by Glenn Meade
Her death was so senseless. But out of his hands.
He looked back, knowing the moment was about to happen, narrowing his eyes toward the basement window.
He thought he heard the faint thud of a silenced shot, and the glimmer of a muzzle flash in the darkness.
He felt . . .
What did he feel?
Nothing.
That was always what troubled him.
There were times when he tried to find his heart. The simple boy who long ago had a thousand splendid dreams, a beloved father and good in his soul. But the journey back was too difficult, the road too dark and painful.
For some reason he remembered a summer’s day. One of those days his father took him along with him when he drove to Belgrade on business, and they would picnic in the hills above Novi Sad, the views splendid all the way down to the Danube.
Those were the lonely days when his mother was gone and there was just the two of them in the big old house and he felt the sharpness of her loss. The nights when for months after her death he would stay awake to listen for her footsteps on the stairs, but they never came.
On that day looking down at the Danube his father seemed to sense acutely his son’s loss. “I know there’s just the two of us but we’ll get by, Mila. We’ll miss your mama but we’ll be brave for her, you and I. The way she’d want us to be.”
His father winked, squeezing him close, hiding his own sadness, stroking his hair.
Afterward, he’d fallen asleep in his father’s arms. He could still remember the peace and serenity of that day. It seemed such a long time since he’d felt that sense of stillness in his heart.
He heard footsteps, and cut off the memory. The less you thought about things that sadden you the better.
Arkov appeared, hurrying down the garden steps and out the wrought-iron gate, his feet echoing on the boardwalk, a grin on his face.
He loved death, that one. Relished killing.
“It’s done. We’ll get rid of her body.”
A long silence. Shavik’s face was grim, the light fading in his eyes as he again went into that part of himself that no one could reach.
“You think she told us the truth?”
Arkov clutched Angel’s cell phone. “Every word. That’s one drug that won’t let you lie.”
“Talk to our sources. Sound them out gently for any hint of trouble. I want to be sure there’s no police involvement. You sent the text?”
“Just like you said: ‘Don’t call. But all good for tonight.’ ”
“No reply from her yet?”
Right on cue Angel’s cell beeped twice. Arkov studied the illuminated blue screen and hit a button. His face sparked.
“Seems like we’re in business. It says: ‘On the way.’ ”
“Give it to me. Let me see.”
Shavik took the phone, stared down at the text.
“We’ll be waiting for her.”
74
* * *
UNION COUNTY, TENNESSEE
The bar was all neon beer signs, cheap plastic seats, and dim lighting.
Billy guessed he was the only guy in the place who had showered and shaved, let alone dabbed on some aftershave.
This was a place of tattoos and missing teeth.
Guys huddled over beers, mumbling to each other. A few wearing cowboy hats and boots, or grubby overalls, others wearing Mossy Oak camouflage deer-stalker outfits, some with depressed-looking wives who sat sipping beer and gazing blankly at the walls, as if they wanted to cut their wrists, or had at least considered the option before venturing out with their partners that evening.
A selection of deer antlers hung on one wall; on another was a glass case with a huge, shiny preserved bass fish the size of a small shark. A blue-and-white neon Miller Light sign glared above the bar mirror.
Entertainment was provided by three overweight beards playing guitar, keyboard, and banjo, and crucifying a Willie Nelson song. A band that sounded like the only notes they cared about were the ones the bar owner slipped them at the end of the night.
Billy sipped his Bud. Too bad he’d left his gun in his luggage; otherwise he’d have shot every last one of them.
What made it even worse was that almost every dish on the menu was some kind of fried catfish.
He chose the only other unhealthy option, a Cajun cheeseburger, fries and a beer, and a Jack Daniel’s chaser.
He needed it to chase away the greasy taste of the burger—had just knocked it back when in the bar mirror’s reflection he saw the door snap open and three women come in. Pretty, their nails and hair done, war paint on.
He saw Regan whisper with her girlfriends before they all went to sit in a corner booth.
The place wasn’t that busy for a Friday night, no hooting-hollering, yee-haws, or line dancing—or did they still do that these days? He sipped his beer, took another bite of the burger, wanted to spit it out.
“Hi . . .”
He swallowed as he saw her approach in the mirror, felt the tap on his shoulder, swung round in his bar stool, and the smile that had always been one of his best features lit up his face. “Hi, Regan.”
“So you decided to risk it?”
“Life and limb. Must be a gambler.”
“How’s the burger?”
“A grade up from shoe leather.”
“I should have warned you.”
“Funny thing is, the sign outside says Bar and Grill, except there’s nothing grilled.”
“This is the South, honey. It’s deep-fried all the way. Then deep-fry it again and cover it in gravy. Just to make sure you’ve killed the taste.”
He nudged away the plate. “No harm done. Buy you a drink?”
Her neck seemed to flush, even in the neon light. “I’m . . . I’m here with a couple of friends, Billy.”
He tipped his baseball cap, with a hint of the shy, little-boy-lost kind that most women liked. “No problem. Hope you don’t think I’m being forward?”
