Sons of Anarchy Bratva

by Christopher Golden

  Oleg and Feliks emerged from the car a few seconds behind her. Gavril waited behind the wheel, right hand no doubt on the ignition. They had no key, but getting the engine running would take the man half a second. He’d done this once or twice before.

  Carney stepped out of his pickup and put his hands to the small of his back the way aging men always did. He stretched and then ambled toward them, more cowboy now than the Irish boy he’d been raised.

  “Miss Dunphy,” he said.

  She wanted to tell him her real name, but she could not. Oleg might decide that information was worth killing him for.

  “I ought to tell you now,” Carney went on, “I’m not real comfortable with this.”

  Feliks dropped his hand back a bit, the better to reach for the gun tucked into his rear waistband if he had the need.

  Oleg seemed about to open his mouth and reveal his accent, but Trinity shot him a look that made him as silent as Feliks.

  “There’s nothin’ for you to be uncomfortable about, Mr. Carney,” she said. “You’re introducin’ an old friend to a new one, that’s all. If you’d rather not stick around after the introductions are made, nobody here will hold it against you.”

  Carney shifted awkwardly and glanced up at the house. “Oscar might.”

  The friend in Belfast who’d given her Carney’s name had told her that the man had been on the straight and narrow path for many years. His discomfort at being involved with anything outside the law seemed genuine enough, but he’d agreed to bring them here, and once involved, it wasn’t the sort of thing he could easily walk away from.

  Carney seemed to recognize this truth a second or two after Trinity had. He sighed with a let’s-get-on-with-it expression and headed for the sprawling ranch house’s front door with Trinity, Oleg, and Feliks in tow. Gavril remained behind the wheel of the Mercedes until the door opened and a bearded man in a rust-colored sport coat beckoned for them to come inside.

  At the door, Carney greeted the bearded man whose name seemed to be Aaron. Aaron Something didn’t bother to introduce himself to his employer’s guests. Trinity would have taken him for a fool with his crisp new blue jeans and unscuffed, pointed-toe cowboy boots, but she saw the slight bulge of a weapon beneath his sport coat and a dark intelligence that glittered in his eyes like tiny burning coals. This man was more than a thug.

  Aaron led them into a foyer and gestured toward a small table beneath a coat rack. “Leave your guns right here. They’ll be waiting for you on the way out.”

  A ripple of unease went through them all. Trinity shot Oleg a dark look and he nodded, watching Aaron carefully as he drew the pistol out of his rear waistband and set it on the table. Gavril and Feliks followed suit.

  “What about you?” the man asked, turning to Trinity.

  “I’m just here to talk,” she said. “I don’t even like guns.”

  He studied her a moment, taking in her jeans and boots and the thin cotton sweater she wore. Aaron was trying to figure her out, what she might be doing with these men, and Trinity could tell he hadn’t managed it yet. Neither had she.

  “Strange company you keep, if that’s the case,” he said.

  “No argument from me.”

  He gestured for them to move deeper into the house. “Mr. Temple is waiting for you in the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen?” Trinity echoed.

  No one said a word. Carney followed Aaron, and she and her Russian boys were obliged to go along. At first it seemed odd to her that the man would welcome them in his kitchen instead of a study or sitting room, but of course the kitchen was more intimate, more personal … and somehow more hospitable. Meant to create the illusion that they were all friends and could speak their minds.

  They found Oscar Temple chopping vegetables at the granite-topped center island. He wore a big Colt pistol on his hip like a marshal in the Old West, the leather belt and holster as oiled and supple as a young boy’s precious baseball mitt. A pot simmered on the fancy stove, and Trinity’s stomach growled at the wonderful aroma that filled the room.

  “Hello, John,” Temple said warmly. “And hello to your friends.”

  “Evening, Oscar,” Carney replied.

  Temple glanced at the window over the sink. “Is it evening already? Well, she sure snuck up on us, didn’t she?”

  On a second cutting board was a whole chicken that he’d stripped, the meat stacked on a plate. Once he’d put the meat and vegetables back into the spicy broth that simmered on the stove, he’d have quite a stew.

