I pull down and back, down and back, down and back. I see the women in my memory, their pink pussies set on display for my ravenous appetite. The dinner bell was rung, and I was ready to dive in and taste the sweet juices their bodies were serving.
The longer I reminiscence, the faster I begin to run my hand up and down. I keep up the repetitive motion, accelerating my movements to a faster, jerking action. The heat builds. The tingling pricks my skin. Then a low, deep growl pulls from the back of my throat. I can no longer hold back the inevitable for another second. My core twitches as I am ripped apart from my orgasm, releasing myself all over the mirror.
I lean forward, my hand resting on the wall, keeping me upright, and my head falls toward the mirror. I feel light-headed as the fluids pulse from my body. My thighs are tight and abdomen as hard as stone when I push out the last of my orgasm.
I collapse back on the bed, catching my breath, laughing quietly to myself when I see the mess I made all over the mirror, but it was a necessity. I had to relive that memory because I will need to abstain from sex until my plan is finished. Women have a way of fucking shit up, and I will never allow that to happen. It’s one of the reasons I killed Anna. I can’t have her emotions derailing everything I will be working so hard to achieve.
August 3, 2015 11:32 a.m.
I pull my freshly laundered suit form the dry cleaning bag and place it on the bed. Along with the suit I wore when I arrived in America, I visited a local men’s clothing store and purchased six new black suits with black shirts and ties, boxers, socks, and shoes. The hotel recommended a tailor who came to my room and fitted each suit perfectly to my frame. The time was needed not only to have my clothing fitted properly, but also to recharge my body and plot what will happen next.
I spent the past two weeks lying low, only leaving when it was necessary. I’ve been locked inside my room, ordering room service when I am hungry and going over the plan again and again until I can’t think of anything else. It’s my responsibility to find any chance this could go wrong and figure out now how to fix it before it becomes a problem.
Stravinsky is not an easy target, and I need to make it my job to know his every move so I can make mine. I am skilled at blending in when I’m out in plain sight. I’ve made it a point to go totally unnoticed as I complete jobs for Stravinsky, and now I have to use that skill on him. The moment I walk from this hotel room, I will be that assassin. My gun will be holstered inside my jacket, and a small knife will be sheathed around my ankle. I will be ready to kill.
Yesterday, I pulled out my black, worn-out address book and found my list of criminal opportunist contacts. I don’t have many, but those I do have each possess a special skill that is needed to move throughout the globe unnoticed. I’ve only called upon them a few times over the twenty years I’ve been a criminal, but when I do reach out, they’re always accommodating. For the right price, of course.
Stephan, I met in prison when I was twenty-two, and he informed me of this entire world of opportunists. Subsequently, when I realized I needed information regarding the ships entering and exiting America, there was only one person to call—Manny. He told me to go to Blythe Harbor where he currently resides.
Apparently, he knows exactly what is going on with the Stravinsky operation and will be the best place to start. When I think about it, Manny sees and hears a lot, considering his accessibility to the ports. If you’re moving product in or out, it’s all done by sea, and Manny is your guy if you need to know what’s happening regarding that.
He controls the docks in Blythe Harbor and has connections with several harbor masters across America. He will know if Stravinsky has left the country and what exactly is going on with his travels. And now I will know exactly what that asshole is up to.
I assume he hasn’t moved way from Brighton Beach, New York. However, I will rely on Manny to find that information out.
I slip on my black boxer briefs, pulling them up over my hips. Then I put on my suit. Black is all I ever where when I’m on the outside. I find it easier to blend into any situation.
When I finish dressing, I gather all my things and prepare to leave my room. I tuck my pistol in its shoulder holster, hiding it underneath jacket. Putting my shoe up on the bed, I secure my knife under my pants, around my ankle, and readjust the fabric. I then pull sixty thousand from my metal suitcase and put the bundles in my briefcase.