“No . . . no, not at all. Maybe a little later, when I’ve had time to talk with my friends?”
“Sure. I’m not going anywhere.”
She turned to go. “How’s the fishing?”
“Pretty good; they’re biting, that’s for sure.”
• • •
The band was playing a Dolly Parton number. “Nine to Five.” Had Dolly been there, angel that she was, she still would have thrown up, then probably blasted the suckers with a double-barrel.
“Is it always this good?” Billy asked, ordering another round. The band finished murdering the song and took a beer break.
Regan sipped her margarita. “Midweek they’ve got open season for new bands to try out.”
“Yeah?”
“Those are the nights I wish I was deaf.”
He grinned. She had a sense of humor, this one. Her skin was dusky, her bare shoulders golden brown.
Regan toyed with the straw in her glass, flicking it with a pink glossed nail. “So what brought you to Union County Marina?”
“I was passing through, thought I’d try it. This time of year I usually take a couple of weeks’ vacation, drive south with my son, go fishing or hunting. Matt’s fourteen. My only boy.”
“His mom doesn’t mind you two boys haring off like that?”
“Not these last ten years. Left us for a car salesman she had a fling with. The guy took my trade-in and my wife. We’ve never seen her since.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t knock it. Best deal I ever got. She and I were already on the slippery slope. Matt’s staying with my sister and her kids in Lexington this trip. It’s getting to the point when it’s no fun for him vacationing with Dad no more. It’s all about kids his own age.”
As he turned back to his beer, Regan noticed his profile, took a sip of her margarita, and said, “You know, you look like that actor, Billy Bob Thornton?”
He slipped off his cap, laid it on the bar, running his hand through
his full head of hair. “You’re being kind, or else you’re shortsighted. What about you? You married? I guess not, being out with the girls Friday night.”
“Once. Water under the bridge.”
“How’d you end up working the dock?”
“It’s a family business. My brother runs it, I help out.”
“The boy yours?”
“My brother Ronnie’s. Josh. He’s a great kid.”
“He looks it. I didn’t see Ronnie around, did I?”
“He’s in town on business, but he’ll be back.”
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll get to meet him later?”
“You never know with Ronnie; he keeps his own hours.”
He nudged away the empty chaser, wanted to make sure he didn’t ask too many questions right away and make her suspicious. “Well, I guess I better let you get back to your girlfriends, Regan. Time to hit the road.”
“You’re heading back to the dock?”
“I promised to call my boy, and I got some work calls to make.”
“What kind of work you do?”
“I kill things for a living.”
“You what?”
“Licensed to kill, that’s me. I’ve got my own pest extermination firm. Bugbusters. Want to hear my slogan? Pest in Peace.”
She giggled. “How’s business?”
“Always in demand. Folks always got something they need rid of.”
He picked up his cap. “It’s been good talking to you, Regan, enjoyed it. And I don’t mean this to sound like a come-on, I really don’t, but if you feel like a nightcap later, I’d be glad if you joined me. I’ll be on my porch, admiring that lake view of yours.”
“It does.”
“What?”
“Sound like a come-on. But I just might take you up on the offer.”
75
* * *
Billy parked his SUV outside his cabin and switched off the engine.
The sound of crickets cluttered the warm night air. Walking up to his front door, he looked back.
Regan’s cabin was dimly lit, the blue flicker of a TV on inside. He saw a curtain flutter and a head appear, then it disappeared and the curtain settled. The kid, probably up watching TV, and checking out the engine noise.
Billy noticed no extra vehicles parked outside Regan’s place.
He turned the key and let himself into his cabin. He opened his suitcase. The .45 Kimber automatic was there, and the silencer, along with the hollow-point ammo he bought on the way. Next to it was a brown bag with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He took out the bottle, grabbed two glasses from the bathroom, then moved out onto the veranda and sat at the wooden table.
The dusky Milky Way glittered, the water glassy calm. A faint sound of laughter and music drifted, someone having a party in one of the houseboats.
He sat on the veranda a few minutes, smoking a Marlboro Light, thinking things through.
A hundred yards along the boardwalk the dock office loomed, its pale vinyl siding a blob of gray in the darkness. Stubbing out his cigarette first, he removed his boots and socks, and stood up in his bare feet.
Easing himself over the veranda, he padded toward the office.
• • •
The door was locked.
A sign stuck on the paintwork said: NO CASH KEPT HERE. He moved around the back, where he’d noticed the second entrance. Halfway there he stood on a sharp pebble and recoiled, shuffling around on one leg until the jolting pain in his foot eased.
He tried the back door. Locked, too.
He took a lock-pick set and pencil flashlight from his pocket. It was one of those fancy tactical flashlights with different settings. He switched it to the dim blue ultraviolet light. He got the door open in less than a minute.
He hesitated before entering the darkness.
The office had no hardwired alarm—he’d checked when he stepped in that afternoon. But he shone the blue light about to make sure there were no motion sensors or battery-operated devices that he might trigger. His practiced eyes saw none.
