Sons of Anarchy Bratva

by Christopher Golden

  “No way is Lagoshin camping out on the Strip,” Jax said, glancing over his shoulder at Luka. “What are you up to, asshole?”

  “Go left,” Luka replied in English.

  Ilia complied, and moments later they were rolling through a neighborhood of faded office buildings and auto body shops. Luka’s cell buzzed again. Another text from VK: Call in now. We’re moving.

  The breath caught in Jax’s throat. He drew his gun as he turned on the seat. Oleg glanced up in alarm and Ilia twitched at the steering wheel, but by then Jax already had his gun aimed at Luka.

  “What are you doing, Jax?” Oleg asked warily.

  Jax ignored him, focused on Luka. “Krupin says they’re ‘moving.’ Where would they be moving?”

  Luka smiled thinly, pure arrogance in his eyes.

  Jax aimed the gun at his chest. Oleg jammed his gun in Luka’s side.

  “Talk to me, asshole,” Jax said. “I don’t need you the way these guys do.”

  At that, Luka’s smile broadened, but still he said nothing.

  Jax stiffened, thinking hard. Trying to figure out a way that this did not mean what he feared it meant. He slid back into his seat, dropped Luka’s phone, and dug out his own.

  “Who are you calling?” Oleg demanded, his own suspicion rising.

  Jax found the contact he sought on his phone and hit CALL.

  “Krupin says they’re moving. What if Lagoshin got a line on where you’ve been holed up? Trinity’s back there alone. I’m calling in some protection.”

  Many Russians were pale complexioned by nature. Oleg grew paler.

  “She is your sister,” he said. “You’re not going to demand we turn around?”

  Jax tightened his grip on his gun. “Would you do it?”

  Oleg pressed his lips into a thin line. He loved her, but there was nothing he could do, and nothing he could say.

  The phone kept ringing. Jax listened, praying that it would be picked up.

  * * *

  Drinkwater had been duct-taped to a chair. His arms, legs, and torso had been taped down in three different colors, and an old-fashioned paisley necktie had been used to gag him. It wouldn’t have kept him from screaming, and, given time, he would’ve been able to get his mouth free—shout for help—so it seemed strange that whoever had done the very thorough duct-taping had chosen the tie.

  Rollie stood in Drinkwater’s bedroom and stared at the two bullet holes in the man’s face, one in the forehead and one where his left eye ought to have been. The bullets had blown out the back of his skull.

  Messy, he thought. Why be so meticulous about binding him … why bother with a gag at all … if this was how it was going to end?

  Unless the shooter hadn’t intended for it to end this way.

  Which made no sense. It wasn’t as if Drinkwater could have lunged at his killer—not with the duct tape strapping him to the chair.

  Rollie scratched at his ample gut, then glanced around the bedroom. Whoever had killed Drinkwater, they’d gotten what they came for. The room seemed undisturbed except for the dead man and his gore. Drinkwater had answered his killer’s questions.

  If the killer had questions. Maybe this was about nobody else getting the answers. That felt right.

  “Look around,” Rollie told Thor. “Make it quick. The longer we stay, the more chance there is of something going wrong.”

  Thor started checking the pockets of jackets and searching night-table drawers. They’d left Bronson, Baghead, and the prospect at a small park down the street, and it wouldn’t be long before their presence unnerved someone enough to call the PD.

  Rollie bent to take a closer look at the corpse. He reached out and used a knuckle to drag down the edge of the paisley tie, still trying to work out the duct-tape question. Wherever the duct tape had come from, the killer hadn’t run out of it. Two of the three rolls on the floor still had tape on them. So why choose the tie?

  He heard Thor’s phone buzz and glanced up.

  “Just Hopper,” Thor said before he answered.

  Rollie went about his business, half-listening to Thor’s calm responses to Hopper’s report. Still focused on the tie, he opened a wardrobe and glanced inside. Jackets, suits, shoes on the bottom … and many, many ties. Nothing seemed out of place.

  He glanced up as Thor finished the call with Hopper.

