Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  Chapter 79

  Arriving at seven as usual, Lydia bustled about in Levich’s kitchen as she had for every day of the past ten years. For the first time in months, Konstantin Verlov’s brooding face was nowhere in sight. With no time to dwell on his absence, she delivered a breakfast of tea, fruit, and fresh rolls to Levich’s dining room. She brushed past a pair of nameless byki who had replaced Verlov’s men and carried the tray to the table she had set with linen and silver the night before. She placed Levich’s breakfast at a place set for one and poured steaming tea in a porcelain cup. The morning’s papers, one in Russian, one in English, were arranged to the right of the tray, a large magnifying glass on top.

  Precisely at nine, Boris Levich, white shirt and tie underneath a red silk smoking jacket, crossed the entry hall. He sat at the head of the table and tested the tea. It had cooled to his taste. Perfect, as usual. This morning, however, Lydia closed the room’s double doors behind her and timidly approached Levich.

  The old man looked at the small woman over the cup’s brim. “Yes, what is it, Lydia?”

  She fished in her apron and placed Ivanov’s note next to the tray without saying a word.

  Levich held the slip of paper under the polished lens. “Dimitri? You have this from Dimitri? Where is he? Have you seen him?”

  “Yes. He has returned from California. He asked me to give this to you. He requests you to please call him if you wish to do so.”

  “Why has he not contacted me before?”

  “No chance,” she said. “He was afraid you would be angry with him for not calling you as soon as he returned. He thought Verlov would not let him talk to you directly. That, plus he was hurt in California, you know.”

  “Dimitri hurt? Tell me what you know, Lydia.”

  “I am not certain of all that has happened. He made me call a doctor to the house to look at his foot. He’s not so good to walk, you know.”

  Levich let the scrap of paper fall to the tray. “Of course I will call. He must come here immediately to be by my side. This is no time to be absent.”

  He waved at the sideboard. “Bring me the phone.”

  She plucked a phone from its cradle and placed it before him. “Do you wish me to remain?”

  Levich dismissed her. “No, go about your duties, Lydia.” She bowed and slipped through the doors.

  When Ivanov answered, Levich raised his voice. “Dimitri! What is this? I have this note in my hands. Yes, Lydia gives me this just moments ago. What has happened? Why have you not returned to see me? What? Never mind the details. You must come to me immediately.”

  Levich listened to Ivanov, his brow furrowed. “Not to worry. I take care of everything. I must have you back with me, my boy. I send one of Anton Sheveski’s boys for you. Where are you? Lydia’s place. Yes, I know. I send her with Sheveski’s man, okay?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Levich was relieved. “We will get you to a proper doctor. Yes, I know Verlov has been involved in many things. We can talk of this when you are here. Do not stay away one more moment, Dimitri. You have been missed, my boy.”

  Chapter 80

  Dimitri came in from the cold to Levich’s warm welcome.

  Ivanov, greeted with open arms, remained grateful but cautious. “Thank you for sending for me.”

  “And why not? You have been like a son to me, Dimitri. I thought you had disappeared in California, never to return.”

  “Things changed. We had problems out there from the beginning.”

  “Apparently. You trouble me, my boy. Why this game?”

  “May I sit, Boss?”

  Levich gestured to a gilded chair. “Of course. Rest. Lydia tells me your foot needs attention. I will have Sheveski’s man take you to my physician. He is discreet, Dimitri. No one need know.”

  “About Verlov…” began Ivanov.

  Levich threw up his hands. “I understand. There was bad blood between the two of you from the start. I ignored it. Believe me, Dimitri, I do know how these things happen. Always regrettable to have it come to the attention of the police, but Sheveski believes you had no choice.”

  Ivanov relaxed for the first time in weeks. “With Verlov in the way I could not reach you. He came after me, Boss.”

  “So I’ve been told. These things are bad for business. It brings unwanted attention at a time we don’t need such notice.”

  “I didn’t mean to cause you trouble, Boss.”

  Levich waved away the apology. “Perhaps unavoidable, eh?”

