“As it is, I’m still considering taking the whole damn thing away from you and giving it to Pavel.”
A surge of rage roiled within Viktor, his hand squeezing so tight it threatened to shatter the phone in his hand. Scads of retorts sprang to mind, ranging in ferocity from telling his uncle off to threatening to come back to Russia and finish him himself.
“Pavel isn’t family.”
“But at least I can trust him!” Sergey shouted back, his voice cracking with each word.
Viktor clenched his left hand into a ball and held it by his temple, squeezing it so tight it trembled beside his head. He kept his eyes and mouth both screwed shut for several moments, pressed together so hard little white lights began to dance before his eyes, before releasing the tension in his body. Vitriol still pulsed through him as he took two deep breaths and asked, “Why are you calling me? To tell me I’m out?”
On the other end he could hear Sergey panting, fighting to get himself under control. He waited as his uncle coughed and spat out a wad of phlegm, the sound repulsive over the line.
“No, that’s not why I’m calling you,” Sergey muttered. He sounded weak and tired, much older than the man that had been screaming just a moment before. “I was calling to tell you La Jolla has been taken care of.”
Viktor’s eyes spread wide for a moment before sliding shut. Tonight was supposed to have been his chance to step away from the bonds that were growing tighter by the day. Instead, his place at the bottom of the pecking order had been sealed, done by actions thousands of miles away, completely unbeknownst to him.
“And when you say . . .”
“I mean it’s been taken care of,” Sergey repeated. “The message has been delivered. La Jolla is now on board with our plans.”
Viktor ran a hand back through his hair, shaking his head, trying to comprehend what this meant for his operation. “Does that mean shipments are ready to begin?”
“We’ll discuss the shipments another time. Right now, just get on the phone and call your crew back home. The last thing we need is another embarrassment.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The plastic wrapper on the outside of the Gatorade bottle crinkled in my hand, the sound serving to mask a bit of the noise going on inside the bomb shelter beside me. After hours of being left on its side, the liquid inside was rather warm. Even the condensation on the bottle had long since evaporated, just a few smudges of clumped sand the only reminders that it was ever there.
“Where did you get that?” Diaz asked, stepping up alongside me and leaning against the trunk of our sedan. She wrapped the front of her suit coat over her torso and folded her arms across it. The autumn breeze blew cool across us.
“Courtesy of one Carlos Juarez,” I said, lifting the bottle toward the sky in a faux salute before taking another drink. “Want some? Fruit punch was never my favorite anyway.”
Diaz stared at me a long moment, a fleeting bit of shock, almost revulsion on her face, before raising a corner of her mouth in a smirk. She reached out and took the bottle, upending the bottom of it, downing a couple of inches of the beverage.
“You know, technically this was part of the crime scene,” she said, handing it back to me.
I accepted the bottle and took another pull, not bothering to wipe the lip of it. “That’s not a crime scene in there. That’s a massacre. A brutal ending that even a smartass like Carlos didn’t deserve.”
Diaz nodded in silent agreement beside me, both of us envisioning what we had found just an hour before.
The building was entirely void of life when we entered. It was obvious the moment we stepped across the threshold, though we both did our due diligence and cleared the premises before focusing on the macabre centerpiece the scene had to offer.
Lying chest down in the center of the floor was Carlos, his arms and legs extended out from his body like a twisted starfish. Two plastic sacks with bottled water and Gatorade lay beside his left foot, a couple of strays having rolled across the dusty floor toward the wall.
We knew it to be Carlos from his skin tone and the clothes he was wearing, the same khakis and open button-down he’d had on this morning. A certain ID wouldn’t be possible until DNA results came back though, given that his head had been cleaved away from his body, removed with a single slice.
Most of his blood had spurted from his exposed carotid, striping the dust-covered floor in angry sprays of crimson. The speckled rooster tails covered a wide half arc over the ground, tracking the descent of his body, his heartbeat continuing even after the removal of his head.
Once the body had come to a stop, most of his blood had pooled out onto the concrete around him, moving in an uneven circle across the sandy floor. By the time we arrived it was already dark and sticky, the first flies just beginning to buzz around it.
After a moment, Diaz had stepped outside and called it in, leaving me behind to glean away what I could without disturbing anything.
With the exception of a few uneven footprints, large with heavy treads, there was nothing of use in the place. Crime Scene was now inside combing through things, but something told me they weren’t going to find anything, either. Even if they did, odds were it would come back to another ghost originating somewhere in Russia, completely beyond the scope of any major American agency.
The desert sun was now below the horizon, nothing more than a faint speck of orange glow along the western skyline. Behind us the techs had set up a mobile field unit, bright fluorescent light filling the inside of the building and spilling out into the night. It splayed across the ground in long orbs, passing just a few feet away from us and extending far ahead over the ground.
“Thoughts?” Diaz asked, holding her hand out for the Gatorade.
