THE DAY WAS JUST what I needed to get back down to earth. My job made me feel like I was always on the fringe of society—but my family connected me back to humanity.
It was nice to have K all to myself and just mill around with nothing in particular to do. We went downtown and hit a few clothing stores where K bought a spring handbag. I never could understand replacing a purse every time the season changed, but it made her happy. I found a new baseball hat to replace my old one. They only last a year or so before they implode on themselves and look like you stole them from a bum on Fifth Avenue.
After lunch at our favorite diner we went to Central Park to sit and watch all the people, getting a few laughs at what we saw. I made up voices, and we imagined conversations of people who walked by. I would try just about anything to get K to laugh. I pretended to speak for an uptight businesswoman walking past, using a falsetto Southern drawl. After I made some comment about eating chocolate pie without a spoon, K giggled uncontrollably. The moment was perfect—the sun on my cheek, the delicious food in my belly, and the deep love I felt for K made my heart nearly burst. I leaned over and silenced her laughter with a passionate kiss.
We exchanged a look. And then we practically ran back to the car and sped home.
* * *
A TALL RUSSIAN LOOKED around as he walked from the terminal in the famous LAX airport. He had a black backpack slung over his shoulder and dark sunglasses on, even though he’d been inside.
Taras Karjanski waited to see if the man would recognize him. The dark-haired Russian looked at Taras then walked past him, still searching for his brother. But then he stopped and turned to look again.
“Stefan!” Taras said. “You like? The surgeons here can do wonders, yes?” Taras smiled and gave his brother a hug. “I had the scar added for effect. You like it? Makes me look tougher.”
“It has been a long time. You look good Taras. You look just like me.”
“Thank you. You still look like my brother.” Taras laughed at his brother’s confused look. “Come, I have a car waiting.”
Taras looked at his older brother as they walked out to the waiting car. He was a strong man with a head of thick black hair. He could tell that his brother had kept himself in shape and looked much more impressive than he did. Strength in body will fail you, brother. The mind is the real weapon.
“Do you remember when we used to hunt for ducks?” Taras asked suddenly.
His brother shifted his bag from one hand to the other. “Yes,” he replied shortly, warily.
“And do you remember how we used to cover our coats with moss and wait in the cold pond until the fowl swam close enough for us to grab them?”
“Of course. It never worked, though.”
Taras looked at his brother out of the corner of his eye. “It did work. You would tire of it and go home, and I would wait. I waited there until a fat duck would come along and I’d kill it and I’d make a fire right there beside the pond and eat it myself. Patience is rewarding. And why would I share anything I had earned myself?”
His brother didn’t say anything, or even acknowledge the story. He just gave Taras a wary glance. Taras smirked, and kept walking.
The Red Dog began to emerge from his slumber as they drove to the hotel where Taras was staying. He felt like a caged animal trapped in the car. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. He had to get some air. He rolled down the window and breathed in deeply.
The family business needed to become more profitable. His brother was about to be murdered, and the business would go on without him. His sister, Natasha, was in Russia running that end, and he had his hands full running the operation in the States. But his older brother was draining the profits with his high-rolling lifestyle and unwise investment decisions. He’d burned too many bridges and used more of their merchandise than was acceptable. His brain had to be half-baked by now from all the drugs he was on.
Taras wanted their company to go in a different direction and this was his chance. Natasha was in on the plot too; it was partly her idea.
The Red Dog also knew deep down in the pit of his soul that his brother had been the one who killed his parents. This did not anger him because he loved his parents, but because he felt that the honor of taking their lives was his. He wanted to spill their blood, but his brother had taken that from him.
The Radisson was close to the airport and proved to be somewhat up to Taras’s standards. When they arrived, Taras pulled around to the back of the building and parked the car. His room key got them in, and they were soon in the suite on the fifth floor. Taras made sure no one had seen them come in. The plan was going perfectly.
The stoic expression on his brother’s face turned to horror when he saw a .22 pointed at his forehead. He didn’t have time to react before the bullet ripped through his skull. He fell to the floor in a heap. Blood gushed from a gaping hole in the back of his head.
The Red Dog looked down at his deceased older brother and a single tear ran down his cheek. He’d been closer to his brother than anyone else in the world. But it was time to replace the Karjanski leadership. It was time for him to step up. Even if it meant stepping over his brother’s dead body.
After wiping down the gun and shoving it into the back of his pants, he opened the black backpack, pulled out the old plane ticket, and replaced it with his. Then he took out a knife and peeled the skin off of his fingertips. He winced in pain as they tore free and the fresh skin underneath hit the air. He threw the fingerprints in the toilet and flushed them away.
After trading wallets, rings, and anything else that would lead the police to believe Taras was alive, he granted himself permission to smile.
* * *
THE MORNING NEWS WOKE Kirk Weston from a deep sleep in the Hilton Garden Inn. He rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed. It was eight in the morning, and his head felt like it was about to explode. He must have left the TV on last night, and after a few drinks, passed out. Kirk watched as the woman who had been murdered in her apartment was taken out in a body bag. He could see the media as they tried to climb over the police barricades to get a better shot of the madness.
