If not, suffice it to say he brought the gifts we discussed earlier in two large, hollowed-out rounds of salted bread. A tradition, he said. The bread, not the surprise inside. It still gives me a good laugh. Trevor caught on first. Me? I was more interested in the salted bread. It’s a shame it had to go to waste.
Trevor enjoyed meeting him as well. Later he asked me the details of your friendship with him. If he was married, had a family, what did he do before establishing his security company, etc. I realized I didn’t know anything more than how you first met. Quickly shed some light, will you, so I can get Trevor off my back? You know how curious he is about people and he is hounding me to freaking death.
Looking forward to hearing from you when you read this.
Love, Cassandra.
Cassandra took a deep cleansing breath and hit send. Hopefully her father would get back to her with more details so they could paint a better picture of the man.
Glancing at Trevor, she watched him working quietly, fingers strumming over the keys. She could tell his mind was humming, processing everything they’d captured that day, and she was sure he was dissecting Kostas in his mind.
Kostas was still foremost on her mind as well, invading her thoughts at every turn. Cassandra’s eyes rested on the notepad where she had written down Kostas’s license plate. Following Trevor’s example, she dove back into work. She began tapping her resources to find out more about him. Because of the danger he posed to Trevor, good old Boris had just become her personal target.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Trial by Fire
NIKOL’S POSITION WAS TENUOUS AT best. She had finally infiltrated Mikhailov’s organization, but the pig had no use for women aside from as bed warmers. He had been brutal in his attempts to break her. She had steeled herself for such a confrontation and withstood his verbal and physical abuse. The bruises she sported on her body were badges of honor as far as she was concerned. It still hurt to bend or sit, but she never let them see her sweat.
Her fortitude had almost been her undoing. Mikhailov had even less use for strong women, but Sergei insisted that she would be useful. Eventually, he had approved her introduction to the organization. Sergei had put her through all sorts of hard exercises, trying to find any vulnerability he could use against her, but she had remained strong, focused on the final reward of that mission.
Nikol knew that many more of those exercises would happen along the way to test her loyalty. The problem with thieves and criminals was that they were always betraying one another, which in turn fed the paranoia among them.
She walked into the lavish mansion only to be greeted by Sergei, who grabbed her unceremoniously by the arm. Pain radiated from his grip as he dragged her to the basement she knew too well. A sharp sting of fear slashed through her. She was familiar with the uses and agony the instruments and torture devices decorating the walls could inflict. She had seen the results of their use. Her heart dropped to her stomach. Fuck! My cover is blown. Understanding finally penetrated her panic when she noticed a young man tied to a chair, sobbing.
Her glance shot to Sergei and a gleam of satisfaction filtered into his cold eyes. A parody of a Cheshire grin curved his mouth and he nodded with his head toward the man. “Are you ready to play, little Nikol?”
Nikol swallowed hard, relieved that her cover had not been blown. But her relief was short-lived, replaced almost immediately by sorrow. Sorrow for the fate of the man tied to the chair. Nikol took a step back, placing some distance between them. She cocked a hip, crossed her arms over her chest, and eyed the man. “What has he done?”
Sergei snickered slyly, “It is what he hasn’t done.”
“Hasn’t done? What does that mean?”
“Vladimir hired him to do a job based on the special skills he bragged so proudly about. He could not finish the project. Said it was impossible. Even after he assured us he could do it. That his programming skills were top-notch. He lied. Now—” Sergei shrugged, “—he dies.” The last words flowed from Sergei’s lips in a soft breathy voice. He was a ruthless bastard who took great pleasure in others’ pain and suffering. His profile definitely had not done him justice. Compared to the real devil, the man in the file was a pussycat.
Nikol struggled to keep a grip on her emotions. She wanted, needed, to help the man, a young programmer she had seen around the mansion a couple of times before who appeared to be no more than twenty or so. His sandy blond hair hid his face, his head hung dejected between his shoulders. The knees of his jeans were scuffed as if he had been dragged to the chair to which he was tied. Blood from the many cuts on his face along with sweat and tears dampened the front of his Duran-Duran t-shirt. Her heart ached for him and his fate. A fate she couldn’t prevent. Not without putting everything she had worked for and her own life at risk.