  “Any leads on Jax?” Rollie asked.

  Thor shook his head. “Bag talked to this cocktail waitress he used to bang at Lucky Pete’s. Bartender there is Ukrainian or something, apparently knows Viktor Krupin. We should be able to track down Krupin, at least reach out to him—”

  “It’d have to be damn fast to be any use to us,” Rollie said, “but we’ll see what he turns up.”

  Thor bounced from foot to foot, anxious to be leaving. Rollie felt the same—it had been risky even coming here, and now that they’d found Drinkwater dead, the potential for a murder charge weighed heavily.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “Where to?”

  “No choice,” Rollie said. “If we’re gonna find Jax, we have to call our friends in Charming.”

  “If he’s behind this, and Clay is backing him—”

  “Jax and his buddies came here incognito—no cuts,” Rollie said. “If he’s betrayed us, there’s no reason for us to think the rest of SAMCRO is involved, especially not Clay.”

  Rollie didn’t give Thor a chance to argue. He moved swiftly out of the bedroom and into the corridor, retracing their steps.

  In his pocket, his own cell phone buzzed. He thought it must be Hopper again, though it occurred to him to wonder why Hopper wouldn’t just call Thor directly again.

  Rollie answered. “Speak.”

  “It’s Jax.”

  “Where the hell are you?” Rollie demanded.

  Thor stared. “It’s him?”

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Jax said.

  “You owe me some answers, kid—”

  “We need backup, Rollie. I hope Thor gave you that message. We need bodies, and we need guns. You know the old Wonderland Hotel in North Vegas, out west of your place?”

  “Hold up a second.”

  “Rollie—”

  “Joyce is dead. Died helping you out. I want to know—”

  “Joyce was a rat,” Jax said angrily.

  “The fuck he was.”

  “Lagoshin knew where to find us. Joyce told him. Unless you want to tell me you also didn’t know the guy was selling drugs at Birdland.”

  Rollie went silent.

  “Doesn’t matter now,” Jax went on. “Lagoshin’s crew killed him, and they’ll kill the rest of us if they can. I told you they went after me and Opie the other day. We’re on our way to erase Lagoshin from the picture, but I think some of his men may be headed for the Wonderland, and my sister’s there alone. I need some of your guys over there, and the rest to meet up with us to take out Lagoshin.”

  Rollie stared at the spray pattern of blood and brain matter in the bedroom. The air-conditioning had kicked in, but still the stink made him want to retch. He tried to picture Joyce and the dead Russian out on that ranch road, tried to puzzle out how many motorcycles had been there, how it had all unfolded.

  “You hearing me?” Jax asked.

  “I hear you.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At your friend Drinkwater’s house,” Rollie replied.

  * * *

  Jax shifted the visor around to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare.

  “What the hell are you doing there?” he asked, glancing at the dashboard clock. Still so early. It made no sense for Rollie to be at Drinkwater’s. Thor knew the name from their meet with Carney, but—

  “Trying to track you down, Jax. Trying to figure out how one of my guys ended up dead in a ditch. Especially since Mr. Drinkwater’s too dead to tell me anything.”

  Jax’s mouth went dry. “You killed him?”

  “Are you just screwing
with me now?” Rollie snapped. “The guy’s brains are all over the place. What are you up to, Jax?”

  Numb, Jax tried to pull his thoughts together. “How did you end up there?”

  “Oh, we stopped at the old Irishman’s place first. He’s dead, too.”

  Jax’s thoughts spun. Who had killed Drinkwater and Carney? There could be only one answer. Just as there could be no doubt that Drinkwater had given his killers the answers they sought.

  “Rollie, listen to me—”

  “Oh, I’m listening, Jackson.”

  “Get to the Wonderland with every gun you’ve got! I’ll call you back!”

  Rollie started to argue, but Jax cut off the call. He spun to stare at Ilia: “Turn around! Do it now!”

  In the backseat, Luka started to laugh behind his fresh gag. Oleg ignored him, leaning forward, alarm igniting in his eyes.

