by Taylor Lee
Looking back over his shoulder at Boris, he frowned at the sweat beading up on the big man’s ruddy face and grimaced at the damp circles staining the armpits of his dark shirt.
“Hey, Big Guy. You ain’t looking too good. Sure you’re up for the party on Saturday? But don’t worry. Me and my men will be there making sure that you don’t make any mistakes or do things that might upset Jamal. You’d never know it, but Jamal’s a sensitive guy. Doesn’t like the way you keep referring to him as an animal.”
The corner of Aiden’s mouth jerked up derisively.
“But, hey, Big Guy, don’t apologize. You’re more right than you can imagine. You shoulda seen what Jamal did with his knife to the last guy who insulted him. Hell, being chewed up by a wild animal would’ve been a walk in the park.”
His contemptuous laughter rang through the hallway, reminding Boris that the entire project was unraveling before his eyes and that Boris had about as much control over the outcome as Bernie Schwartz did.
~~~
Yuri listened to his friend’s careful explanation, knowing that there was as much information in what he did not say as in the words he spoke.
“Yes, moi dorogoi droog, we are quite aware of the shenanigans of this Vory imposter who calls himself Volkov. You know, Yuri, I would never lie to you. We have shared too much in this lifetime, most of it good, some of it painful, for me to mislead you. After you called I contacted every clan involved in the procurement of young girls and none of them owned up to this Volkov affair.”
Yuri thanked Karl, and debated if he would tell him what had been tearing at his soul since Rafe first called. He decided he could trust his long term friend to be honest with him and prayed Karl would dismiss his fears as that as of a man consumed with the anguish of the past.
“I will tell you Karl, when Rafe first called me asking for information about the Volkov, it was not the river that came to mind.” Yuri hesitated then confessed in a hushed tone. “It was what happened in that warehouse on the banks of the Volkov that was a fresh stab in my memory.”
There was a long silence. When Karl responded, his tone as grave as Yuri’s. “Now that you say that moi droog, I can see why you might think that. But it is a long shot at best. For better or worse, there were no survivors that tragic day. Besides, my friend, after Leonid’s betrayal, everyone associated with Leonid’s treachery was ostracized from the Vory.”
Yuri let the silence lie between them for a long moment. He wanted to believe Karl, to convince himself that once again the painful memories were clouding his judgment as they had for twenty-five years.
Knowing that Karl likely thought he was being irrational, Yuri could not dispel the nagging tentacles of doubt tugging at his gut.
“I admit, Karl, I have spent my life reliving that hideous day. Perhaps it is just my sense of doom that convinces me someday it will come back to haunt me—or more specifically, my daughter. I have spent my life putting as many barriers between my daughter and my past as is humanly possible. I admit I’m a superstitious old man consumed with guilt. But I cannot let go of the thought that the angels of revenge have not yet determined my final punishment. As you know I have put my daughter in the protection of Rafe Boudin. When Rafe called to tell me of a case he is working that involves the ‘Volkov,’ every nerve in my body jangled a warning.”
Again, Karl’s silence was compelling and oddly comforting. At least his friend didn’t think Yuri was crazy, deranged with guilt.
“I understand moi droog. It was a terrible day, a tragic day. As we both know revenge is the heart’s blood of the Vory code. But I have discovered nothing that suggests a connection between you and this elusive ‘Volkov.’ Granted, all of the information I gathered came from my Russian sources. I will reach further. Most of our brothers have tried to emulate your success and now operate internationally. Some of the most prosperous are based in the United States, specifically New York City. But that is the crux of the problem, Yuri. While the crime you describe has a Russian imprimatur, it flies against everything we believe in. Kidnapping prominent girls? Asking for ransom? Pshaw! The mark of amateurs! Street thugs! Not accomplished professionals. Idiots! Vory wannabees.”
Yuri managed a wry smile at his friend’s offended vehemence.
“Yes, Karl. I agree and so does Rafe. But I cannot allow anything but the utmost vigilance. I will appreciate you scouring every possible lead, particularly those in the United States. Anything to help quiet an old man’s irrational fears.”