Sergei pulled a cigar guillotine from his back pocket and closed and opened it several times. The loud click of metal echoed in the room. The young man’s head snapped up and his eyes grew wide. His arms jerked, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair to which they were strapped. His frantic eyes darted to Nikol, a silent plea in them. Nikol shoved the sympathy from her expression and schooled it, looking coldly down on him. She fisted her hands and pressed them against her thighs to mask their shaking.
Realization that she would be of no help must have hit the man, because tears began to stream down his face as Sergei approached him. “Please! No! Don’t do this! Let me try again. Maybe I missed something. I can do it! I swear!”
“You had your chance. You didn’t deliver. Now you are mine.” Sergei stalked him, taunted him with slaps to the head. He leaned close to his ear and lowered his voice to a whisper, but Nikol could still hear his words. “Now, we play.”
Sergei grabbed the programmer’s hand and imprisoned his fingers, spreading them and then placing one through the ring. The young man’s screams and Sergei’s joyous laughter bounced off the walls as the boy’s finger fell to the floor and blood spurted freely from the wound. After the third finger, the young man passed out.
“Fuck! That’s no fun,” Sergei cursed, slapping the man awake time and again before moving on to the next finger, cutting them one by one.
The physical damage Sergei inflicted upon him was grizzly and, at times, Nikol herself almost threw up from watching it. The bitter, acid taste of bile coated her mouth.
A metallic tang wafted in the air and filled Nikol’s nostrils. She raged inside at the invisible ties binding her hands, preventing her from going to the young man’s aid. A price to pay for getting one step closer to her goal. A price to stay alive. A price that would stain her soul for a long time to come.
Nikol’s pulse jumped to her throat and choked her when Sergei cleaned the cutter, kicked the fingers aside, and retrieve the sledgehammer from where it leaned against the wall. Bile pushed up her throat at the sight of the cut off finger that had rolled to a stop next to the toe of her shoe. She worked hard to hold back her protest, but Sergei must have heard it because his head and eyes snapped to her and pinned her. “Do you have something to say, Nikol?”
She took a deep breath and held it before blowing it out slowly to calm herself. Moistening her mouth, she chose her words carefully. “You’re making a nasty mess, Sergei. I am not cleaning it. I am bored; can I go?”
Sergei’s eyes gleamed with dark, deadly promises as he continued to hold her gaze and gestured her to join him. She sucked in a breath and moved to his side with a casual gait.
His bloodied hand grazed her breast, leaving a smear on her blouse. She cringed inside and swallowed the retch that squeezed her throat. The bulge in Sergei’s slacks said a lot about the man. He was getting off on the torture. Before he could take her hand, she took a step back.
Sergei’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Run away while you can. I know where to find you.”
As he swung the sledgehammer above his head and she turned to leave, a loud ring sounded in the room. With a curse, Sergei dropped the s
ledgehammer and fumbled with his cell phone, pulling it out of his pocket, and answering it.
“Yes sir.” He pocketed the phone and pierced her with a deadly look. “We are needed. Company.”
“Right.” As Nikol turned for the door, Sergei’s hand snaked out and grabbed her hair, twining it in his fist and pulling her to him.
Tears filled her eyes at the pain. He brought her face close to his and bit her lip. “Don’t think this is over. We will play later.”
He released her abruptly and strode to the door. Nikol shot a look of regret at the young man. No matter how hardened life had made her, that was one scene and one person that would haunt her to her grave. Sergei was even more dangerous then she knew. She would need to tread carefully if she wanted to survive this mission. But more than just a job, her own personal quest was at stake, and she wouldn’t rest until she reached her goal.
