlov badgered Mikoyan. “Not only have your men failed, they were caught in the act.” Putting on a long face, he shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, embarrassing.”

  “Yes. Inexcusable,” Levich growled. “This will not do. We find ourselves in an untenable position.” Turning to his other young acolyte, he said, “What do you suggest, Dimitri?”

  Verlov interrupted, playing Levich like an instrument. “How could you have known these two would act the clumsy fool and be caught? You have not been well served in this matter, Boris Levich.” Sipping his vodka, Verlov said, “You have sent the lawyer to Virginia. What does he think our chances are to get Sasha’s men back?”

  Ivanov caught Levich’s eye and spoke up, naming the jailed men. “Not good. Of the two, Markov will undoubtedly be handed over to the feds for immigration problems. He and Suskin will have to answer a weapons charge. Both will face burglary and auto theft charges. They will be of no use to us now.”

  Throwing up his hands, Verlov sighed. “My thoughts exactly. What are we to do with such men?”

  Levich took the bait. “Dimitri, my boy, wait outside.”

  Ivanov got up from the table and left without looking at the defeated Mikoyan. He stood in the hallway with his back to the wall, waiting to be summoned again. Hearing loud, accusatory voices, chairs toppling, muffled cries, and then feet kicking at carpet, he turned his thoughts elsewhere until the sounds of scuffling ended.

  The doors opened and one of the drones in shirtsleeves beckoned him. The room showed evidence of the brief struggle. The other guard dog was righting upended chairs, kicking away bits of broken glass, and straightening the linen tablecloth. Though hardened by his own work on Levich’s behalf, Ivanov fought to hide his surprise. A large blue tarp had been placed on the floor in the middle of the room. Overlapping the tarp was a sheet of clear plastic. In the middle knelt a hooded Sasha Mikoyan, hands tied behind his back, ankles bound. Stifled sobs earned him a backhand, nearly toppling him. Watching the drama, a flushed Boris Levich remained seated, his bony fingers gripping a half-filled vodka shot glass. Verlov stood over Mikoyan, suppressed Marakov pistol in his hand. Arms folded, the two impassive byki retreated to the background.

  Levich said, “Ah, Dimitri. Our Sasha made a rather serious mistake, don’t you agree? We cannot afford such lapses. Poor boy. He’s become an object lesson, I’m afraid.”

  Verlov circled Mikoyan, the pistol prodding the nape of Mikoyan’s neck. The smiling Ukranian looked at Levich, expectant.

  His anger palpable, the godfather held up a hand. “Wait.”

  Smiling paternally, he turned to Ivanov. “You do it, Dimitri.”

  Shrugging, Verlov offered the pistol to Ivanov.

  Grasping the weapon, Ivanov stepped on the plastic. Arm’s length behind Mikoyan, he pressed the gun’s muzzle against Sasha’s skull and fired.

  Chapter 34

  Wolf watched the petite redhead in lane four empty her handgun at a paper target forty feet away. On either side of her, other women fired at hanging paper targets, shredding black silhouettes with precision. The muffled sound of firing died away. The women lay down their handguns, stepped back, and raised their right hands. A male instructor wearing khakis and a blue short-sleeved shirt went down the line, checking each handgun and empty magazine. Satisfied, he removed his earmuffs and gathered the shooters in a circle for what looked like an animated exchange.

  “He’s getting their feedback,” said McFadden. He and Wolf watched from a hallway, separated from the range by thick, bulletproof and soundproof windows. “What do you think?” asked McFadden, his eyes on the range instructor and the shooters.

  “I think you’ve got some damn fine gunslingers in the making.”

  McFadden laughed. “Well, we try. It’s Ladies’ Night.”

  “Impressive. When do the boys come out to play?”

  McFadden glanced at his watch. “Another half hour and the big dogs will be doing their thing. Then at eight, we’ll have open range til ten.”

  “Get a lot of couples?”

  “Surprisingly, yes. Seems like folks want to feel a little more secure these days, Wolfman. We’re tough on safety and background checks.”

  “Don’t want any crazies, huh?”

  “Exactly. No self-respecting range needs that kind of publicity.”

  Wolf rubbed his hands together. “Okay, what else you have going on?”

  “C’mon, I’ll show you around. Schmit and Kurskov will be here soon. We’ve got leadership lectures going on. Self-defense seminars and fitness classes. Kinda like a one-stop shop for self-protection and awareness.”

  “What about a drumming class for men?”

  “Same old skeptical Wolfman, huh?”

  “I’m just checking to make sure you haven’t gone all New Age on me.”

  “Not a chance.”

  McFadden led Wolf on a tour of classrooms and the fitness studio. He showed him an indoor mock-up of a cityscape complete with faux stores, schoolrooms, and a parking lot. The former SEAL approved. “You’ve got a great thing going here, Sam.”

  “We think so.” Pointing to an unfinished portion of the warehouse space, McFadden said, “We’ve got plans for an urban paintball setup and a virtual range using laser Glocks and Berettas. Our clients can choose to shoot at spring-loaded targets or real-life scenarios in one of our 270-degree screen rooms.”

  “What about law
enforcement? They tight with you?”

  “Absolutely. They’re welcome anytime. Challenges them.”

  Raising his arms, Wolf said, “Well, I have to admit, Sam, you’ve put together a nice facility. You’re prospering, my son.”

  “I’ve got two partners, both Special Ops guys.”

  “SEALs?”

  “Couldn’t operate in San Diego without them, Wolfman.”

  “Good. Just checking. Like to know the brothers are getting a piece of the pie. How’s Reggie feel about this empire? She cool with it?”

  “We’re starting to make money on the investment. She’s got some change in this operation. So does her mom.”

  “So she said. Nice to keep it in the family.”

  McFadden took a call. Nodding at Wolf he said, “The guys are here.”

  “Good,” said Wolf. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Chapter 35

  Wolf shook hands with Schmit and Kurskov. He studied both men as McFadden bantered during introductions. Kurskov, stocky, reserved, showed faint hints of Central Asia in his eyes and cheekbones. Schmit was the opposite. Lanky, bearded, and bespectacled, the Midwest transplant wore a perpetual impish grin, a red plaid shirt, and jeans.

  Beginning with Schmit, McFadden sketched a brief description for Wolf. “Some of this I told you. Steve’s our resident wild child and IT guy. Around here we break things, he fixes things. Top in his class in Fort Huachuca. Did most of his time stateside with one tour in the sandbox. As apt to plant a whoopee cushion on my chair as he is to get us back up and running when disaster strikes. We like to say, ‘Schmit happens.’ Handy guy to have around and our top resident geek.”

  Waving at McFadden’s description, Schmit stroked his beard. “Guilty as charged and proud of it.”

  McFadden turned to the placid Kurskov. “Gary is an interesting case. Our academic brain trust. He’s a hopeless TV game show addict. Fluent in three languages: English, Russian, and German.”

  “Four…if you count pidgin,” added Schmit.