He inched over to the desk and filing cabinet. No need for the picks this time; the top drawer slid open with a squeak. He searched, found nothing except a few filed letters from a veteran’s organization—interesting, Ronnie Kilgore was ex-military, special forces. But he hit pay dirt when he slid out the second drawer.
The guest book was inside, the brown covered one he’d filled in that afternoon. He sat at the desk, the ultraviolet light hard on his eyes as he flicked back through the pages.
It took a him a few minutes but then he grinned as he saw the signature, the name and address in block letters.
“Hey, baby, looks like we’re in business.”
76
* * *
The Learjet entered New York airspace at 11 p.m. after its long haul across the Atlantic, skimming above the clouds at thirty-four thousand feet.
After a brief fuel stop in Shannon, Ireland, and another in Boston to clear U.S. customs and immigration, it carried on with its filed flight path to the five-thousand-foot runway at Cape May.
Sitting in a leather passenger seat, Ivan Arkov was stretched out, dozing beneath a blanket.
One of his bodyguards came through the cabin, waking him. “The captain says twenty minutes, sir.”
A groggy Arkov felt the Lear sink on its descent. He’s slept badly, tossed and turned. Conflict raging inside his head, his problem niggling him all during the flight.
He yawned, sat up. He was still in reasonably good shape for seventy-two but every time he woke his body seemed to ache with more pains. Old age, someone once told him, was like frying bacon naked. You knew it was going to hurt, you just didn’t know where.
More and more his thoughts turned to a successor. And there lay his conflict.
Two contenders. Boris or Mila?
Blood or brains?
He buttoned his shirt, tied the knot on his silk tie. Below, New York’s dazzling blaze of lights. The aircraft banked to port, descending toward New Jersey and Cape May.
Arkov rubbed his face in his hands.
Mila Shavik, highly capable, still hungry for power.
But Boris was his own blood.
Really, it all came down to kanun, unswerving loyalty to the clan.
And Arkov had devised a final test to decide his successor.
It would be the ultimate test of loyalty.
He smiled, amused by the irony.
He heard the landing gear whir into place.
Minutes later the Lear touched down with a squeal of rubber.
• • •
The Lear taxied to the end of the runway, and the engines died with a whine.
A polished black Escalade SUV waited on the apron. The jet’s passenger door opened with a pneumatic hiss, and the cabin flooded with the salt air of Delaware Bay.
Shavik was there, waiting as Arkov came down the steps. He kissed the old man on both cheeks. “Ivan.”
“Boris didn’t see fit to greet his father?” Arkov said grumpily.
“There’s been a development.”
• • •
The Escalade cruised at a steady sixty.
They sat in the plush rear leather seats, Shavik next to the old man.
“Tell me about this Angel.”
“It was personal. She was at the Merviak camp. She made contact with the musician, Jan Lane, after she recognized Boris and me in one of the clubs.”
“That’s how it started?”
“So it seems.”
“It seems you also made a bad choice in women, Mila. What about Lane’s wife?”
“It appears she wants to avenge her husband’s death. Right now she’s on her way to my home.” He explained about the text to Angel’s phone.
“She’s working alone?”
“That’s the way it looks.”
“Explain.”
“She’s an amateur, driven by revenge.”
“That doesn’t mean she hasn’t involved the author
ities.”
“If she had, we’d know about it by now. But our sources have heard nothing.”
Arkov pursed his lips, considered, then ran a hand over his face, his tiredness showing after the long Atlantic crossing. “There’s still more to it, Mila.”
“How so?”
“An irony. How long have we know each other?”
“Over thirty years.”
The old man laid a clawlike hand on Shavik’s arm. “You remember the day I taught you the meaning of survival? And of loyalty to your family?”
“What about it?”
“Your father was working in Pristina and you stayed with Boris and me. Already I saw great potential in you. A bright boy, quick to learn. I wanted to teach you an important lesson. The same one that was taught to me as a child.”
Shavik listened, unspeaking.
“I gave you a baby goat. After a month, you grew fond of it, as any boy would.”
Still, Shavik said nothing.
“Then I made you slit the animal’s throat. I explained that otherwise the household would have no food.”
Arkov looked at him. “It taught you a vital lesson about loyalty, be it to your family or your clan. And that to survive you need to have the courage to kill something dear to you. That’s the sign of a true man.”
“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t just about a goat, Ivan?”
“Perceptive as always, Mila. Your father died because of that prosecutor, Tanovic. That’s why you hate the Bosniaks. I always told you they were scum. That Milosevic was right. We had to finish them off like vermin.”
“Is there a point to all this?”
“Be patient. There was another reason why I made you kill the goat.”
“Why?”
“I sensed you had a soft heart. A soft heart that had to be hardened if you were to survive in our world.”
“Where’s this going?”
Arkov’s thin lips parted in a slit of a grin. “Aren’t you sometimes amazed by life’s odd quirks of fate, Mila? As if there’s a strange logic to this universe we don’t comprehend? You made another bad choice in women years ago. With that Bosniak, the prosecutor’s daughter you knew.”