*****
Boris drove through the gates of Mikhailov’s mansion and parked in the circular driveway as usual. He had a good standing with the Vory boss, and he wanted to keep it that way. It paid to have connections in the right places—and in Russia that meant organized crime. He’d built a reputation, and even though he was a minor player, he could hold his own against the best of them.
Boris’s services were essential to the mafia boss. His security business was the perfect cover to allow him access to security equipment and firearms as needed. That had made him a popular figure in Mikhailov’s circle. It was a dangerous game, but one he played well.
Walking through the mansion’s door into the vast lavish foyer and onto the sitting room beyond, Boris admired the lovely frescos on the walls and the many art pieces spread prominently around the room. Carefully illuminated alcoves exhibited precious items in a subtle but efficient display of wealth and power.
As he admired the art—a familiar past time while waiting for Mikhailov to show up—he heard footsteps echoing on the marble floors coming toward him. Turning to the origin of the sound, he watched as Mikhailov, his right-hand man Sergei Deminov, and a new player, a woman, walked into the room.
Boris casually addressed Deminov with a nod and noticed his shirt was speckled with something dark; the woman, who stood stoically next to him, also had smears on her blouse. Boris was taken aback by the hostility that pierced him from across the room when their eyes briefly met.
“Boris.” Mikhailov’s greeting distracted him from studying her further.
Boris extended his hand for a firm handshake while maintaining eye contact with the Vory boss. Having known him for some years, Boris had learned to respect the man’s business mind as well as his viciousness. One thing was certain: one did not mess around with Vladimir Mikhailov. He asked Mikhailov in their mother tongue, “You mentioned that you needed to talk to me. What can I do for you, my friend?”
Mikhailov’s smile faded as he appeared to remember the reason for Boris being there. A hard edge sharpened the gleam in his eyes. “The usual. I need more ammunition. My men used a little bit more…effort…than necessary when taking care of a swine for me a couple of weeks ago.” Mikhailov’s eyes were cold and unforgiving. Whoever that swine was, it was someone who had not been smart enough to stay out of Mikhailov’s business.
“That is not a problem. How many rounds do you need?” Boris asked without hesitation.
Deminov interrupted, his voice filled with authority, “As many as you can bring us.”
Boris frowned but didn’t question Deminov’s request. Nothing good came from questioning him. “When do you need the ammunition?”
The woman stepped forward and ignored the sharp warning glance Deminov shot in her direction. “As soon as possible. Is that a problem for you?” Her voice shimmered with barely checked disdain.
Boris inhaled deeply. For some reason this woman targeted him. He scrambled to calculate when he could have the ammunition delivered, and also how to approach introducing the subject of Trevor’s request. For people in his field, it was all about the return investment for helping someone else. In this case, he expected a big favor from Trevor in return for putting his neck on the line.
Tension filled the air. Boris knew that broaching the subject of Trevor at this point in the conversation would be overstepping his bounds. Mikhailov was furious about something or at someone, and things could definitely take a wrong turn under his current temper. The reference to the “swine” had sent a chill down Boris’s spine. Letting sleeping dogs lie, Boris answered, “Give me a few days. I should have the ammunition for you within the week.” He exhaled softly. “Is that all?”
Silence swirled around them as Mikhailov studied Boris’s face carefully; his stare raked on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He squirmed inside but hid his discomfort, keeping a tight rein on his emotions. Displaying emotions would leave him open to the piranhas standing before him. Living among the Vory was like living in a jungle full of predators. At the first scent of fear or blood, they took one down quickly and effortlessly.
Mikhailov seemed to reach a decision. Narrowing his eyes, he said casually, “Now that you ask…I’m in a tight spot.” He took his time capturing and holding Boris’s gaze as if trying to peel back the layers of Boris’s skin. It didn’t matter that Mikhailov had known him for years. They all knew a wolf could hide in sheep’s clothing. Trust was a hard commodity to come by.
Mikhailov knew many people, both legit and underground, who could possibly solve his current dilemma, but this time Boris seemed to be in the right place at the right time. After holding Boris in suspense, he spoke. “I need to find a good replacement for my software developer.”
