10
He shifted his eyes to the station where young men packaged the heroin and then stamped the baggies with their logo—yes, branding, even for illegitimate businesses, was so very important to the long-term growth of his empire. The young man, with a soft, pale face and bones protruding through his white T-shirt, couldn’t be any older than fourteen. He had tripped while carrying a basket of heroin packages over to the larger distribution bin.
Petro very quickly knew this was a possible sign of desperation. Well, that and utter stupidity. He puffed twice on his cigar and watched the boy intently. The boy pushed up to his knees, scrambling to clean up the mess he’d created. There had to be dozens of baggies scattered everywhere. The boy was slick, he could see. Very slick.
Once the baggies had been put back into the basket, he walked straight for the brown bin.
“Halt.” Petro’s baritone voice turned heads and scattered birds in the surrounding trees. Walking with a slight limp, he made his way over to the work area where he could see bewilderment in his workers’ eyes. They were all wondering who had drawn his wrath.
His director of operations, Mirkov, ran up next to him. “Petro, please tell me what is wrong. I will fix it right away.”
“Let me handle it, Mirkov.”
“But, Petro, this is why you pay me. To do the difficult task of keeping everyone focused on their one job. To keep the machine moving twenty-four hours a day.”
Petro stopped, turned, and peered at the shorter Mirkov. “I will handle it. You can watch. Everyone can watch. It will be a good learning opportunity.”
Mirkov’s eyebrow twitched. Petro knew Mirkov was puzzled…and concerned that he’d found a flaw in Mirkov’s operation. Even more concerned about how Petro would respond to this issue. With all eyes on him, Petro plodded across the flattened grass. As he passed each employee, without looking directly at them, he could see their shoulders relax. They knew they had been spared his fury. One by one, they were being eliminated from the pool of suspects. He could hear their deep exhales of relief.
“You,” he said, marching up to the boy who held the basket of heroin baggies.
“Yes sir.” The boy arched his back, standing at attention as if he were in the military.
He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He could see black shadows hovering under the boy’s eyes. His voice filled with compassion, he said, “I saw you fall to the ground. Did you skin your knee?”
He watched the boy turn, and a few people broke out in smiles. They’d rarely seen the softer side of Petro. “I’m okay,” the boy said, now struggling to hold up the heavy basket.
“You can be honest. You hurt yourself, no?”
“Well, maybe a little.”
Petro followed the boy’s eyes downward to see blood soaking through his white pants. “Mirkov, get this young man here a new pair of work pants. And while you’re at it, make sure he has antiseptic and bandages.”
The boy smiled, rocking from side to side. “Thank you, sir, Mr. Udovenko.”
Mirkov opened a plastic cabinet and riffled through it. When he found a pair of white pants, he held them above his head. “You can go into your tent to change,” he said to the boy. “Be quick. We don’t want to fall behind on our daily productivity goal.”
The boy walked toward the large bin to dump his haul and then go change his pants.
“Hold on there,” Petro said.
The boy froze with his basket leaning against the bin.
“Do you know the value of the product you have in your wicker basket?”
His eyes got wide.
“Do you?”
He shook his head. “No sir. But I will learn. Mr. Mirkov can teach me, right?”
Mirkov mumbled something, but Petro ignored it. “The value is based upon how many bags are in that basket, as long as the amount of heroin is the same in each bag, isn’t that correct?”
The boy looked off for a second. “I suppose so. Yes sir.”
“I assure you, Mr. Udovenko,” Mirkov said, stepping forward. “We measure each bag on three different scales to ensure its accuracy. Our QA process is unmatched, sir.” Petro nodded, glanced over at the weighing station, and then back to the boy. He took a long drag on his cigar and let the smoke drift into the boy’s face. The boy tried not to choke, but after a few seconds it became futile, and he coughed.
Some of the men nearby laughed. Petro caught them in a steely glare, and there was silence. He turned back to the boy.
“If we’re to believe Mirkov, each bag is precisely the same size. What’s the market price today, Mirkov, for one baggie of our finest product?” he asked without taking his eyes off the boy.
“That depends on the city. Paris is one price, while here in Ukraine, maybe Kiev, would be less.”
His eyes stayed on the boy as he snapped his fingers at Mirkov. “Let’s take Paris.”
“Umm, probably two hundred euros, maybe more during peak travel seasons or near the holidays.”
“Two hundred euros,” Petro repeated. “So, does anyone here know how many baggies fit into the basket?”
“Maybe a hundred?” one person said from the crowd.
“Anyone else?”
Everyone, including the boy, shook their heads. With his hands on his knees, he bent over to stare the boy in the face from six inches away. “One hundred twelve.”
“Thank you for that information, Mr. Udovenko.” The boy blinked several times.
“Count the baggies,” he said.
The boy stopped blinking. In fact, he didn’t move at all.
“I said, count the baggies. I just want to make sure we’re all respectful of how much money we’re dealing with here.”
The boy set the basket down and started counting the baggies, placing each one on the ground.
“I can’t hear you,” he said.
“Five, six, seven.”