  The old man stood, hands clasped behind his back. Mumbling, Levich walked back and forth in front of Ivanov, in dialog with himself. Seating himself in front of his suffering acolyte, he said, “Tell me everything about California. Leave out nothing. And I want to hear about this book.”

  Ivanov buried his pain and replayed the debacle in Los Angeles, altering details to put himself in better light. Levich asked few questions. When Ivanov was done, the old mobster gave him the news of Shurkov’s death, shaking his confidence. Levich was well known as one who did not tolerate failure. Ivanov thought of the fate of Sasha Mikoyan and others who had disappointed the Boss. He would depend on Levich’s affection for him.

  “Can you walk?”

  “It is painful,” said Ivanov, “but I can do it, yes.”

  “That will be taken care of. Then we must find a place for you, Dimitri. Perhaps our friends in Miami or Chicago.”

  “I will go wherever you think best.”

  Levich smiled paternally. “Of course you will, my boy. I will have Sheveski to make arrangements. You cannot stay here, of course. The police will be certain to show on my doorstep looking for you. But first, your wounds, eh?”

  Levich placed a bony hand on Ivanov’s shoulder. “We will put this behind us. You will see.” He threw open the double doors and called for Sheveski.

  Chapter 81

  “Before I go waltzing in to some Russki nightclub,” said Wolf, “I want to know what I’m putting my ass on the line for.”

  Royce nodded in agreement.

  Nash said, “Here’s what I know for sure.”

  The three had returned to the loft on Union and Second after spending most of the day chasing down the writer’s sources. Royce had agreed to spend the night after the trio’s visit to a Brighton Beach nightclub. In the hopes of uncovering more leads, Nash expected to bait club goers. He updated Wolf and Royce about what they faced if they made a night of it.

  “Feldman says we’ll be walking into a turf battle.”

  “The players?” said Royce.

  “Two factions going after each other and a third or fourth waiting to see which one to back, based on the outcome.”

  “Smart,” said Wolf. “Hotheads and pragmatists. Maybe they won’t notice us.”

  Royce spoke up. “Not a chance, Wolfman. We’ll draw their attention.”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend?”

  “Something like that.”

  Nash said, “It might be an opportunity. One of the factions might want to throw a little gossip our way.”

  “Risky,” said Wolf.

  “I didn’t come this far to back down just because some Russian scumbags can’t get their act together,” said Nash. “I say we risk it.”

  Wolf and Royce exchanged wary glances.

  “I’m going,” said Nash. “With or without you guys.”

  “Okay. We’re going with you,” said Wolf. “But if Royce or I see something funny we’re pulling the plug. Either one of us gets a bad feeling, we’re out of there.”

  “And I will be right there with you.”

  “Our call,” said Wolf. “You with me on that, Royce?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Nash went to his bulletin board with its diagram. “As I was saying…we have this turf battle going on. One of the Old Guard is trying to hold on to his spot in the food chain. The third wave is pushing him out before he’s ready to go.”

  “Typical,” said Wolf to Nash. “So how
are you going to play it?”

  “I’m going to ask a few questions and listen to the new breed for starters. They’ll have an ax to grind and they’re always willing to talk. It’s good for their egos.”

  “Dangerous game,” said Royce.

  “Gotta play if I want to get something to write about.”

  “Your call,” said Wolf. “But don’t forget about running down the reasons for Colter’s death and Kurskov’s murder.”

  “I know, the damn book. That’s part of the equation. Always has been.”

  “It’s the reason I agreed to join you. That’s the purpose of having Royce along. He wants justice for those guys. Don’t you, Royce?”

  “Roger that.”

  Wolf stooped at a cooler and fished in the ice for a beer. He glanced at Royce. “Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  He handed a sweating bottle to Royce. Wolf sipped his beer and studied passing traffic in the street below the arched window. His eyes drifted across the street, settling on the building opposite. Something about the second floor.

  He froze. “Don’t move,” said Wolf, backing from the glass. “Stay away from the windows.”

  “What are you seeing?” said Royce.

  “Maybe nothing.”

  “Talk to me, Wolfman.”

  “Storefront across the street. Second level. Middle window. Bottom pane’s broken. A reflection…maybe.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “No. Stay put, Royce. I’ll go. Taking my phone. Keep an open line.”