  “Lagoshin knows about the hotel?” Oleg demanded.

  Jax turned to stare at him, the ugliest scenarios playing out in his head. “Shit yeah he knows. Hell, they might be there already…”

  He saw the realization in Oleg’s eyes. They had left Trinity alone.

  “Turn around!” Oleg snapped, and, at his command, Ilia finally did.

  Car tires squealed. Oleg took out his cell and started calling Kirill and the others.

  Luka lunged, slammed Oleg against the window. Wrists bound, he struggled to snatch Oleg’s gun. Jax swore, bringing his own gun around, but he didn’t need it. Oleg planted his feet, pistoned his legs, and drove Luka across the seat and into the opposite door. Luka’s head struck the window, cracking the glass.

  Oleg raised his gun and shot Luka twice in the chest, reached over to open the door, and then shoved the dying, bleeding man out onto the street as the car roared along at seventy miles per hour and more.

  Luka had outlived his usefulness.

  Oleg slammed the door shut and steadied himself with a deep breath. He and Jax exchanged a glance, and Jax knew, in that moment, that the two of them wanted the same thing. Lagoshin had to die, and Trinity had to live.

  * * *

  Rollie stood in the hall, gazing back through the door into the dead man’s bedroom, cell phone dangling in his right hand. His whole body seemed to vibrate with uncertainty and indecision.

  “So?” Thor asked.

  “Jax and his boys are in trouble, and he expects us to be the cavalry.”

  Thor came to stand in front of Rollie expectantly. “You really think he’s doing all of this? That all these bodies are on his head?”

  Rollie stared into the bedroom, focused on the hole where Drinkwater’s eye had been. “I think these guys are all dead because Jax Teller came to town looking for his sister. I’m not blaming him for that—I’d do the same for family, and so would you. But something doesn’t sit right about the way Izzo described the scene out on that ranch road, and Jax isn’t in a hurry to explain. Yeah, he’s got other shit on his mind, but…”

  His words trailed off. He stared at his feet a few seconds, listening to the ticking of a wall clock up at the top of the stairs ahead. The AC kicked on and cool air hummed from the vents. Rollie blinked and shook off the cloud of indecision. Whatever they were going to do, they had to get the hell out of here.

  “Let’s roll,” he said.

  Thor followed him down the stairs. “We’re going to back him up?”

  “He’s VP of SAMCRO. Of course we’re going to back him up,” Rollie said. “But I feel like we’re being played, so afterward I intend to get answers, even if I have to stomp the shit out of Jax Teller to get them.”

  * * *

  Trinity sat on the swing set behind the Wonderland in a dirty T-shirt and a pair of black jeans. Her combat boots were comfortable enough, but too hot. She’d put them on because of the terrain and the broken glass out near the swing set, but now she wished she had something lighter.

  She pushed back until she could barely touch the ground and then released, swinging forward and pumping her legs. The rusty swing squealed with each pendulous motion, but she relished the breeze on her face. The sun had come on strong this morning, and she could already tell the day would be scorching. Heat radiated up off the cracked concrete around the swing set.

  Before they’d all left this morning, she’d been pissed off about being left alone. Oleg had thought she was afraid—which made no sense, given that they were the ones who had tracked down Lagoshin and were going to war. She’d had to explain to him, and not for the first time, that she just didn’t like being left behind.

  You’re not a soldier, he’d reminded her.

  I didn’t prove myself at Temple’s ranch? she’d demanded.

  Then she had seen the pain in his face. He’d told her that he had never wanted to put her in a position where she had to take a life. I didn’t think that was the way you wanted to live, he’d said, and then he’d asked her, politely, to stay behind.

  Oleg didn’t just want her to stay out of the line of fire. He didn’t want her to have to kill anyone else.

  She’d stayed behind.

  Now that they were gone, though, she didn’t mind being alone. All the anxiety and drama, the entirely rational fear that rippled beneath the skin of every one of Oleg’s brothers—not to mention Oleg himself—had created a tension in her unlike anything she’d felt before. Jax’s arrival had only added to the tension, happy as she’d been to see him.

