Countdown to Zero Hour

by Nico Rosso

  He leaned an elbow on the island and tried to sound as casual as possible. “You’ll need to make five extra desserts for after Martha leaves.”

  “Artem.” Rolan’s voice called to him from the front of the house. The boss continued in Russian, “You’re needed to speak.”

  Art straightened but stayed with Hayley.

  “Desserts...?” She caught up quickly, processing with a quiver in her lips and nervous eyes glancing past him to the rest of the house. “I can make enough for more people. I’ll be ready.”

  “Good.” He hoped Automatik was also ready. “I love your desserts.”

  Rolan walked toward the kitchen, becoming insistent. “Artem, you must explain to them what you told me about last night’s attack.”

  “It’s good.” Art gave her a wink, staying loose. “Just a little business.”

  She half smiled, but the worry tugged her mouth back down. “I can’t wait for dessert.”

  “Me, too.” He left the kitchen, heading toward Rolan and the other bosses. Training and planning would only get an operator so far. Once the first bullet left the chamber, life became death.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She relied on what had gotten her here to help get her through it. After cleaning up the breakfast service, Hayley turned to the ritual of the pelmeni. The process of making the dough, the filling and the broth took every surface of the kitchen and nearly every pot and pan. The space was hers. No matter which guard or boss came by to watch or smell the cooking aromas, none of them ventured closer than the far side of the island.

  Even Art maintained a respectful distance. His presence was always felt, and no matter which stage of the cooking she was in, she would always look up when he walked by to check in on her. They shared flashing glances. Anything longer would become too agonizing. She wanted time with him in a safe place. But that wasn’t possible until the day was over. And how horrific was that going to be?

  He’d given her the message earlier. Nothing would happen until Martha was out of the house. Then the rest of his team would show up. He’d said five extra desserts. Were five soldiers enough?

  His concern for Martha’s well-being spoke well to the planning of his operation. He’d also seemed to do everything he could to protect Hayley. A full-out assault of the house was something completely different, though. She’d seen how the guards had reacted when the locals had fired a few shots into the top floor. It didn’t take much for all the guns to come out.

  “Los Angeles?” The young, tan boss stepped closer to the stove than anyone and stared into the pot of simmering broth. His English was good. She would have to be careful.

  “San Diego.” She shaped pelmeni, wrapping dough around the filling and setting them out on baking sheets to rest.

  The man clicked his tongue. “I could get you a restaurant in Miami.”

  The prospect of her own restaurant was always appealing. At what cost? How much further would she be willing to get into business with these men? “I think Rolan would rather have these pelmeni close.”

  Art’s plan had to work. She had to be free from all these poisonous snakes.

  “We’re lucky to have you here.” The boss nosed around her prep bowls. “But if you ever get tired of cooking old-fashioned for the dinosaurs, I’ll get you a place. Up-to-date. Full liquor license. Near the clubs.”

  He knew how to lure a chef. Temptation was his art, then the business would take over and this man would own her. The same way she’d been “offered” the job of cooking for a house full of criminals. No choice at all.

  “Thanks.” The pelmeni demanded she maintain her pace and she didn’t glance up. “I’ll see what shakes down.”

  “Good girl.” Confident and patronizing.

  She was probably older than him. And she had a paring knife close at hand from cutting out the dough if he tried to touch her.

  Even with her focus on the food, she felt Art’s presence approach the kitchen. She glanced up at him, taking in the tilt of his shoulders while he strutted toward her. His eyes questioned, looking between her and the tan boss. A quick nod from her told him everything was alright. But he still hung out at the perimeter of the kitchen.

  All the while he maintained a cool presence, as if today was like any other day and the only thing he had to worry about was making sure his stubble was perfectly dusting his strong jawline. On the inside, he must be revving high. His motor never appeared to stop. She’d felt what it was like to be on the receiving end of all that attention. She’d also seen what he could do when threatened. This calm Art was just a mask. He was ready to break out at any second.

  The tan boss didn’t even register the man who was set to dismantle the whole operation. The boss left the kitchen, sidling around the island with his focus two rooms away when he passed Art.

  She said to Art, “Lunch in ten minutes.” The first batch of pelmeni hit the broth. She was running to the end of the ritual, and the nerves started to coil tighter around her joints again.

  “I’ll pass the word.” He started to leave, then stopped. “Smells great.” The depth in his eyes soothed her. “I’ve known people who’ve forgotten all their training when things get tight.” His admiration heated her. “If you’ve fallen down, you’ve always gotten back up.”

  She tried to absorb what he’d said, deep, as if it could strengthen her bones and fill out her muscles. Confidence was elusive.

  Art walked off as if it was just another lunch, talking to whichever guards he ran into, she presumed about the meal’s timing. They then sauntered away to spread the information. It wasn’t long before most of the house paraded past the kitchen, eagerly glancing at the bowls of steaming pelmeni, complete with side salads and condiments.

  The fifth boss, who seemed most revered by all, including the other heads, patted Rolan on the back, as if to indicate the man had done good by hiring her. Rolan beamed and preened his silver hair a bit, taking on some of the glow of the top man.