Karl’s voice was low, tinged with concern.
“You are not irrational, Yuri. Not then, not now. If your gut is sending warnings, we must take them seriously. What does that fearsome warrior you plucked out of the depths of hell have to say about your concerns?”
Yuri sighed, an audible troubled sigh.
When he didn’t speak, Karl broke in, surprise coloring his response.
“Ah, Yuri, moi droog. I see. But still, I do not understand. You have not told Rafe Boudin of the hideous events surrounding your wife’s death? But, why not? From the stories I have heard about Boudin, there isn’t a scoundrel alive stupid enough to tangle with him unless the idiot has a death wish. More specifically a death wish that involves gruesome violence. If anyone would understand the extent of your wrath on that day, it would be Boudin. Moreover, from what you have told me and my contacts confirm, he is the son you never had.”
Yuri’s voice was gruff.
“All true, Karl. Rafe is a son to me. But, until today with you, who knows my terrible past, I have not spoken of the massacre precipitated by my wife’s murder. I cannot explain my silence. Shame? Fear?” He sighed, a long hard breath. “No, Karl, more likely it is the knowledge that speaking of it makes it more real. As it is, the memory consumes every waking and sleeping moment of my pathetic life. Words are not necessary. And it is a burden I cannot place on those I love the most. My beloved daughter and her protector, my adopted son.”
~~~
Following the perfunctory farewells and mutual assurances that they both would continue to ferret out any possible connections between Yuri and the “Volkov”, Yuri settled into his chair before the blazing fire. Mellowed by the comforting numbness of the vodka he sipped, he wrestled with Karl’s words. Why hadn’t he told Rafe of his wife’s death? Surely he had a right to know. If anyone would understand the pain of past actions it was Rafe.
Yuri allowed himself to remember the night that Rafe came into his life. He was convinced, then as now, that his wife had reached out from the grave and sent him the son who died in her womb that awful day. That Rafe saved Yuri’s life—albeit unwillingly—had cemented the image in his mind.
Yuri reflected often on that day; leaving a fancy Parisian restaurant audaciously located at the edge of the banlieues, Yuri and his men were set upon by one of the many gangs of hooligans that ruled the slums. It didn’t take long to see that while they had all the earmarks of the North African immigrants that ruled the banlieues, with its mix of races and cultures, this gang was different. In minutes, Yuri’s troupe of body guards was decimated. Not by the gang of ruffians, but by its leader. The handsome young man—not much more than a boy, really—was striking; his lighter skin tone, and orders shouted in impeccable French, marked him as a Pied Noir, normally a certain impediment to acceptance among the darker skinned immigrants. But it quickly became apparent that while French might have been his native language, the leader was able to rule his multi-racial gang by shouting to each of them in their own language.
The gang members stood back, creating an impenetrable circle while their leader systematically took on Yuri’s battle-hardened bodyguards in what could only be described as a one man blood bath. In a lifetime of violence, Yuri had never seen a more accomplished fighter than the lean young man. As consummate as his skills, it was his eerie calm as he took on one fighter after another, and as many as three or four at a time, that made him seem almost mythic, not human. As each of Yuri’s men fell either d
ead or mortally wounded, the gang members stepped in and retrieved their bodies, stripping them bare of weapons and anything remotely of value.
When the killing was over, and the blood of his men ran in the alleyway like the river Seine, Yuri stood quietly and prepared to die. He was strangely unafraid. He raised his hands and shrugged. If this was God’s will that he die at the hands of this avenger, so be it. His only regret was that he would never see his beloved daughter again. Standing close to the fierce fighter, Yuri was stunned to see that the man was a youth, perhaps seventeen but likely younger. Only his eyes the icy green of a glacial lake were ageless. They were the eyes of long dead warriors, the kind who never really die, but return from the past to avenge the evil of the present.
