Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  “Name,” said Royce softly to the man. “What is your name?”

  Wide-eyed, the gagged shooter moved his feet, startling the rat. Lifting his legs, he slammed his heels against the floor. Retreating, the animal ran to the corner and studied its antagonist.

  Two more rats came through the open door. The size of small cats, they circled Royce’s prisoner. Unimpressed with Royce’s feints with the stick, the larger of the two leaped at the closest leg and slashed with its incisors, taking a small chunk of bloodied flesh covered in peanut butter. Pursued by the other rats, it ran past Royce with its prize. Six more of the creatures slithered from gaps in exposed lathe and sniffed the air, thick with its hint of blood. The rodents circled, coming closer.

  Another muffled scream from the taped mouth. Wielding his stick, Royce scattered the rats, driving them back into hiding.

  “Name.”

  A panicked nodding and Royce ripped the tape from the man’s mouth.

  Babbling, he choked out the words, “Jorge Iberra.”

  “And who do you work for, Jorge Iberra?”

  “I…can’t. I’d be…a dead man.”

  “What, you prefer to be alone with your little friends?”

  A vigorous shaking of the head. “You…don’t understand.”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  Royce replaced the tape and used the knife to cut away the man’s underwear. He came back with a gob of peanut butter on the spatula. Straining, the cords in his neck standing out, his eyes bulging, the doomed assassin looked down, watching Royce coat his groin in peanut butter. The man writhed against his bonds.

  Backing into his corner, Royce asked, “Who do you work for, Jorge?”

  Without interference to scatter them, the rats came back, more of them this time. Pleading with his eyes, the prisoner jerked his body, shaking bolder rodents from his lower torso. Smothered screams for mercy. Royce dispersed the rats with sweeps of his stick. The tape came off once more.

  “My…cellphone…a single number…I am to call.”

  Holding up the man’s phone, Royce finished the sentence. “When you’ve eliminated your targets.”

  An angry nod. Royce had won. He put away the phone.

  “As one professional to another, you understand that I have more to ask you, Jorge. As long as you keep talking, you stay alive. Lie to me and I WILL leave you with the wildlife. Understood?”

  A resigned nod. Using the captured cellphone, Royce called the lone number. He got a robotic voice recording and said, “Phone me back in one hour.” He killed the call and asked more questions. Jorge Iberra babbled for fifteen minutes while Royce kept the rats at bay.

  Satisfied he had learned all he could, Royce wrapped a towel around his handgun and shot Iberra in the head.

  Royce ripped bandages from the dead man’s wounds and stripped duct tape from the body’s ankles, wrists, and arms. He uncapped the jar and emptied the container, smearing peanut butter over the wounds, the corpse’s face, and the hands. Bagging the tape and his tools, he headed for the stairs.

  Behind him, the floor and walls came alive in squealing, feral, cannibalistic warfare. Batting away solitary trailing rats, Royce went down the stairs to the empty ground floor.

  He called Wolf. “I think we finally have something we can use.”

  “I’m sitting in the van. Nothing’s happening out here.”

  “Jorge won’t be coming with us.”

  Wolf’s voice. “Jorge? How the hell…?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Royce. “Jorge told me all about it.”

  “I have to say, Royce, you still have it.”

  “Never lost it, Wolfman.”

  Chapter 84

  Levich was as good as his word. One of Sheveski’s pit bulls took Ivanov to the Old Man’s doctor after hours. Peeling off a bloodied sock, the physician, a bearded little man with soft hands, examined Ivanov’s foot, cleaned the wound, and delivered grim news.

  “Ah, you might lose your leg below the knee.”

  “No! You can’t do that. I can’t go about crippled. Fix it.”

  Wrinkling his nose, the doctor said, “If you had come to see me sooner, I might have been able to do something for you. Have you no sense of smell? You have signs of gangrene, my boy. This infection means at the very least you’ll lose the foot.”