  By the time she served the food in the dining room, Rolan was in the midst of an animated story. He pointed at her and Art, made gestures toward the dumplings as well as somewhat awkward karate chops similar to what Art had used on the men with knives outside the club. He spun her tale while the guards and bosses listened intently. There was surprised admiration in their eyes for her. Less for Art, though there were a couple of grudging nods his way. Garin seethed. Vasily paid little attention to the story, staring instead out the window at the bright day. The newest bodyguard, who was a giant, sided with Garin. If either of them glanced at Art, it was just to send dirty looks and promises of pain.

  Art was outnumbered. How many people did he have on the outside? Only five? She’d met Mary and Harper, and they looked capable, but them and three others coming at the house wouldn’t be nearly enough to neutralize all these armed threats.

  Rolan’s story hit a crescendo and he ate a pelmeni as punctuation. Lunch was officially underway, and the men fell silent as they devoured the food. Organized crime wasn’t her ideal customer base, but she couldn’t suppress her pride at creating food that was so well appreciated.

  She took her leave of the dining area, bits of Russian conversations springing up behind her. Art’s voice joined in. Maybe they were asking for more details on the fight. Or sizing him up, trying to determine his moves.

  Martha was already in the kitchen, helping clean up the piles of bowls and pots used for the pelmeni. Hayley had saved food and made a couple of plates for her and Martha, who smiled appreciatively.

  The two of them ate automatically, standing near the work that waited for them. Hayley tried to keep her focus on the dumplings. The taste and texture. She’d made hundreds of pelmeni in the past. Maybe thousands. What could she do different? Firmer dough? Additional spices in the filling, or the broth? She let these thoughts take her, rather
than wondering if this was the last meal she’d ever have.

  Silverware clinked on empty plates, and men made satisfied sounds in the other room. Conversations popped and swerved. Chairs scraped the floor as people stood. After a minute, stacks of dirty dishes flowed into the kitchen.

  Hayley and Martha finished their own meal and got to work. Art came in with the last batch of plates.

  “I’d help, but the bosses are taking a meeting in the conference room and I’m in on it.” His casual rhythm was gone, replaced by something dark and edgy. “If it’s too hot, get out of the kitchen.”

  And he was off, leaving her to figure out what all that meant. The man was going to be in a room with all the targets of his operation. Possibly the very same men who’d ordered the hit on his father all those years ago. And he somehow maintained his cool. Waiting. But he was apart from her. Behind how many locked doors? His caution shook the floor under her feet and thinned the air. The kitchen had been her only safe space. Leaving it would expose her. And that was why he warned her. There were no safe spaces anymore.

  * * *

  Five bosses in one room. He was armed. A pistol and two knives. Enough bullets to take them all out. But that wasn’t his mission. There were authorities around the world who wanted these men. Exposure in a courtroom and the justice of a jail cell would do more damage to the Orel Group than leaving behind a pile of bodies. Split apart, most of these men would turn on each other. Seams would tear, and the power of the organization would leak out.

  But Art was tempted.

  Tactically, he knew it wouldn’t work. He’d maybe take out one or two bosses before the others had their guns out and filled the air with lead. He had to hold tight.

  As tight as his fist. Like he was closing his fingers around Rolan’s throat. The boss was still riding high after telling the story of how he’d met Hayley and her fabulous pelmeni. The food she cooked was moving him up in the esteem of the powerful bosses. Krylov, the New York man, licked his lips noisily when the dumplings were mentioned again in the windowless conference room.

  There were even a few compliments passed out to Art for how he’d handled the two attackers outside the club. He thanked them and could hear what they didn’t say. “Good job, for a half-breed.”

  “For a Mexican.”

  His father wouldn’t have been proud of him saving Rolan’s life that night. But the man’s ghost had to know that it was part of a bigger plan. By the end of this day, he could rest in peace.

  Until then, Art kept playing along. He sat on the side of the table opposite the five bosses, telling them what he knew about the flow of drugs over the border into Arizona and California. Dernov and Yemelin complained about the Latin American gangs, how they controlled too much and couldn’t be trusted. Art knew the same could be said about the Orel Group but kept that to himself.

  Most of the bosses perked up when he suggested infiltrating the gangs. Krylov brushed it off, saying they were too loyal. But Art countered, saying that if they found a top man while he was in prison and isolated from his support network, they might be able to turn him.

  The information went over well, and Rolan beamed brighter.

  Keep smiling, Art thought. Even when your face is in the dirt and my boot is on the back of your neck. Even when Rolan was being handed over to the authorities in an unmarked helicopter.

  This was the time to call in the strike. All the bosses in one room. But Art had no access to his phone. The signal would be crude. It had to wait until after Martha was gone, as well.

  Meanwhile, he was in the perfect position to execute the op.

  And he was separated from Hayley, who was alone with the rest of the guards in the house. There was nothing to stand between her and Garin except the knife Art had given her. It had worked the other night, but Garin wasn’t going to give up that easily. Art knew the man would sacrifice a gallon of his blood to get what he wanted.