I step from my room and head down to the lobby. When I hand over the card keys to the woman at the front desk, I readjust the garment bag full of my new suits on my shoulder, lift my suitcase of money in one hand and my briefcase in the other, and then walk out of the hotel.
“I need to buy car,” I say to the taxi driver as I fall into the back seat of the cab. “And I need one immediately. I’d prefer one that’s fast or one with muscle, as you Americans say.”
The driver, probably a twenty-year-old kid, smiles with uncontained excitement as he looks back at me in the mirror. He is a skinny kid with shaggy, blond hair and vibrant blue eyes, the poster child for a quintessential West Coast surfer boy. Although, I don’t find him immediately annoying like I do with many his age, which surprises me.
I look to his taxi credentials taped on the dash of his car and read his name. It’s also reflective of a young kid—Adam Mason. I observe he has dog tags hanging around his neck, and it makes me wonder if he was in the military or someone he knew who’s no longer alive. They do seem out of place with the Californian style he’s portraying.
“My cousin owns a lot, and he got this new Dodge Challenger on his lot a couple of days ago. I think it was a repo, but it’s in sick condition.”
I wrinkle my brow, trying to determine if a car being in sick condition is a good thing, but with the sheer excitement in his voice, I assume it is.
“Fine, take me there,” I demand as he pulls the cab from under the awning and onto the street.
When we arrive at the dealership twenty minutes later, I see the Challenger sitting on the turn-style car display. Adam goes inside to find his cousin as I stand next to it, looking at the beauty it holds. The kid was right; this is a sick car. The Challenger is a sleek, black machine with matching twenty-inch black rims and blacked-out, tinted windows.
The driver heads out with his cousin, who is a large man, probably my age, with a scruffy beard and an unkempt appearance. Every American movie I’ve seen, which isn’t many, always has the typical smug and shady salesman cast. This guy is it.
I can feel the anger starting to boil. The kid better hope this car is as perfect as he says it is, or I will punch him in the mouth for recommending his disgusting cousin.
“Hi, Chuck Byers.” He extends his hand, and reluctantly, I shake it. “Adam tells me you’re looking to buy this beauty.”
I wipe my hand on my pants, getting the filth off my skin, and respond, “Yes, I need this car immediately. Do you mind getting it off this thing so I can get a better look at it?”
Chuck calls someone on his phone, and moments later, two other guys go through the process of getting the car off the display. I step around the black body and inspect it for visible damages or anything that will make it attract a lot of attention. Then I slide my frame inside the seat. The cushion is very comfortable, and it still smells brand new. The two-tone, dark gray suede and black leather seats compliment the inside, matching the overall sleekness of the car. I wonder how this fat fuck got a hold of it. I doubt he appreciates a machine of this nature.
The car is equipped with a navigation system, satellite radio, and a bunch of other shit I don’t know how to use, but I smile when I put my foot on the pedal and rev the motor. The engine definitely has been modified because there is no way this is a factory motor.
I pop the hood and look underneath, confirming my suspicion. This car will definitely get me to the East Coast fast. The motor is in pristine condition and looks to be equipped with nitrous oxide. I will have to say the kid did a fine job. In fact, he did great and will be
compensated accordingly.
I turn to Chuck. “How much?”
“Well, with the high pre—”
“I don’t want your spiel, Chuck,” I interrupt “Give me a price.” I stare him down, glaring into his brown eyes. I need to let him understand I’m not fucking around, and he better do the same.
“Twenty-six thousand.” He glares back at me, and then a slimly smile surfaces on his face.
I only huff off his expression. He has no idea what I have in my suitcase. I could give him three times as much if I wanted to. Then I would have to kill him, and I just don’t have the time for that right now. My kill mode is set on someone else entirely.
“Done. I assume you take cash.”
Dumbfounded, all Chuck can do is nod his head as we head in the office and make the deal.