  “Give me medicine. I can’t live without my foot.”

  The doctor peeled off his gloves. “Too late for just medicine. You need to go to hospital. I cannot do what needs to be done here in my office.”

  Despondent, Ivanov slumped forward. “I’d rather die,” he whispered.

  The doctor said, “You will certainly do that if you do not follow my advice.”

  “Give me something for the pain. At least you can do that.”

  “Maybe a few pills to get you through the week. I will write you a prescription you can get tomorrow. I will inject antibiotic. But remember, you have a decision to make…and soon.”

  Shaking his head, the doctor went to the examining room sink and began washing his hands. He spoke to the driver in low tones. “He needs to go to hospital as soon as possible. You will tell Levich this, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  The physician wagged a finger. “No delays. If we are to save your friend’s life, we must act immediately. Understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I will have my nurse call to make arrangements once you have spoken to your boss.”

  Leaving Ivanov alone in the examining room, the doctor excused himself. Sheveski’s man went outside to call Levich with the news, then returned, got Ivanov, and helped him to the car.

  The ordeal had taken a toll on Ivanov. Leaning against the seat he asked, “What now?”

  “I am to take you to a safe place, a room at the rear of a store. The husband and wife will look after you until things quiet down. You heard the doctor, Dimitri. You have no time to lose. You must go to hospital.”

  “But my leg,” he wailed. “What good will I be to Levich with one leg?”

  “You will be like a soldier from the war. Many of them have lost limbs.”

  Ivanov wasn’t listening. “Who are the people you are taking me to?”

  “Just a couple. They will do as told. They will ask no questions. Your face is on the news. You need to hide until things become quieter. Do not worry, you will be made comfortable.”

  “I have an idea. Why not take me back to Lydia’s home. She will watch over me.”

  “No. The boss told me to take you to this apartment. It is safer.”

  Ivanov frowned. “I would prefer Lydia’s place.”

  “Talk to the Boss. Leave me out of this argument of yours.”

  “I will call him.”

  “Think about the hospital, Dimitri.”

  “I’m not going to give up my leg.”

  “The doctor says it is rotting. Don’t be a fool about this.”

  “It’s my leg. I need it for a bit longer.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’m not going to give up my leg.”

  The driver pulled to the curb and pointed to a lighting store nestled between a Russian video outlet and a pawnshop. “There. They are expecting you.” He put his hand in a pocket and Ivanov froze.

  “Here, from the Boss. Take it,” said Sheveski’s man, handing him a roll of bills. “To keep you for a while.”

  Caught off-guard by the gesture, Ivanov hesitated. “Take it,” repeated the man. “Tomorrow I come back with more pain medicine.”

  Ivanov pocketed the cash and stared at the storefront. Sensing a trap, he said, “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s not forever, Dimitri.” A push on the shoulder. “Get out.”

  Ivanov pushed open the car door and hobbled across the sidewalk without looking back. Expecting a bullet in his back at any moment, he tensed, certain he would hear a shot. Nothing. He reached the shop’s door and turned. The car was gone. Except fo
r a drab shuffling babushka he was alone on the sidewalk. Putting aside any thoughts of flight for now, Ivanov pushed open the door and limped inside.

  Chapter 85

  Nash inspected the table with its maps and notebooks, and now the Russian rifle, which Wolf uncovered.

  “What happened?”

  Neither man would answer.

  “I see. Do I need to ask what you are doing with this gun?”

  “The previous owner was on a mission.”

  “That mission being…?”

  Royce tossed the gun’s loaded magazine on the table. “You and Wolf were his mission.”

  Nash asked, “Did he talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Royce said, “And he was very helpful. Had a great deal to say.”

  Wolf sighted through the Draganov’s scope at a window. “Royce got a name, Jorge Ibarra. He also got a contact number. We think it’s the shooter’s handler. I’ll call an old friend who has a lot of contacts and see if he can confirm that. My guess is the rifle was probably going to be left behind once we were dead.”