The young tyrant barked out an order in what sounded like Algerian and several formidable men stepped forward and relieved Yuri of his wallet and jewelry. Kicking aside the bodies of the hapless victims in the street, the young man came within inches of Yuri. Eyeing him for a long moment, he held up his hand to stop his men from killing him. Later the two of them would try to name what it was that Rafe saw in Yuri’s eyes that saved Yuri’s life. Many years later, Rafe confessed that it was Yuri’s pain. In that moment, the prescient youth decided that he could hurt the older man more by letting him live than by giving him the easy out of death.
Yuri returned the favor by springing Rafe from a French prison, where he awaited the death sentence the French government had gleefully imposed on the sixteen-year-old national menace, who was a hero in the simmering cesspool of the banlieues. Yuri was determined not to let either the French or Russian governments that he despised rob the world of the man who had spared his life. He convinced an undercover agent with whom he’d traded secrets over the years, to ease the sixteen-year-old into the relative safety of the U. S. Army. When the powers that be saw him fight and heard of his polyglot skills they knew that this young man would be invaluable in the caldron of hate perpetually brewing in Africa and the Middle East. In a matter of days, a new life history was created with all the requisite documents, making Rafe the youngest recruit in Ranger history.
Four years later, Rafe returned from his deadly stint in Rwanda a changed man. He was harder, darker, more dangerous than Yuri thought possible. Rafe had built an impenetrable wall around himself, and that resonated with Yuri. He recognized the building blocks—fury cemented with grief. Three years ago Rafe confessed what he considered to be his unforgivable sin. Yuri knew that the guilt wracking Rafe would rule his life, make it impossible for him to find peace. Yuri could only sympathize, not comfort. He had committed as big a sin, as unforgivable. But the long years of silence had made it impossible for him to confess his sin to the one man who would understand.
Chapter 19
Nicki glared at Rafe, not trusting her ability to speak without shrieking. How dare this arrogant man presume to tell her that she was off limits…that because of her “untried” state, she wouldn’t be able to avail herself of the carnal pleasures that countless women coveted? When Nicki first read his text message, she was stunned, disbelieving. She’d received it after she and Katya returned to the dormitory to prepare for dinner. In words she was sure he considered rational, even kind, Rafe had explained that because of a previous engagement, he wouldn’t be able to explain in person, but said essentially that he wouldn’t be available that evening… or likely in the future. She’d thrown the phone with such fury it was a wonder that she only broke the floor length mirror she hit, and not the high-end cell phone.
Marching through the corridor to Rafe’s office, she threw open the door without knocking. Her escalating anger must have been written on her face, because Grayson jumped up, almost knocking over the chair he’d been sitting in. Exchanging a startled glance with Rafe, he held up his hands, signaling his desire to escape the certain fireworks.
“Whoa! Hang on there, Nicki. Before you come charging across the room trading those angry darts for real live knives, allow me to be the coward I am and get the hell out of your way!”
Nicki stepped aside without answering, as Grayson ducked by her. He turned at the doorway, gave Rafe a jaunty salute, then closed the door behind him. Nicki waited until he was gone then turned her wrath on Rafe.
Sitting back in his chair, Rafe crossed one nonchalant leg over the other and took a lazy sip of whiskey. He motioned with his shot glass to the chair Grayson vacated. Nicki ignored the gesture and stormed up to his desk. Leaning over, she grasped the edge of the desk with both hands and glared at him.
Before she could spit out the words frothing in her throat, Rafe shook his head, a frown furrowing his brow.
“Sit down, Nicki. Please. I apologize. It was insensitive of me to send you that message rather than speaking with you in person. Please, sit down. Let me explain.”
Nicki gasped, certain that the roar in her ears signaled a rupturing brain aneurism. When she was able to speak, she spit out incredulously, “Insensitive? It was insensitive to text me a message that said as much as you’d like to you, weren’t going to be able to fuck me, now or ever, because of my unfortunate ‘situation.’”
Rafe’s gaze hardened, the lines bracketing his mouth tightened. He tipped his chair down and met her furious gaze head on.