Thirty minutes later, the car is officially in my possession. It’s registered under my alias, and with all my identification in order, I don’t foresee a problem. I asked to have the title sent to my New York address, and according to Chuck, it should be in my possession in around eight to ten weeks.
I am really excited to get this out on the open road. American muscle cars are rare in my home country. When I first moved here, it was one of my first purchases after a major hit. I loved that fucking car, but like much in my life, it didn’t last.
I walk from the office and realize the meter of the cab has been running this entire time, and Adam is waiting with my things. You know, I think I can tolerate this kid, which rarely happens.
“Open the trunk,” I direct to him.
He does and then starts to pull my stuff from the back.
I beat him to the suitcase of money and wave my hand, telling him I have it. Then I move it to my new car. I pull a wad of cash from my pocket and pay Adam for the cab fare and leave him a two hundred dollar tip. This surprises him.
“Holy shit, dude,” he says excitedly then hands me a business card. “Any time you’re in town and need a taxi or someone to show you around or whatever, call me, man. I can hook you up with whatever you want.”
I nod my head and put the card in my wallet. Unbeknownst to Adam, this will be the last time I’m in Seattle. I don’t plan on ever returning.
I put the gear shift in my hand and release my foot from the clutch, pulling out into traffic. I love driving a car with a manual transmission. It makes you feel like you’re driving a race car, and with the nitrous oxide under the hood, I believe that I am. I will say it was one of the pleasant surprises this car had.
Adam showed me how to use the navigation system, and I have my car pointed west as I head toward Blythe Harbor. I leave the city, heading to the Pacific Ocean where I will meet up with Manny and get my first clue on where I can find Stravinsky. Then it will be a cross-country trek to the East Coast.
Chapter Nine
Josslyn
August 7, 2015 9:07 a.m.
Like last night, several of us are standing over yet another dead body. Also just like last night, this scene has been staged. He is lying in the grass, wearing only his underwear. He is missing his eyes, lids stapled to his brow, his mouth glued shut, and star-shaped patterns are cut from his body, high up on his chest and on his knee caps. This man appears to be a little bit younger and fatter than the other, but I would say they definitely knew one another.
He was shot, as well, but this man has a bullet wound to his groin. The men looking at his wound gasp, knowing that shit had to hurt. However, he is dead of a single stab wound to the chest that’s penetrated all the way through and come out his back, and of course, the large V is carved in to his back. With the bodies being found within a day of each other, my gut is telling me both men were abducted and tortured at the same time. The killer specifically dumped the bodies so they were found on different days.
I allow the crime scene technicians to work the scene as I step from the tent and walk over to Gabe. He snaps his phone off, looking highly annoyed. I would guess he just got his ass chewed by our lieutenant.
I ignore him for the moment, keeping my mind solely on this motherfucker who is killing people. I am waiting for an official identification to come back on John Doe number one, and now we have a John Doe number two added to our already filled plate.
When I looked over the new unidentified body, I saw he has the same tattoo. The spider on the neck is the obvious link between the two John Doe’s and Ryan Smith. However, the Doe bodies have much more ink on their body than Smith.
It surprises me how well made the tattoos look. Perhaps there was a professional artist locked up with them.
There are crucifixes on their chests, naked ladies up their arms, and one has eyes looking out from his chest. However, this guy has a spider crawling up his neck that is identical to the other John Doe and Ryan Smith. This has to have some kind of significance.
“Ortiz is on his way down here,” Gabe interrupts my thoughts as he tucks his phone back in his pants pocket. “He’s getting a lot of heat, Stowe, and trying to figure out what’s going to happen next.”
I roll my eyes, knowing he’s going to form a task force or call in the FBI to help solve the case. I think I proved that the best resource to have on this case is me, considering I solved the Zaretski case. I don’t say anything to Gabe, though. After all, it’s not like he can help the matter any. He will simply nod and do what the lieutenant says because that is who he is—always compliant, never one to question our boss’s judgment or bend the rules the way I sometimes do, all for the case I’m trying to solve.