  Alone, she thought. Alone feels good.

  They’ll be all right. And then it will be over. No more Wonderland Hotel. Maybe no more Las Vegas. She hoped to spend time in California, see the American west coast. She spent half a dozen lovely minutes on the swing, but she could feel the way the sun had begun to bake her pale Irish skin.

  Her stomach rumbled.

  After breakfast, she’d decide what to do with the next few hours of her life. Trinity stood up from the swing and then froze.

  Car engines rumbled out in front of the hotel. She could hear them. Car engines alone were not a surprise—during the day the road got its meager share of traffic—but these weren’t passing by. They were in the parking lot.

  One by one, the engines went silent. If she’d stayed on the swing with its squealing hinges for another few seconds, she’d have missed the sound entirely.

  Car doors slammed.

  For half a second, she let herself think that the guys had all come back, but she knew it was much too soon. It couldn’t be them.

  Alone, she thought again. There were plenty of guns inside the hotel, but she was in back, fooling around on the damn swing set. If she had the keys to the one remaining car, the old BMW only forty feet from her right now, she might have been able to get the jump on them, outrace them until she got somewhere they didn’t dare attack her. Somewhere she’d be safe for the time being. But she didn’t have the keys.

  Trinity bolted for the back door of the hotel, counting her steps, telling herself that the men out front would approach slowly and cautiously and so she had time. Seconds, at least. A handful of seconds. Her heart slammed against the inside of her chest, and her thoughts went through the layout of the hotel, trying to figure out a place she could hide. They’d never planned for this. To defend an assault, yes—but she’d never be able to keep them from entering the hotel on her own. No, if they were coming in—and they were coming in—she needed a gun and a place to hide.

  Only when she’d reached the door and ducked quietly inside, her senses attuned to the approach of the killers out front, did she realize that she’d gone the wrong direction. She could have run into the scrubland, found a place to hide herself while they searched the hotel and found nothing. If she’d had to, she could have hidden until Oleg and Kirill and Jax and the others came back—they’d have to come back eventually—but she was committed now.

  A gun. A place to hide.

  If only she could have heard her own thoughts over the thundering of her heart.

  17

  Trinity slipped through the door
at the back of the lobby and dropped into a crouch, her pulse throbbing at her temples. To her right, half the lobby remained curtained off from the outside world by heavy drapes, but if she wanted to get deeper into the hotel, she had to go left—and that meant running past a stretch of windows that were uncovered. Sunlight poured in. Dust motes swam and danced in the vast shaft of light, as if drawn to it like moths to a flame.

  She kept low and went left, hustled to the front desk and then dove over it, sliding on her belly. She reached down to break her fall but still thumped onto the old carpet, twisting her head so she landed on her shoulder. Her legs came down on top of her, and she spun around, back against the counter, waiting for gunshots and shattering glass.

  Nothing.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, just to hear the whisper of her own voice.

  She darted along behind the counter, trying to picture that vast front window and how far across the lobby the counter would take her—how much distance she would have to cover in the open, where they might see her. Fifteen feet, maybe, until she disappeared into the corridor. Unless they were already inside by then. She had no time to lose … and yet she hesitated.

  Growing up, she’d heard ugly stories about assassinations and bombings and brutal beatings that had filtered into her nightmares and daydreams. The nearness of such crimes had a greater potency than lullabies and bedtime stories. Trinity had understood quite young that she would have to take care of herself. She was able, and more than willing.

  But in that moment behind the counter, what haunted her was that for all the crimes and punishments that the RIRA had doled out—or that she’d heard about—the whispers about the Bratva were worse. If Lagoshin and Krupin got their hands on her, she would be used to send a message to Kirill and Oleg. Would they cut off her hands and feet and breasts? Would they set her on fire?

  She exhaled, shivering with a chill that should have been impossible with the heat of the day radiating through the windows.

  If she’d been Krupin’s girlfriend and the situation were reversed, what would Oleg have done to her?