  “Smells good, doesn’t it, Miss…,” Temple said, glancing her way.

  “Dunphy,” Trinity said. “Caitlin Dunphy.”

  Temple wiped his hands on a dishrag and greeted her with a handshake. He’d zeroed in on her—maybe Carney had told him up front that she’d do the talking—and he didn’t bother to offer his hand to any of her companions. Trinity had a moment of total panic as she realized that, instead of being just Oleg’s girlfriend, she had taken part in a criminal endeavor, working with the Russian Mafia.

  Lord, what am I doing? she thought, unable to take a breath.

  Then she glanced at Oleg and remembered the answer. Staying alive. Keeping Oleg alive. This was her family now.

  Light footsteps came from another corridor at the far side of the kitchen, and they all glanced over to see a brunette woman step in. Tanned and weathered, she wore her own variation on Aaron’s sport coat, complete with the bulge of a handgun. How many were there? Trinity wondered.

  “Antoinette, there you are!” Temple said happily. “Could you give Miss Dunphy a pat-down, please? When you’re done, Aaron can do the same for her friends.”

  “They left their guns at the door,” Trinity said. “And I’m not armed.”

  “Could be that’s true,” Temple said. “But Antoinette is searching you for cameras or listening devices…”

  He paused, studying Oleg before moving on to Gavril.

  “Though, judging by your companions, I’m certain you’re on the up-and-up. Our federal friends are never quite this convincing,” he said, finishing with Feliks. “Russian, aren’t you?”

  Trinity had told them to keep quiet, and they heeded her advice, saying nothing.

  Temple glanced at her, reached up, and tapped the back of his own neck. “The tattoos, my dear.”

  She glanced at Oleg, thinking of the crude images in the flesh at the back of his neck, remembering the times she had stroked that skin.

  “Russian gulag is the only place you get something like that,” Temple said. “Do they still call them that, gulags? Or are they just prisons now?”

  Gavril inched toward him, menace rolling off him in waves. “Do you have issue with Russians? A rule, maybe? You don’t do business with us?”

  Trinity wanted to cuff him around the head but didn’t let her irritation show.

  Oscar Temple held his hands wide to show they were all friends. “Not at all, tovarisch. Politics ain’t my game. I’m a businessman. Anyone willing to pay me in U.S. currency is American enough for me.”

  Gavril nodded, perhaps reconsidering his decision to speak up. He glanced at Oleg and Trinity. Feliks had hung back, staying as close to Temple’s mustachioed bodyguard as possible.

  “Go on and pat me down, then, Antoinette,” Trinity said, hoping she sounded friendlier than she felt.

  The woman went about the task thoroughly enough that Trinity figured it qualified as her first girl-on-girl experience. When Antoinette finished, she retreated into the hallway from which she’d appeared, and it was Aaron’s turn to pat down the Russians. Oleg and the boys shifted uncomfortably as Aaron took his time.

  “What about the old man?” Aaron asked, nodding toward Carney.

  Temple smiled beatifically. “You armed, John?”

  Carney frowned. “’Course I am. I’ve got that old Beretta you gave me when I turned seventy.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Temple said.

  Aaron shrugged.
“All right, then. No wire, and no other guns. But that one has a knife,” he said, pointing at Oleg.

  Temple smiled that devilish grin. “’Course he does.” He glanced at Oleg. “You look like a knife man, Ivan.”

  Oleg chuckled softly.

  Temple’s mask slipped a moment. “I say something funny?”

  “Nobody calls us Ivan anymore. Ronald Reagan has been out of office for a long time,” Oleg said.

  Trinity sighed. Okay, Temple was an asshole, but when you wanted something from an asshole, you had to let him peacock around acting like King Shit. She glanced at Carney, who stood only a couple of feet from her. The old man looked nervous as hell.

  “You’re in my house,” Temple warned. He rested his right palm on the gun handle jutting from the holster on his right hip. “I guess I’ll call you whatever I want, particularly since you didn’t offer up your names.”

  Carney took a step away from Trinity, marking himself out as separate from her and her friends.

  “Listen, I did my part,” he said, his voice a tired rasp. “I made the introductions. But you’re all a little too wound up for me, so I’m gonna be on my way.”