He turned to the workers, who’d shuffled closer. “Everyone count with the boy.”
The group formed a tight circle around the boy and recited each sequenced number out loud. Petro walked around the workers, blowing smoke into the crowd every few steps.
“Seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one…”
As he made two more rotations, he looked beyond the inevitable ending to this ordeal. His operation—dubbed Big Bear—was beginning to expand beyond the European borders. With his new contacts, he hoped to break into more lucrative markets. He had one score to settle, and he could envision the scenario in which he’d be able to exact revenge, wielding his own version of justice for a wrong that had been perpetrated against him many years earlier.
The group finally reached one hundred, and Petro wedged his way into the center of the group, next to the boy. “Keep going,” he said.
“One hundred one, one hundred two.” Petro moved his arms up and down to the cadence of the crowd as if he were directing a symphony. With his eyes looking not at the boy but into the faces of the crowd, they chanted, “One hundred eleven,” and then stopped.
Petro put his hand to his ear. “Tell me there is one more baggie.”
A few brave souls shook their heads.
He glanced down to see the boy with his hands to his face, whimpering like he’d just lost his best friend.
“This boy is a thief.” Mirkov broke through the pack and pointed a finger at the boy. “Give us the baggie. Now.”
The boy reached into his pocket, removed the baggie, and held it above his head without looking up. He began to cry even louder.
Mirkov took the baggie, then backhanded the boy across the face. The boy fell from his knees to the ground. Blood trickled out of his nose. “You are fired. You will get your things and leave at once. And if I ever see you on the street, I will personally kill you. Do you understand me?”
The boy sniffled, and looked up. “Yes.”
Mirkov looked to Petro. “We will not tolerate this type of incompetence and deceit.” He clicked his heels and extended his hand that h
eld the baggie of heroin.
Petro blew out a puff of smoke, then pulled his Makarov pistol from his side holster, turned and fired a single shot into the back of the boy’s head.
A grunt, and then he went limp. “That’s for the deceit.”
Gasps sounded from all around him as Mirkov nodded and then broke into a smile. “Nice, boss. I should have thought of that myself.”
“Yes, you should have.” Petro raised his pistol and pulled the trigger. Mirkov tipped over like a tree, hitting the ground with a thud. “And that was for incompetence.”
He walked back to his tent and finished his cigar. He had plans to make. And nothing was going to get in his way.
11
I flipped through a trashy magazine while trying to ignore the overwhelmed mother on the other side of the waiting room. Not just any waiting room, but the waiting room for Zahera’s OB/GYN practice. It wasn’t time for my annual exam. On my way out of the ECHO office, she’d called me over to discuss something very important: her pending wedding to Zeke Moffett.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. And not because I’d told Saul I’d meet up with him for dinner. He was a big boy, and he respected my friendships. And he was ultra cool about the unpredictability associated with my job, my passion. My angst, of course, was that her father and I had just entered into an agreement for me to dig up all the dirt I could find on her fiancée. In the first few minutes after Armand had left the office, I’d convinced myself that I wasn’t “digging up dirt,” per se. But I knew that would be how Zahera would interpret my actions, regardless of how I described it. If she found out.
According to Kelly, the office manager, Zahera was still playing catch-up after an unexpected delivery early this morning. Sucks to be her…well, except for the high six-figure income.
I flipped another crinkled page and sighed for about the hundredth time since I’d sat down.
“I can’t help it if you keep changing your mind.” The woman across the room grunted as she rocked a baby she held in the nook of her arm and tried to console her toddler, a little girl who was whining about not having the right kind of snack. “Dammit, Brit, just take the snack. Mommy got no sleep last night.”
With food stains smeared across her face and white shirt, the girl opened her mouth and let out an ear-piercing shrill. The woman, who looked to be at least eight months pregnant, tried reaching for Brit, but the little girl shook her hand away and waddled toward me.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Reach out and grab the little girl? That might upset her. And even though the mom looked like she needed the help, she might go ballistic. For a quick moment, I raised the magazine, hiding my face. But her next scream seemed to rip right through the pages. I placed the magazine on the chair next to me and tried smiling at her.
Another scream.
I’d lost my magic touch with kids, or at least this one. Looking for an escape, I lifted from my seat and walked to the receptionist’s window. A shapely woman in blue scrubs was on the phone. She held up a finger. I turned back to the circus behind me and felt badly for everyone involved.
“I wouldn’t trade spots with her for a million bucks.”
I turned to see the receptionist flipping her pen between two fingers. I nodded. “Can’t disagree with you on that. Is Zahera ready for me yet?”
She put a hand to her face. Was she smirking?
“Did I miss the joke?”
“No. I just—”
Just then, the main office door opened from the hallway, and a man wearing a red tie marched in. He scooped up Brit, who immediately stopped screaming, and then walked over to the pregnant woman. They spoke quietly, then in a matter of seconds, were out the door.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
The nurse grinned. “That was supposed to be Zahera’s last appointment once Mrs. Donahue’s husband arrived. Maybe they’ll call back and reschedule.”
“Cool. Well, not so much for them, but can I run back and talk to Zahera?”