  Puzzled, Nash looked at Wolf. “What would be the point of that?”

  “Perhaps to make it look like a Russian hit,” said Wolf, lowering the rifle. “Makes sense. I’m here to follow the book story and you…” Glancing at Nash, he said, “You’re here because you know the Russian mob.”

  Wolf handed the long gun to Royce. “Guy takes us out, end of story. Leaves the rifle behind for the cops to find. The Russian mafia gets the blame. Kinda simple, don’t you think?”

  Royce said, “Only it wasn’t the mob.”

  “Who then?” said Nash.

  Wolf sank down in a chair, his eyes on Royce. “Tell him your theory.”

  “Our shooter was a contract killer. Wolf and I think he works for our side. Or rather, worked for our side.”

  Nash stared at Wolf. “Our side?”

  Royce rolled the gun in a blanket. “Wolfman thinks this guy was here to target him. The information in the book is embarrassing to our government. Being the stubborn sort, he wouldn’t cooperate and give up what he knew. They figured out he wasn’t going to keep quiet. I think your helping him put you in the crosshairs, too.”

  “I need a drink,” said Nash, heading for the cooler.

  “You’ll need something stronger than beer,” Wolf said.

  “It’ll do for now. How did they find us?”

  “Tell him, Wolfman.”

  “My name triggered a trip wire when I flew here from San Diego. When I got to Kennedy they were waiting, remember? Nells wanted to take another run at me. They palmed a locator beacon among my keys and change. I dumped it when I got to that hotel bar in mid-Manhattan.”

  Nash flared. “You didn’t say a word.”

  Shrugging, Wolf said, “Didn’t matter by then. I dropped it in our server’s pocket when she took our drink order. That bought us a couple days at least.”

  “So, how did they follow us here?”

  “The cemetery.”

  “No one knew about that,” said Nash.

  Arms folded, Royce leaned against the brick wall. “Only the three of us and your banker buddy. Had to be him. Maybe the feds had turned him.”

  “Damn.” Nash dropped in a chair. “Of course, the sonofabitch.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” said Wolf. “The feds probably squeezed him over his involvement with that dirty bank. Your call to meet set him up.”

  “Two guys stopped to lay flowers on a grave while we were there,” said Royce. “Did you see them?” Nash shook his head.

  “They were good, but it had to be them. Planted a tracking beacon on one of our cars.”

  “We should check.”

  “Already did when we got back from across the street. Found two.”

  “Did you get rid of them?” said Nash.

  “Not yet. They might come in handy to have feds as backup when we visit Little Odessa.”

  Nash threw up his arms. “You can’t be serious. We can’t go there after all that’s happened.”

  “Why not?” said Wolf. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it? Besides, we’re on the fed’s radar now.”

  “Are you crazy? You have some sort of death wish?”

  Royce put a hand on Nash’s shoulder. “Nah, Wolfman’s right. We’ll take the feds with us even if they don’t know we’re on to them. If it hits the fan they’ll be right there. Plus, you two need to beat the bushes at that nightclub to find out what’s going on with the book thing and the mob.”

  “How do we know the feds will step in if we get in trouble?”

  Wolf faced Nash. “We don’t. But it’s worth a gamble. You have to talk to these Russians. Right now you don’t have everything you need. This could finish it for you. I want to see you get the story out there.”

  “Yeah, I know—for Colter’s sake. But things have changed.”

  Wolf said, “Really? We know our side is worried enough to sanction a hit contract. The Russians are looking for the same thing. We go to the source to see if we can solve the puzzle. We need to see this to the end.”

  “But the risk,” said Nash. “That’s why I’m thinking it’s crazy to go.”

  Royce smiled. “It’s the perfect storm. All we have to do is make sure you both get in, talk to some people, stir things up, and get out in one piece.”

  “And how do we do that?” said Nash. “The ‘getting out’ part.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Royce.