Boris was stunned. It was exactly what Trevor wanted. A fast-track to Mikhailov’s computers. The opportunity dropped in his lap sounded too good to be true. Was it a coincidence? Has Mikhailov been watching me? Is he aware of Trevor and Cassandra’s intentions? Does he know of my visit with them?
Too many questions swirled in his mind, prompting Boris to choose his words carefully. He studied Mikhailov’s reaction as he probed, “I gather that the need for a developer was a result of your ‘swine’ problem?”
Mikhailov showed a hint of a smile, one that enveloped his face in a cruel mask. A deep satisfied chuckle rumbled from Deminov’s direction. “You gathered correctly. Let’s just say that I don’t tolerate animals in my house,” he continued in the same dark and calculating tone, holding Boris’s eyes. “If they think they can turn on me and go on with their lives, living off my hard work, they are wrong!”
Boris’s gut told him it was time to bring the conversation to an end and leave as quickly as possible before all that was left of him was speckles decorating Deminov’s shirt. His only relief was that he knew from his dealings with the Vory over the years that Mikhailov was just asserting himself before making Boris privy to high-level information. Information he would kill to keep under wraps.
“Why me?” Boris needed to confirm his assumption that he was about to be introduced to a higher level of the Vory hierarchy.
Mikhailov’s right-hand man cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “You don’t want to do Vladimir a favor?” His tone conveyed that he would like nothing more than to show Boris why he should accept the recruiter job.
Boris struggled to mask how tense he was. “Of course I will help. I just want to know why I am to receive this…honor,” he responded in a steady voice, managing to keep any sarcasm from coloring it.
“You have proven yourself many times, Boris,” Mikhailov praised. “The Vory code has been threatened by weak links for many years. We used to be the absolute power. Now we are riddled with traitors, turncoats.” Boris could finally see Mikhailov’s wheels turning. He now knew he had finally made it to the top. “We need strong key players, and you know people. You have your own ass to cover and you keep your mouth shut. A perfect fit.”
Excitement rippled in Boris’s blood. He’d waited several years for this, the opportunity of a lifetime: access to Mikhailov’s inner circle. �
�I am very honored by your trust, Vladimir.” Taking a deep breath, Boris asked without fear, “What can I do for you in regard to the computer person you need?”
Just as Mikhailov began to give Boris the requirements, one of his runners—a young man Boris recognized as having just joined the mafia and who made trafficking deliveries for the organization—walked into the room and froze like a deer caught in the headlights when he encountered the silence and the four people staring back at him. “I am sorry, sir,” the boy stammered. “Forgive me. I had no idea—”
Mikhailov interrupted. “I can see that.” His temper flared at the abrupt interruption of his business dealings with Boris, the illusion of the businessman gone in a second, and in its place, the ruthless man he truly was.
Mikhailov stalked toward the young man. As he drew closer, the boy’s eyes grew wider. Without any notice, Mikhailov pulled a small Makarov pistol from his pocket and shot the boy in the fleshy part of his thigh. Boris watched unfazed as the boy screamed in pain, doubling over to hold his wounded leg while Mikhailov stared down at him. “Learn not to wander around,” he said in disgust. “Sergei!” Mikhailov called to his right-hand man.
Deminov immediately made a phone call and soon a knock sounded on the door. Two men strode in. They bee-lined straight to the writhing boy on the floor, each grabbed him under an arm, and dragged him, like a sack of potatoes, out the door, leaving a trail of blood behind.
“Piece of shit got my floors dirty,” Mikhailov said, as if he’d had no part in how the blood came to be there. He walked back toward Boris to continue the conversation. “Where were we? Ah, yes. The programmer. I need someone who can finish developing a piece of software I recently acquired.”
Boris mirrored Mikhailov’s stance. He had seen much worse posturing in his many years in the business. Mikhailov wanted to show who was boss, flexing his power and demonstrating how short his tolerance was. Short? Hell, it is almost nonexistent.
To Russia With Love (Countermeasure Series) Page 22