I passed it across without glancing her way, my gaze aimed out at the darkening sky. It had been years since I’d seen a desert evening, though the image seemed to carry a certain familiarity with it that was both comforting and startling.
“Two big ones,” I said, my eyes narrowed. “First, how the hell did they know about this place? Manny swore, swore, that he and Carlos were the only ones with access up here.”
“Yeah,” Diaz agreed, nodding her head. She took another swig from the bottle, tilting the bottom of it toward the sky, giving the distinct impression she would rather be drinking something a little stronger than Gatorade.
“And second,” I continued, “how the hell did they get here? Judging by the positioning of the body in there, whoever did this was lying in wait, caught Carlos the minute he stepped inside.”
“Agreed,” Diaz said. “No way was this a classic double cross.”
“Nor was it a body dump,” I said. “You see the spray pattern in there? This was done here.”
“And no bindings of any kind, grocery sacks in hand,” Diaz added. “He thought he was alone. There’s enough MREs in there to last a couple weeks. He was coming to hide for a while, nothing more.”
“So again,” I said, “how the hell did whoever did this get here? You saw the lay of the land. There’s one road, completely wide open. If a car was parked here, Carlos would have seen it. If they’d parked on the highway and hiked in, he would have seen it.”
“And to even do that would have meant miles across open desert in the afternoon sun,” Diaz added.
“While knowing exactly where they were going,” I said. “It’s not like a person would just set off on foot out here and hope to find this place. Hell, we had directions and barely made it.”
A long silhouette appeared in the stripe of light protruding from the structure. It started as a black blob, the head and shoulders visible, swaying a few inches from side to side. After a moment, a pair of long, dark legs extended out from the bottom, the angle of the person changing as they walked toward us.
The sound of footsteps became audible behind us, though neither of us turned around. We both
knew who was approaching, the smell of his herbal concoction preceding him by at least thirty feet.
“Preliminary findings by the ME say death was by decapitation, a single slice made by a sharp metal object,” Hutch said, coming to a stop beside us, paper cup in hand, a white plastic lid atop it.
“No shit,” Diaz muttered beside me, voice so low it just barely caught my ear.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Like I said,” Hutch said, “single slice. Had to have been somebody very strong, familiar with working a blade.”
“What about angle?” I asked.
“Too early to tell,” Hutch said. “And given the place is a mess, we may never know. He could have been bent over as he entered, could have been searching for the light switch on the wall, anything. Too many variables.”
“What are you thinking?” Diaz asked, sensing my question was for a reason.
“Single swipe, with a blade?” I replied. “Somebody powerful, used to working with primitive weapons. If we could determine it was at a downward angle, get an idea on how large this guy might have been . . .”
I let my voice trail off, shifting my attention over to Hutch. He took a long sip on his tea, pondering in silence, before his head started to work itself up and down in a small bob. “You think maybe Pavel Haney? Or whatever the hell his name really is?”
“It’s possible,” I said. “Didn’t you say he was cut free last night?”
Again Hutch nodded, his face compressed in a bitter stare. “Had to. There was nothing to charge him with beyond a misdemeanor B&E. Can’t hold a man forever on that.”
“They impounded his car while he was inside, though, didn’t they?” I asked.
Hutch shifted his gaze over to me and nodded, realization settling over his features. “I’ll get on the horn and put out a BOLO for him.”
At that he turned on his heel and walked away, cutting a straight path toward his own sedan, parked on the outside of a small clump of Crime Scene vehicles arranged haphazardly around the building, sand beginning to pile up alongside their tires.
“Man, that stuff smells like shit.” Diaz finished off the Gatorade and swiped the back of her hand across her lips. “How did you put up with it for five years?”
I turned and looked at her, pointing along the bony ridge of my nose with a single finger. “Broke my nose second year on the job, lost over half my sense of smell.”
“Lucky bastard,” Diaz said, pushing herself up from the trunk of the car and turning to face me. “You ready?”
I nodded in silence, sliding past her to take my seat. Even without asking I knew where we were going: off to pull on the only thread we still had available to us until Hutch’s BOLO turned something up.
It was time to pay Manny Juarez another visit.
Chapter Thirty
The task itself was easy. Sergey had fed him the exact location where Carlos would be, giving him more than enough time to get into position. He had even arranged for a weapon and a ride out into the desert for Pavel, dropping him off at the edge of the road, giving him water to cover the three-mile hike back along the sandy, windswept path to the safe house.
Only two real concerns had presented themselves along the way, both disappearing with relative ease. The first was the fear that his footprints would be visible leading back to the structure, a clear line in the sand that alerted Carlos he was there. For a time Pavel had considered dragging a broom, or even a blanket, behind him to blot them out. In the end, the combined effect of the hard-packed ground just beneath the surface and the persistent wind pushing in from the west swept his steps away no more than minutes after he passed.
The second worry was of actually getting inside the structure. He had been warned that the terrain was flat and void of places to hide, the ideal location for a house of its purpose. If he couldn’t make it across the threshold before Carlos arrived, the odds of him remaining unseen went down tremendously.