  Wolf backed from the window, threw on his hooded jacket, and picked up his Sig-Sauer, jacking a round. He went down the back stairs, avoiding the freight elevator. He slipped into the alley unseen and followed it for one block. Hood up, hands in his pockets, Wolf crossed Union Street, just another anonymous pedestrian. In the alley, he worked his way down the rear of the buildings lining Union. He found a cable company’s beige van parked at the rear of the storefront opposite the loft. A prop: the vehicle was empty.

  Whispering in his phone, he said, “Got an empty van in back.”

  “No movement since you left,” said Royce.

  “Watch the stairs. They won’t use the elevator.”

  “Got it covered.”

  A check of the building’s first floor confirmed what Wolf expected to find: deserted retail space. Sawhorses, scrap lumber, and naked studs told of a remodeling project interrupted. Wolf forced the rear entry to the empty ground floor. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Scurrying sounds in the walls. Shadows flitted across the floor, keeping to the margins. Rats. Big ones, fleeing at his approach.

  A single set of footprints in the dust led to a narrow set of stairs climbing to the second floor. Wolf studied the fresh signs.

  One shooter? Two? The second one walking in the footsteps of the first? Probably not. Too confident. It would be one.

  Ears cocked to pick up the slightest sound, Wolf waited for five long minutes. A faint cough. Shifting weight.

  Second floor. Whoever was up there will be sitting back from the broken window with his weapon resting on a sandbag or a stack of boxes. At this range an easy shot for a pro.

  He followed the footprints to the stairs, his breathing slowed. Wolf steadied his pistol with both hands. A rat, bold, curious, sat on the first step, watching him, finally yielding at his approach.

  Wait here at the bottom of the stairs? Gamble and go up?

  The decision was made for him. In the distance, a siren wailed, growing louder, coming his way. A klaxon blared. Not cops. A fire engine.

  Perfect. Wolf, you lucky bastard.

  The growing sound filled the street, covering every step he took. The roar of a big diesel rig, all blasting horn and screaming siren, flooded the building.

  NOW! Go now!

  Wolf burst through the sagging doorframe.

  Chapter 82

  He caught the shooter by surprise. Two shots hit the man’s upper right shoulder as the assassin turned, rifle in hand. The sniper went down, scattering a stack of empty wooden crates as he fell. Wolf kicked the scoped rifle aside, drove his other foot into the gunman’s groin. Despite his pain the gunman struggled to his knees, drawing a tactical knife from a hidden sheath. He slashed at Wolf and missed. Wolf delivered another well-aimed kick, catching the wounded man in his bloodied right shoulder, sending the knife flying across the floor. The fight was over. The loser curled in pain, clutching his arm and cursing. Wolf, his pistol covering the would-be assassin, picked up the discarded rifle.

  He released the box magazine, pulled back on the bolt, ejecting the live 7.62mm round. Wolf circled the injured shooter and slammed the rifle’s wooden butt on the man’s left hand, shattering bones. He did the same with the right. The shooter collapsed, screaming in rage, all resistance gone.

  Wolf pocketed the cartridge and magazine. He called Royce. “Our shooter’s down. WIA. Van out back. If you’re clear, I could use a hand.”

  “We’re good. Be right over. Stay where I can see you.”

  “Door at the back. Don’t bother to knock. Stairs. I’m at the top.”

  “On my way.”

  His adrenaline ebbing, Wolf pulled one of the crates to him and sat at the stairs, his pistol trained on his suffering prisoner. Royce arrived, spotted Wolf, and leaped up the stairs, pistol in hand. He glanced at the evidence of the struggle and the sullen shooter.

  Covered in plaster dust from the floor, the prisoner glared at both men. Dark-complexioned, curly-haired, and almond-eyed, the muscled shooter was just under six-foot. He wore black fatigue pants, black T-shirt, and black crepe-soled tennis shoes.

  “Outstanding,” said Royce.

  “All in a day’s work. Search him.”

  “Roger that.” Royce retrieved the knife, folded the blade, and pocketed it. He dragged the wounded man into the center of the room and rolled him despite protests. He duct-taped the man’s hands behind him, provoking curses and threats.