  Trinity’s skin rippled with gooseflesh as if a malign presence had just entered the room. She didn’t believe in evil spirits the way her grandmother always had, but she certainly believed that bad intentions carried a weight, an aura that could be felt.

  “You sit tight a second, Carney,” Temple said. “You brought these folks here.”

  “Can we get down to business?” Trinity asked, raising her hands in supplication. “All we want is a fair price, and we’ve heard you’re a man who deals fair.”

  Temple exhaled. He glanced at Aaron, who seemed to deflate a bit, and most of the tension drained out of the room. Oleg and Gavril relaxed visibly, but Feliks didn’t move any farther away from Aaron.

  “What are you looking for exactly?” Temple asked.

  Carney hummed to himself, looking at the floor, pretending he wasn’t involved in an illegal gun deal.

  “MAC-10s. Tec-9s,” Oleg said. “Mix and match. We need a dozen, plus twenty handguns. Hollow-tip rounds, if you can get them.”

  Temple whistled appreciatively as he scraped chopped vegetables onto a plate and walked over to the simmering pot. “You guys have quite a Christmas list. That’s a lot of guns just for the four of you.”

  No one said a word. Temple dumped the vegetables into his stew and then went back for the big plate of chicken.

  “I can get them,” he went on.

  Antoinette stepped back into the kitchen. Temple glanced at her, and the woman gave a tiny tilt of the head.

  Trinity didn’t like that head tilt, or the way the left side of Temple’s mouth lifted in an almost imperceptible smirk. Something had just passed between Antoinette and her employer, and Trinity ran back through the past couple of minutes in her head, trying to figure out what she had missed.

  “How soon can you have ’em?” she asked, as if she hadn’t felt the change in the room.

  Temple scraped the chicken into the pot and then adjusted the level of the flame.

  “Something’s got me wondering,” he said. “Not that it’s any of my business, but I’m curious what sort of shitstorm you’re all in that you’ve got to come to me. Let’s face it, most of the guns ghosting their way up and down the west coast of this country came through Irish or Russian hands at some point, so why not go to your own people for this?”

  Trinity felt cold. “Like you said, Mr. Temple. It’s not your business.”

  The smarmy, condescending look returned to Temple’s face. The bastard had snake’s eyes and a predator’s smile.

  Antoinette’s pocket buzzed once. The kitchen had fallen silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the clock, and the buzz was loud enough that everyone in the room glanced over at her.

  Everyone except Oscar Temple.

  Trinity stared. Why wouldn’t Temple react to the buzz of Antoinette’s phone, the sound of a text message coming in? Unless he’d been expecting the sound—waiting for it. Suddenly all the talk made sense, as did the way Antoinette had slipped out of the room.

  Swearing under her breath, Trinity darted left, slipped behind John Carney, reached up under the back of his jacket and drew the gun the old man kept holstered there. Antoinette barked a warning even as Carney cried out in protest, but she nudged the old man aside and leveled the gun at Oscar Temple.

  Aaron swore and reached inside his jacket for the pistol holstered at his armpit. Feliks was in motion as he drew the gun, ripping it from his grasp and then slapping him so hard that Aaron crashed into the wall and slid down to one knee, shaking his head to try to clear it. Feliks followed him, cracked the gun across the bridge of Aaron’s nose, smashing cartilage. Temple seemed too calm. Antoinette went for her own gun, but the rancher gestured for her to be still.

  “Son of a bitch,” Aaron growled, starting to rise as he wiped at the crimson flooding from his nose.

  “No, stay there,” Temple instructed, sneering at the man who’d been his bodyguard. Trinity had the feeling he was fired.

  Oleg and Gavril were staring at Trinity like she’d lost her mind. Maybe she had. Paranoia could be an insidious thing—she’d seen it in others, but never in the mirror.

  With his mustache and his brand-new, fake-cowboy clothes, Aaron looked ridiculous there on the floor, like a 1970s porn star past his prime. All the threat had hissed out of him like helium from a punctured balloon.

  “Want to explain yourself, girl?” Temple asked.