  The only sliver that kept Art close to sane in this room was knowing, or hoping, that Garin wouldn’t make his move in the light of day. Hayley was smart enough to not let herself get isolated with him. There’d be too many witnesses for him to make a play. Unless he’d become completely unhinged. Which was getting to be more and more of a possibility.

  Art raged inside as he talked to the bosses about what kind of lawyers to pay off to find out about incarcerated gang members. He was through helping them, the same men who’d taken away his father. It cost him too much. This whole operation might cost him Hayley. He had to pull the trigger soon.

  * * *

  She watched the clock. She watched the sun’s downward arc after lunch. She watched the attitude of the men. None of the timekeepers told Hayley when the world would change around her. Martha’s departure was the only clue, but she wasn’t sure exactly when that would happen. And how long after would the assault start?

  The one person with the answer was somewhere upstairs, locked in a room with the enemy. He was forced to play a part for them. She had to, as well. While acid seethed in her gut and worry lashed out like barbed wire whips, she prepped dinner.

  Potato after potato was peeled, then sliced to discs for a gratin that would fill several baking dishes. She cubed beef for a stew and felt how the blade popped through the first layer of the muscle. The red striations parted, revealing the deeper cuts. Her knife shook and she hurried through that part of the process, sweeping the meat into a bowl and washing her hands a few times.

  Garin stalked into the kitchen while she was washing her knife. Even when the blade was clean and dry, she kept it in her grip. He maintained a distance but pointed at the prepped food, speaking in streaming Russian sentences she didn’t understand.

  His vehemence betrayed a deeper hurt. The man had been trying to get her this whole time. Her rejection lanced his pride, making him very dangerous. His focus for the moment was on dinner.

  The word rassolnyk kept coming up again and again. All she knew from her memory of her father and aunt talking about food was that it was a kind of soup, but she’d never learned how to make it.

  Garin wanted it. He wanted her and would probably destroy her as soon as he had the chance. They stood on opposite sides of the island. His eyes kept flicking to the knife in her hand. He knew about the other one, the gift from Art. Garin might not know where she was keeping it, but she couldn’t count on surprising him again.

  For now they danced around the pretense of him wanting a specific soup for dinner.

  She pointed with the knife to the bowl of beef, then the large pot waiting on the stove. “Ragu iz govydiny.” Beef stew. She repeated it as many times as Garin insisted on the soup.

  The looping conversation became so bizarre that a collection of guards were pulled closer to the kitchen to see what was going on. Of course none of them came to help, though Gogol watched her with sympathy.

  The bosses had leashes strong enough to pull Garin off his goal, and they were all sequestered somewhere else. And Art, the only man who stood up to the blond guard, was locked in with them.

  Even stone-faced Vasily rolled his eyes as Garin continued to press for the soup. The latest bodyguard, who was a mountain in a tracksuit, snickered at Garin’s insistence but made no effort to curb him.

  The odd conversation angled into an argument when Garin started to touch her prep bowls and baking dishes.

  She rapped the butt of her chef’s knife on the top of the island and insisted, “My kitchen. My kitchen.”

  The language didn’t matter. He understood.

  The escalation hit the other guards, as well. Vasily spoke up softly, staying just at the border of the kitchen and the dining area.

  Garin turned on him, fury in his eyes, but held himself together and didn’t challenge the other man. They exchanged sentences while the new, giant guard looked on, disappointed that the whole sce
ne was being diffused.

  Most of Garin’s fuel had burned off. But he couldn’t leave without a parting shot. He circled his hand over the whole kitchen and enunciated very clearly for Hayley, “Rassolnyk.”

  With a last glance at the knife that remained in her hand, he turned and left the kitchen, sweeping a wake of bad energy throughout. She worried that the soot of his anger would settle on what she was cooking, spoiling it all before it hit the stove.

  The curtain dropped on the scene, and the other guards went from being spectators back to their jobs of scowling mean and carrying guns. She tried to return to her cooking but was too shaken and had to stand at the counter, taking deep breaths to bring her racing pulse down. The house was on the brink. Somehow she’d managed to hold it together during her confrontation with Garin. But when things really snapped, it would be chaos.

  And that son of a bitch would not give up. He’d set them up at the hotel, failed and continued to exploit every opportunity to harass her when Art wasn’t around.

  When she was calm enough to cook again, she set back into the process. It didn’t last long enough. After a few extra touches to what she’d already done, the food was off, taking care of itself. Beef stewed and the gratins roasted.

  She watched the clock again, not knowing what it meant.

  Art had the answers. But he’d been gone so long. Had they found out who he was? The house was dead quiet. Maybe this was the way they did things. Silently. With the casual and polite calm Rolan used to button his coat.

  If they knew about Art, they would come for her next.

  The back door of the kitchen was unlocked. She could run. But on the other side of the dirt yard was the wall. Too high to climb. The guards would see her by then. She stared out the windows on the door, trying to plot any path to safety. There were none.

  Art had told her to get out of the kitchen if it wasn’t safe anymore.

  It was time to leave.

  She put her hand on the back doorknob, and a voice whispered over her shoulder.