  Nash looked skeptical. “Oh, sure, great odds.”

  “We’re in good hands,” said Wolf.

  “But what about the shooter? Won’t he talk?”

  Royce sounded certain. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  “Well, what if they find him?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

  “The van,” said Wolf. “We’ll need to get rid of it.”

  Royce said, “Wait until dark. Follow me in my car. We’ll find a spot near the river, dump it, and burn it. No prints, no DNA. Let his bosses deal with it.”

  Chapter 86

  After Wolf and Royce returned from abandoning the van, and prior to leaving for Little Odessa, Wolf called Gunny Lindgren in Virginia Beach for help in unraveling the mystery of the shooter’s hiring.

  “We have a phone number, Keith. Our boy was here to take us out using a Dragunov. I find that interesting, don’t you? I’m not in the mood to take kindly to having my own kind set me up like that.”

  “Agreed. A shameful thing. I’ll do what I can, Wolfman.”

  “That’s all I’m asking. This is all off the grid, Gunny.”

  “Of course, I don’t need to know all the details about what happened.”

  “Correct. But I want to know the ‘why’ and ‘who’ of this action.”

  “You’re putting me in a tough spot.”

  “Hey, I’m just grateful to be upright and able to call you.”

  “Okay, give me a day or so.”

  Confident Lindgren would do his best, Wolf ended the call.

  Late that night, the three left their compromised location and drove to Brighton Beach, Royce following in his car. Though their tails remained undetected, Wolf was sure they were being followed. Splitting from Wolf and Nash, Royce doubled back and found a residential street spot two blocks from the nightclub. He locked his car and headed to the Caspian Nights. Flashing a phony NYPD detective’s badge pinned to his belt, an armed Royce nodded to the big Azerbaijani gatekeeper and went inside, carrying a second pistol for Wolf in case he needed it.

  Looming over Mintov, the club’s manager, an officious Royce loudly announced he was there as one of New York’s finest to make sure no harm came to Nash and Wolf. His ersatz detective ruse worked. Royce made a show of shaking their hands and then retreated to the end of the long bar where he stood with his back against the wall.

  From his vantage point, Royce watched Nash leave his table to wor
k the room, Wolf in tow. Only once did Royce have to leave his post to play his part. A belligerent drunk followed Nash and Wolf, berating them as unwelcome outliers. A discreet nod from Royce to the manager sent two bouncers into action. The braying gangster wannabe was ejected. Nash and Wolf resumed trolling.

  They struck gold when word reached a Levich lieutenant. The bullet-headed Russian, short, broad-shouldered, cornered Nash and Wolf. The three began an animated conversation as a line of showgirls emerged to wild applause. The first of the nightclub’s floorshows spilled across the dance floor to ear-splitting music and the delight of the patrons. When Royce looked again the thug had gone. Threading his way through the barely costumed dancers,

  he made for the table where Nash and Wolf sat.

  “Are you getting anywhere?”

  Nash said, “We’re working our way up the food chain.”

  “Should I be worried about that gorilla you were talking to?”

  “He’s a gofer for Boris Levich, the club’s owner. I think we might get a bite. I think we’re about to get a visit from Anton Sheveski.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” said Royce.

  “Not sure yet. Sheveski’s a Levich associate. And Levich is top dog in this town. He’s been around since my early days.”

  “Does he know you?” said Royce.

  “Probably. These guys have long memories.”

  “That could be a bad thing. Say the word and we’ll pull the plug.”

  “Not yet, Royce,” Wolf said. “I’m gonna give Sheveski one of the pages from the book. Nash thinks that oughta get some attention.”

  “Maybe not the kind of attention you need.”

  “We’re not over our heads yet. Just cover our six.”

  Ignoring the prancing dancers, Royce returned to his post at the bar.

  During the floorshow, Sheveski appeared, scowling and menacing. He was accompanied by a muscled bull-necked byki, who circled behind Wolf and Nash.