“First, that is not what I said. Look, Nicki, I said I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sent that text. At least not all of it. I wanted to explain that I had plans for the evening and wouldn’t be able to see you. I…I shouldn’t have added the last part.” He gave a self-effacing shrug. “It would have been more efficacious to relay that component of my message in person. Again, my apologies.”
Nicki stared at him, disbelieving. His smug expression confirmed that from his perspective, except for the method of conveyance, his insulting message was appropriate. Coupled with his casual reference to “other” plans for the evening, her anger roared to the surface. To keep from launching herself over the desk and smashing his face, she took several steps back, clenching her fists at her sides.
Nicki’s voice shook. “You arrogant son of a bitch. How dare you? How dare you assume….”
Before she could finish her sentence, he’d rounded the desk.
She threw up her hands, backing away.
“No! Don’t come near me. Don’t you dare touch me.”
Rafe quirked a dismissive brow, but his voice was low, tight with controlled anger, belying his superficial indifference.
“I thought we’d already established that I am an arrogant son of a bitch, Nicki.”
Nicki summoned up every ounce of restraint she could muster, determined to mimic his casual arrogance. And equally determined not to burst into tears.
Thrusting her chin in the air, she crossed her arms tightly and glared at him. She took a deep breath, her voice filled with righteous scorn.
“I’m sorry that you don’t ‘do’ virgins, Rafe. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have thrown myself at you. I wouldn’t have made such a fool of myself.”
She bit down on her lip to stop it from trembling.
Assuming a nonchalance she was far from feeling, she huffed, “Tell you what. I’ll be on the lookout for a guy, any guy, one who doesn’t have your foibles. Then maybe, at your convenience, when you have a vacancy on your dance card and an itch to scratch, I can fill in for one of your adoring women.”
Ignoring the darkening cloud of anger seeping over Rafe’s face, Nicki edged closer to the door. She said with a dismissive nod, “I know you don’t like being first, Rafe. But I should thank you for the orgasm you gave me the other night. It’s the first orgasm I’ve had, that I didn’t give myself.”
She added with an airy toss of her head, “At least now I’ll have a standard by which to judge my next series of partners.”
Silent as a cat, Rafe’s coiled body ate up the distance between them. Pouncing on her, he grabbed her arm and jerked her toward him. He shoved her against the wall, his body shaking with anger. She felt his heart hammering against her chest…
but then it could have been hers. She gasped, stunned at his fury.
Pressing his lips hard against her ear, he issued a low guttural warning.
“If another man so much as touches you, I’ll kill him.”
He added, his voice harsh with suppressed rage, “Don’t test me, Nicki.”
~~~
Katya reached over and refilled Nicki’s glass, emptying their second bottle of Pinot Noir in the process.
“It’s not as if he can have it both ways, darling.” Katya sighed. “Although knowing Rafe as I do, I’m confident he not only thinks that he can, but he believes it’s his right to do so.”
She shook her head and grinned as she removed the cork from yet another bottle of wine. “Poor baby. I almost feel sorry for him.”
“What?” Nicki cried, rising up on one elbow. After storming out of Rafe’s office she’d fled to Katya’s room. Alternately crying and raging for what seemed like hours, she’d lodged herself on the chaise lounge in Katya’s suite and hadn’t moved in the last hour except to proffer her wine glass for more healing liquid.
She continued, sputtering with anger. “You feel sorry for that arrogant.…”
Katya put up her hand to ward off another tirade. Nicki was actually relieved. Her head was pounding. She didn’t know how much more rage she could handle. She was drained.
Katya frowned as if pondering a difficult problem. She nodded thoughtfully.
“No, there is only one solution. You will have to seduce him.”
“What?” Nicki shrieked again. She rose up then pressed her hand to her pounding forehead. “Are you crazy, Katya? Haven’t you heard a word I have been saying? He’s decided he won’t have me. He won’t take me.”
“I understand, honey.” Katya soothed. “All the more reason you will need to seduce him.”
Nicki didn’t hide her anger. “Apparently you do not understand, Katya. I do not want to be anywhere near Rafe Boudin. I hate him. Despise him.”