  Trinity ignored him.

  Feliks handed the bodyguard’s gun to Oleg, then darted back along the corridor to retrieve their guns from the table in the foyer. Seconds later he reappeared and gave Gavril back his own pistol.

  “I trusted you,” Carney said, staring at Trinity.

  “Wasn’t us you shouldn’t have trusted,” she replied, hating the weight of the old man’s gun in her hand and the way her skin prickled with awareness of what a bullet could do.

  “Antoinette,” she said, making her way around Temple while keeping him in her sights. “Take the mobile phone out of your pocket.”

  The darkly tanned woman fished out her cell and handed it over. Trinity made sure Oleg and the others were covering Temple and his sidekicks and flipped open the cell phone. The text had come from a local phone number—no contact name—and consisted of four words. Stall. Fifteen minutes out.

  Trinity read the text aloud.

  “Shit!” Oleg muttered, glancing at Gavril. “Krupin?”

  The name made Antoinette flinch. Trinity felt her stomach lurch. She pointed the gun at Antoinette’s skull, pressed it into her dark hair, and nudged, wondering when she had become so hard. All her life she’d had this sort of violence around her, but most of the time she’d been inside a kind of protective bubble. Never a part of the violence.

  Now she jabbed Antoinette’s skull with the gun barrel again. “Who sent that text? Who’s on the way?”

  Carney let out a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry … I can’t be here. I’ve got to go.”

  He started toward the corridor, jittery and shaking his head. Feliks moved to block his path, and Aaron used the distraction, lunging to his feet and crashing into Feliks, trying to strip the weapon from his hand.

  Trinity swore, an instant of panic freezing her in place.

  Oleg opened fire on Temple, who dropped behind the kitchen island as he drew his gun. Gavril faded left, trying to get a clear shot.

  Antoinette grabbed Trinity’s wrist, twisting to throw off her aim. Trinity pulled the trigger, and a bullet punched the ceiling, raining plaster down on them. Antoinette drove her fist into Trinity’s kidney and then into her armpit, tried to take Carney’s gun from her. No, no, no. Her thoughts whirled, heart pounding. It was all falling apart.

  The bitch grabbed her face and pushed her backward, slammed her into a rack of cabinets, rattling dishes inside. Antoinette
slammed her head twice more, fighting for the gun, and Trinity lost her grip. She felt it as her fingers opened, knew what it meant—that any second the woman would put a bullet in her, and she would die. They would all die. Oleg would die, and she couldn’t have that.

  Gunshots boomed in the kitchen.

  Trinity spun away from her. Smelled the spices from Temple’s delicious stew. Grabbed the handles on the big pot with both hands and flung the simmering, burning broth into Antoinette’s face.

  Her skin steaming and bubbling, the woman screamed and dropped the gun. Trinity dove for it. Her fingers closed around the cool metal, and she rolled into a sitting position and took aim at Oscar Temple’s back. He was hiding behind the kitchen island, but she was on his side, nothing to protect him from her.

  Temple didn’t hesitate. He started to turn.

  Trinity pulled the trigger twice and missed both times. The shots made him flinch, made him draw back as splinters flew out of the kitchen island. The flinch cost him a vital second or two, and then Gavril was there. He shot Temple in the forehead, snapping his head back as blood and brain matter sprayed the cabinets behind him. Gavril shot the old man in the chest as he collapsed.

  Antoinette kept screaming. Her face and eyes were raw-red and covered in broth as she lunged for Trinity. Oleg shot her—in the head. The bullet went in through her temple and never emerged.

  A pause. A breath. Even the clock and fridge seemed to have fallen silent in that moment between moments, and then one more shot rang out.

  Aaron struggled to free himself from beneath Feliks, who had just gone hideously limp. The broken-nosed bodyguard pushed out from under the huge Russian. Blood poured out of a hole in Feliks’s neck like it might never stop. Shaking, Aaron tried to bring his recovered gun up to defend himself but Oleg reached him, kicked him in the face, and then did it again. Aaron howled as his shattered nose was pummeled, mashed bloody against his face. Trinity thought she heard his cheekbone crack.