“Stinkin’ vultures!”
The one-cup coffee maker would be just enough to get him going, but he would have to hit the java shop in an hour or so to really get going on the right foot.
A flash of memory jarred him—the redhead’s white face surrounded by the crumpled sheets. The murders, and the message to him made his revenge go so much deeper. Now he didn’t just care about killing Taras for himself—he needed to take Taras down in order to keep more women from dying like that. He sat down on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands. Think, man. Where is he going?
The coffee was done, and Kirk grabbed a mug from the counter and filled it to the brim. He sipped as a thought hit him. Money. Follow the money. Only one person from Kirk’s old life knew he was still alive: a kid he had let off with a slap on the wrist a few years back, who was a whiz with computers.
CHAPTER FIVE
KIRK DIDN’T KNOW MUCH about Mooch, all he knew was that his pocket hacker had helped him out of a jam on more than one occasion. He’d just collected his coffee from the barista at the java shop, and now he settled down on a cushioned chair and dialed the kid’s number from memory.
“Hey, Mooch, it’s Kirk.”
“What do you want this time? Wait, don’t tell me. You’re tracking a killer of some kind and you want me to do something illegal.” Through the phone, Mooch’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Well, Mooch, you were on the dark side of the law when I found you. I didn’t think you’d have any problem running some borderline computer hacking for an old friend. How’s your mom?” Kirk asked. He could tell Mooch was still living in his mom’s basement from the sound of a washing machine coming across the line.
“She’s annoying, but my rent is free, and she still does my laundry. Are we going to talk about my living situation or are you going to get to the point?”
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Kirk took a sip of the dark, bitter coffee and turned his attention back to Mooch. “Taras Karjanski, aka The General. I need his financial records and last known associates.”
“Oh, is that all?” Mooch mocked.
“Yeah. Think you can handle it?”
“Fine, but I want another thousand for my trouble.”
“Five hundred.” Kirk didn’t even skip a beat. “You don’t pay rent and your mom washes your underwear.”
“Well played for a dead guy.” Mooch paused. Kirk let him mull it over for a minute. “Fine, give me twenty-four hours.”
Kirk hung up the phone and smiled. He would have paid any amount to get more information on Karjanski, but sometimes it paid to be mean. It had served him well so far, why stop now?
CHAPTER SIX
THE LAPTOP WARMED UP as Kirk took a sip of his third cup of black coffee. He looked at his watch and grunted in anger. Mooch was too slow for him.
A woman with a short skirt and boots with fake fur on the top of them whined at the barista that her latte was too hot. Kirk glared at her and muttered something about her clothing choice. She looked at him with a blank look on her face, which was just what he’d expected.
His cell phone buzzed in his pocket and Kirk answered with his usual charm. “About time.”
Mooch didn’t seem to care that he had made the detective wait. “You think I could get a little respect around here. This stuff isn’t easy, you know!”
“Well, you sure don’t make it look that way.” Kirk didn’t hide his feelings very well. “What did you find out?”
“Are you sure you want to get mixed up with this guy? He’s dirtier than a hog in a mudslide.”
“Just give me the information.”
“Fine, man. This General is what you would call—er, well, a Mafia boss.”
“The Russian mafia? I didn’t think they were around anymore.”
“He has a sister named Natasha. She is, like, his number two, if you will. She runs things in Russia, and he seems to be doing a lot in the States and in the Middle East.”
“What kind of operation? Drugs? Guns?”
“Yup, and something else, but I can’t get anything on it other than it’s in the works. Something big, though. His net worth is in the billions.”
“Billions? With a ‘b’?” Kirk whistled and took another sip of coffee.
“Yeah, the guy has some serious coin, and get this—he has never been photographed or identified by anyone who lived to tell about it, other than his sister, of course.”
“I’ve seen him, but I’m already dead, so what’s the difference.”
“True that. He’s got something on his encrypted website you gave me that I thought was interesting. A codename—Red Dog. So I ran it through my database and it goes back to Russia, in Karjanski’s hometown, when he was about twelve.”
“What was this guy up to at twelve years old that would give him a code name?”
“Well, the story goes that this Red Dog would roam the streets at night and attack livestock. This Dog thing would kill and rip to shreds anything it could, terrorizing the town for ten years. It’s like this legend or something.”
“Hmm, could be some sort of fantasy of his, killing like an animal.” Kirk opened up the email that Mooch sent him and looked through the information on Red Dog.
“And, like you wanted, I checked all the flights this week for anyone Russian, and guess what I got?”
“Just tell me.”
“A man has a flight to Tajikistan tomorrow, and his name is Taigan Tian Tshan.”
“And that is significant in what way?”
“That’s the name of a Russian dog breed. Come on, keep up with me.”
“Very good, Mooch, I guess you can live yet another day in freedom.”
“Ha, funny. Next time my fee is going up.”
Kirk hung up before Mooch could say anything else to get him going.
A flight to Tajikistan was leaving at ten in the morning. Kirk planned to be on it.