I’d already shifted to the interior door, anticipating a quick nod.
“Well…”
“Well what?”
“She’s…a bit indisposed.”
I wasn’t following. “I need more words.”
Just then, Kelly walked up behind the receptionist and handed her a couple of folders. “Hey, Ivy, you still waiting on Queen Z?”
I couldn’t contain my laughter. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
A woman probably twenty years older than any girl working in the office, Kelly had pizzazz. She arched an eyebrow. “Neither has she. Let’s keep it that way for now, if you don’t mind. I like my job. Well, on most days.”
Turns out I wasn’t the only one keeping a secret from Zahera. “No problem. Any idea what’s holding up Queen Z? She summoned me over to talk wedding plans.”
“Come on back,” Kelly said with a smile.
“But, Kelly, don’t you think we should wait?” The nurse gave Kelly a knowing nod, but I didn’t think Kelly noticed. Maybe she didn’t care. She ran the place, so I followed her lead and met her on the other side of the interior door.
Her yellow and white flowery skirt flowed behind her as she swiftly made her way down the maze of hallways. I had to skip to keep up. “I think she’s finishing up some paperwork.” She knocked once on Zahera’s office door and opened it.
All I saw were white butt cheeks.
12
After a few minutes for the loving and horny couple to get dressed, Zeke opened the door. His cheeks—the ones on his face—were abnormally pink. I didn’t know if that was from overexertion or embarrassment.
“Hi, Ivy…again.”
“Sorry for just barging in,” I said, taking a step inside the door.
Zahera adjusted her considerable bra and then fanned herself. “Wipe that image from your memory bank,” she said with a wink.
That might not be as easy as she thinks, but I said, “It’s wiped.”
Zahera checked herself in her portable mirror. “Zeke just flew in from Canada, right, sweetie?”
“Yep. Toronto.”
“It’s been a few days since we’ve seen each other.” She walked over, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek. Even though he had muscles on top of muscles, he smiled like a school kid.
“Four days and nine hours to be exact,” he said, popping both eyebrows.
She patted his face. “Isn’t he adorable?”
“Just like a puppy dog,” I said.
I thought about the first time Zahera and I had met Zeke. Zahera’s attraction to him had been instantaneous. I realized I was dealing with two lovebirds, but I couldn’t help but think of the real Bond’s natural charm with women. Zahera certainly seemed smitten. I just didn’t want my best friend to get hurt because Zeke had a woman in every port, so to speak.
Zahera smacked her fiancé on his backside, then moved behind her desk and glanced at her computer monitor. “So you’re going to meet me at the tux store later?”
“It’s a date,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Remember, I’m flying out later tonight to Mexico City. I have a meeting early tomorrow morning.”
“Toronto. Mexico City. Your international business is really picking up for your security firm,” I said.
“Funny thing, it’s all referral business. I guess once you make it into the right circle of people and they have a good customer experience, then they spread the word to their friends. It’s kind of like a stock tip, except any ‘insider information’ in my business won’t get the SEC up your ass.”
I instantly wondered if his circle included Petro Udovenko, the name of the man Armand had shared. While I knew I had homework of my own to learn everything I could about Petro, convincing Zeke to open up would get me there a lot faster. But he was a former Navy SEAL and basically in the business of concealing information, per his client’s wishes.
“I can relate, at least a little bit on the word-of-mouth refe
rences going a long way to build a business. I know that ECHO is nothing compared to your firm—”
“That’s nonsense,” he said. “Don’t underestimate the service you provide for this community.”
I was taken aback by Zeke’s compliment and lost my concentration. But to avoid an awkward silence, I just said, “Uh, thanks.”
“Well, I’m off. Need to run by the house, wash up, repack my bag, and then… What did I need to do? I can’t seem to recall.” He twisted his lips and looked to the ceiling.
“Very funny, Zeke. Did you bang your head while you were…?” Zahera pressed her mouth shut as her eyes got wide.
“I guess I’ll leave on that note. See you soon, Ivy.”
And with that, he was out the door. Zahera’s smile suddenly went flat. She picked up a pen and clicked it a few times.
“What’s up, Z?”
“Nothing.”
“That means it’s something.”
She didn’t respond, but she did click the pen another ten times.
“Do you want me to guess?”
Five more pen clicks. I followed her eyes to where her framed medical degree hung from the wall.
“Z, you’re the one who asked me over. I thought it was to talk about wedding stuff. Is there something going on here at the office?”
She shook away her trance. “Sorry, no, yes…Oh, I’m such a scatterbrain.”
I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder. “You’re anything but. You’re probably the smartest person I know.”
“I know, but…” She looked at me and then cackled a few seconds. Her confidence wasn’t lacking. But that was typical Zahera.
“What’s going on?” I asked again.
“It’s Zeke.” Her eyes found mine, and I felt an extra zip in my pulse. Had she just been playing the role of the happy fiancé in front of Zeke? Maybe she’d discovered something about his other life, the one that somehow connected him to the Ukrainian drug boss. I braced myself for the worst. Or maybe it would be for the best.
“What about Zeke?”
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 30