  “Shut up, you pussy. You’re lucky my friend here treated you with the utmost kindness. I would have skinned your sorry ass.”

  Royce patted the man down, finding keys and a cellphone. He found another tactical knife in an ankle sheath but no wallet or identification. Royce kept the cellphone and tossed the keys to Wolf. He pinned the shooter’s hands behind him and propped him against a crumbling plaster wall.

  Using his cellphone, Wolf took pictures of their prisoner.

  “You have a name?”

  “Go to hell, mother—”

  Royce hit the man with an open hand. “Show some respect, asshole.”

  Snarling “Fuck you!” earned another blow from Royce and a strip of duct tape across his mouth.

  “So much for playing hard-core, huh.”

  “A real ninja wannabe,” said Royce, playing with the confiscated knives. “Whadaya think? Latino? Maybe Central America?”

  “Possibly. Not Russian, that’s for sure.” Wolf picked up the familiar Soviet long gun. “Though our man was using a Dragunov. Interesting.”

  Eyeing the weapon, Royce said, “Spoils of war. I’d like to have that.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “We could drag his sorry ass downstairs and toss him in the van,” said Royce. “Might find some clues inside.”

  “My guess is it’s clean. Nothing to tie this guy to whoever sent him. He’s obviously not in the mood to talk. We’ll need to stop the bleeding.”

  “A waste of good bandages if you ask me.”

  “We’ll need him alive to talk.”

  “I have a better idea,” said Royce. “Keep an eye on our little buddy. I’ll be right back.”

  Wolf stood. “Where you going?”

  “Trust me. When I get back he’ll sing like the proverbial canary.”

  “Hey, I came up here to wing the guy if I could, not kill him.”

  Smiling, Royce put a hand on Wolf’s shoulder, whispering, “And you did a good job. Now it’s my turn. I’ll have this guy telling y
ou everything you need to know in no time.”

  Chapter 83

  Royce was back in thirty minutes, grocery bag in hand. He dumped the contents on a piece of newsprint. Handing Wolf a sterile bandage and tape, he said, “Being a fine humanitarian, you patch him. After that, he’s mine.”

  Wolf cut the shirt from the bleeding man and cleaned the bullet hole. He taped a gauze pad over the entry wound.

  “No exit wound. I think his shoulder’s shattered.”

  “He’s lucky you didn’t put one between his running lights.”

  “Well, he was turning at the time.”

  Royce knelt, flipped open one of the knives, and cut away the prisoner’s trousers. With one clean stroke he severed the shoelaces and stripped the bound man’s tennis shoes and socks. He bagged the clothing. Naked except for his briefs, the shooter was passive.

  Putting away the knife, Royce caught Wolf’s eyes. “This might be a good time to see if you can find anything in the van.”

  “What are you up to?”

  Sitting back on his haunches, Royce said, “This is where I have a productive chat with our friend.”

  “Dead men don’t talk. Remember that.”

  “Trust me. He’ll talk.”

  “I’ll give you thirty minutes alone with him.”

  Royce grinned. “Make it forty, but I probably won’t need that.”

  Wolf grabbed the Dragunov and went down the stairs.

  Royce asked the wounded man, “Your name?”

  A shake of the head, the black eyes defiant.

  Royce removed a large jar of peanut butter from the bag and placed it on the newspaper. He unscrewed the lid.

  “Give me your name.”

  No response. Royce dipped the kitchen tool in the peanut butter and crouched alongside the prisoner. “Your name.”

  Silence. He spread a thick smear of peanut butter on both thighs, smoothing the pungent paste over the man’s quadriceps as if decorating a cake. Royce put away his supplies and stood up, a long heavy stick in hand. He went to a wall opposite and waited.

  A moment passed before they both heard faint scratching in the walls and floorboards. Drawn by the scent of the peanut butter, the first rat shot across the threshold and took refuge in a corner. The animal’s yellow eyes flitted from the statue-like Royce to the sweating human just feet away. Rising on its hind legs, the rodent sniffed the air then dropped down and made its way to the aroma’s source. Keeping the rat at bay with the stick, Royce toyed with the ravenous animal.