* * *
JILLIAN PORTER SAT WITH her notepad out and a serious look on her face. Everything about her was professional and regulated. She was definitely WJA, and I had a feeling that at one time she’d been doing exactly what I was doing for the Agency. But now she was what I would affectionately call a “shrink” or a “head doctor.” I didn’t care for them much, and in most cases I would say they were a waste of a good college degree, but Jillian proved me wrong. She had a comforting way about her. Solomon made it mandatory to see her at least once a month.
I had the usual problem that almost anyone would experience if you killed people for a living. Everything seemed to get all mixed up inside my head. I knew the people I had killed deserved to die or they would go on killing and harming innocent people, but why did I have to do it?
“Mark, tell me about your last mission.”
I thought about her question and something bothered me that I couldn’t put my finger on. “A few years ago, I killed three men who were planning on bombing a supermarket. Afterward, I was terrified and felt so much guilt, I wondered if I’d done the right thing. And now it seems like I am becoming a different person.”
I refused to lie down on that stupid couch, so I leaned back in the chair she had for me on the other side of her desk. I looked up at the indirect lighting and the countless books on the shelves. Jillian tapped a notepad with a pencil and gave me a look of concern.
I continued my train of thought. “It went just as planned. I keep trying to remember the reason why I am doing what I’m doing. I have this fear that one day I won’t feel anything anymore.”
“So, you want to feel? Feel what?” Jillian had found the deep secret that I might not have even known myself. I wanted to feel guilty. I wanted it to make me feel more human or make me force myself to keep my soul. I needed to feel guilty.
“I don’t want this to be about revenge, it’s so much more than that. I go over each and every case before I accept a mission. Sometimes I put up pictures of the victims so I can feel their pain. I don’t like killing, but when I do it—it just feels right.”
I could hear my own voice, and it sounded like I was on a narrow road to being a murderer, or worse. I shouldn’t like killing, or have it come naturally. I should be forcing myself to do it. “Am I crazy?”
“No, you’re just going through a natural process. It is not natural to take a life and feel nothing. You have the spirit of the helpless and the ones that can’t speak for themselves with you.” Jillian took off her glasses and leaned over as she spoke.
“Mark, you need to really think about why you’re here, find the ‘why’ of your life. Out there, you don’t have time to decide how you’re going to react. You need to settle that now.”
Her words hit me in the pit of my stomach. She was right, of course, and I had to do some thinking.
Another thing I had to decide was what I was going to tell K. I hated having secrets between us, and even though she said she trusted me, I felt that I owed her the truth. But my time was up, so I’d have to save that can of worms for another day.
I thanked Jillian for her time and hunted down Big B. I wanted to see if he had heard anything on The Magician, and if the mission had had the effect we were all hoping for. I really wanted to take some time off to think about what Jillian had brought up, but it wasn’t in the cards for me.
I found Big B in the shooting range, cleaning up his rifle after his practice session. “Hi ya, Mark. You done good with The Magician. The fight has begun between the two families just as we expected,” Big B said.
“Good. Now they’ll be at each other rather than on the streets. You look good. Did you lose some weight?” I smiled as Big B laughed, his big chest rumbling.
“Well, maybe a few pounds.” Big B was six-foot-four and well over three hundred pounds, and most of it was muscle. He was a giant of a man, but gentle as a kitten.
I found my way to my cozy office tucked away on the
fifth floor. The WJA headquarters were right in New York City, in the Merc building. They ran a paper called the Global Adviser that reported about global warming and environmental impact that the earth is experiencing. The paper was a cover, to be able to interview people and get into places that we would otherwise not be able to enter. The environmental movement was a popular subject these days, and the WJA took full advantage of it.
The other side to the agency was the Growth Fund Program. Countries with little to no education were given schools and hospitals, started by the WJA. This created a place for the WJA to operate from without drawing attention to themselves.
Every agent had a job in the news publication. Mine was statistics. Which meant my office was full of file cabinets and my mailbox was always full with new data. I gathered the three files that had accumulated there while I was gone and took my messages from the receptionist.
I tried to put the whole Magician case out of my mind. It was over, and now I could relax. Relax. That was something I had a hard time doing.
My office door was locked and the key slid into the doorknob with ease, but something made me stop mid-turn. My senses were going off like alarm bells in my head. I looked down the hall and back the other way, toward the elevator. Something I’d learned to do early on the job was trust my instincts. I pulled out my pistol from my shoulder holster and walked in.
Empty.
I kept my office neat and everything had its place on the desk. Things out of place were never good in my line of work. I scanned the room. Then I saw it. A newspaper sat on the desk, opened to the second page.
The paper stared back at me, the story headline read:
WHO IS KILLING OFF THE MOB?
The story was only a few paragraphs long, starting with the details of a Russian Mafia member found dead in a hotel room. He had been linked to a series of killings in the LA area. It also mentioned the death of The Magician and a few others who were in hiding throughout the country.
I turned to the front page and saw it was the Global Adviser, our own publication, and was dated two days ago. Someone has been in my office, in my building! How did they get in here?
DREAM ON (Mark Appleton #2) Page 4