For a time the thought of burying himself in the ground and waiting had seemed like it might be the most plausible option, but in the end a bit of luck saved him from spending two hours in a cocoon of superheated sand.
The front door was locked, as he expected it to be. The building was made of concrete and the frame and door from thick oak, all three making any kind of forced entry too difficult to manage without being obvious. The only other routes into the building were a pair of cracked windows, their glass painted over.
After the experience in Montana, Pavel was less than enthused by the options.
To his great surprise, one of them was left unlocked.
The squeeze was tight for his oversized body. He positioned his head and left shoulder through, pushing himself forward, then twisting his right shoulder in behind it. His body spun around so it was facing out the same direction as the house. An inch at a time he shoved his body backward until his feet touched the sandy floor beneath him. Then he reached back outside and took up the gift his driver had bestowed upon him.
After that it was just a matter of sitting in the darkness, taking occasional slugs of water, and waiting. He put his back against the cool concrete of the back wall, which was insulated from the sun by the sand outside, and reduced his body to autopilot. His eyes lowered themselves into slits, his aching joints took in the solace of rest, and he prepared himself for what the night held in store.
Two hours after assuming his position, the rumbling of an engine churning over the sand crept into his ears. His eyes opened wide, and his heart rate elevated back to its normal level as he rose from the floor and took a place behind the door.
Gripped in his right hand was an authentic Russian shashka, its curved blade almost two feet in length, the outer edge honed razor sharp. It balanced itself perfectly in his grip, the contoured lines of the oversized handle fitting his massive hand, the blade catching errant bits of light, flashing in the darkness.
The entire encounter, from the time Carlos pulled to a stop outside to the moment Pavel saddled up in his Jeep and drove away, took less than five minutes. The moment his victim appeared in the doorway he did what was required of him, finishing the job in a single swipe, one massive cleave that removed the head clean from the shoulders. He waited a full minute for the blood to stop spurting across the floor before collecting the trophy, careful not to step in any of the fresh bodily fluids.
In a plastic sack much like the ones Carlos had in hand upon entering, Pavel carried the head away with him, taking the car keys on his way out, stopping to lock the door behind him.
Not once throughout did his heart rate spike, his breathing grow rapid, or a sweat even crease his brow. There was no way Carlos could have stopped him from doing what he came to do; the element of surprise and his physical prowess was just too much to be denied.
That same mirror-calm demeanor now encompassed his features as he approached the mansion overlooking the Pacific. He had swapped out Carlos’s Jeep for his Avenger, the last stop he would have to make before returning it to the spot he found it. His ride back to Mexico was waiting for him at a private port.
The idling engine pushed him through a pair of oversized brick structures; the wrought iron gate that usually closed the driveway between them was standing open.
The owners were expecting him.
Without touching the accelerator, he allowed his car to follow the winding brick path to the base of an expansive home, which stood on an extended bluff with the ocean right underneath. The house’s three wings spread out wide before him. The entire place was painted dull white in the Mediterranean style, and hundreds of windows faced out in all directions. Lights were burning brightly within each one, illuminating the home like a beacon.
Pavel could hear the sound of waves smashing into the rocks below as he stepped from the car, paused behind the open door, and surveyed his surroundings. From where he stood he could see a pair of gua
rds on the front porch, both wearing light-colored suit coats over T-shirts, automatic weapons in hand. Above them two more were positioned behind windows, making sure they were seen, wearing the same ensemble.
No doubt there were at least that many scattered about the grounds, lurking just beyond his sight line.
For a moment his mind flitted back to the USP compact 9 mm in the middle console of the car, but just as fast he let it pass. The act would be seen as one of antagonism, something he could ill afford at the moment. The gift he was bringing along for them was gruesome enough; there was no need to exacerbate the situation.
With a curt nod to the guards, Pavel closed the car door and walked toward the front door, hands in plain sight. He kept the bag a few inches away from his side, the thin handles looped across his middle and index fingers, swinging free. One at a time he climbed the three steps onto the porch and stopped, raising his hands by his side, remaining motionless as one of the guards gave him a quick pat-down, careful to avoid the sack, while the other stood by with gun gripped in both hands.
Content that he was clean, the guards nodded to each other, and the one who had executed the search led Pavel inside. The other brought up the rear, keeping his weapon never more than a few feet from Pavel’s back.
Throughout, Pavel kept his face neutral, his breathing even. He made no sudden movements, showed no signs of disdain. Instead he forced his features to be as serene as possible, allowing the guards to take the lead, granting them the illusion of being in control the entire time.
He was there to serve a purpose, not to win a test of manhood.
The house opened before him as he was led inside, the front door leading to an open foyer. A wraparound staircase extended up both sides of it, an enormous chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Everything was outfitted in white, the myriad of lights reflecting off each surface, the entire space seeming to glow. With the exception of the handful of armed guards watching his every movement, it seemed like a scene directly out of a movie.
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