Five minutes later, Lieutenant Ortiz steps from his Crown Victoria and walks over to Gabe and me. We are in deep conversation with Jim’s assistant, wondering when we are going to get the identification on the first John Doe. It appears that nothing is coming back for him, though. Like Ryan Smith, he is a ghost in every single system we have. These assholes must have some kind of clout to keep this kind of information out of the computers.
“O’Connor, Stowe,” Ortiz says as he greets us. “What do we know so far?”
“Well, sir, we don’t know much. This body and the man found yesterday were killed in the same manner—exact same wounds—and both bodies were staged, so we’re certain the murders took place somewhere else,” Gabe responds with his best cop tone.
“You know, the commissioner and the mayor are up my ass to get this solved. I need to have answers. We had an entire family killed days ago, and I need information I can share with my superiors.” He rubs his hand over his black hair and glares at Gabe and me with his almost black eyes.
“I have a link I believe can tie Ryan Smith and the two Doe’s together, but I need another couple of days to confirm my suspicion,” I offer.
Gabe snaps his glare to me, obviously pissed I haven’t shared this information with him.
“I need an update no later than Tuesday morning. They are pushing an FBI task force, but I think I can hold them off until then. Just get something for me … and soon.”
The lieutenant leaves me with a visibly angry Gabe. He looks like he is ready to snatch me up in his grasp and slam me into a wall. Hmmm, that’s a thought. I giggle slightly when I think of us going at it roughly. Yeah fucking right. That would never happen since I wouldn’t be able to manage relinquishing control.
“Get over yourself, Gabe. I was going to tell you. I only found this out right before you called me this morning.” I move from his cold stare and walk over to my car where I open the door, but Gabe prevents me from getting in as he puts his arm up.
“Spill it, Stowe.” His voice is strong and kind of sexy. It makes me smile. “What the hell is your problem?”
“You’re really mad at me, aren’t you?”
He steps a little closer, the anger still all over his face.
“Okay, fine. All three of the men have the same spider tattoo on their necks. The spider is exactly the same, crawling up toward their heads. Jim informed me that the tattoos are very similar to prison tattoos given in Russia. I guess there is this
whole subculture around them, but I haven’t confirmed any of that, because I haven’t had time to do the research.”
“Do you think it’s possible it could involve some criminal organization or gang?” Gabe asks as he lowers his arm, calming down a bit.
“I don’t know. When I find something more out, you will be the first to know.”
“It doesn’t make sense, Stowe. The only mob presence we have in Blythe Harbor is Italian-based. There isn’t much here to dispute over … unless something is happening down at the ports. What do you think?”
I shrug and get in my car. I need to be alone with my thoughts and my computer. Research on the tattoos awaits, and I will solve this riddle if it’s the last thing I do.
I wave to Gabe and pull out to the road. My mind drifts back to the murders and the innocent people mixed up in all of it. What I don’t get is, if Ryan was the target, then why worry about killing the rest of the family? They were sleeping upstairs. Even when the gun went off, it would have been ample time for the killer to get away. Unless, Monica Smith knew something Ryan was involved in, but I really don’t think she had a clue. Her entire background is legit.
August 7, 2015 8:57 p.m.
My screen is overwhelmed with the research regarding the Russian tattoos and the link they have to the Vory V Zakone, or Thieves in Law. This organization intrigues me and causes me to abandon my original search of the tattoos to look more closely at the history of the Vory V Zakone.
Originally, they were a group of criminals or gangs who were basically oppressed by the rise of Stalin’s leadership and forced to live out their days in labor camps. Like putting gasoline on a fire, the camps were filled with intelligent, political prisoners who soon formed an organized group who objected to the government’s rule at that time. Fast forward many years, and the fall of the Soviet Union in 1990 gave a calculated group of criminals unimaginable power in the form of access to military-style weapons.
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