by Skye, S. D.
Frankie released his cigar to the ashtray, leaned back in his seat, and folded his hands across his rotund belly. He made eye-to-eye contact with everyone at the table before speaking.
“We’ve all got a lot at stake, right? I think we can agree the Feds have an extra stiff hard-on to take our organizations down right now. A war would bring a lot of unnecessary heat and lead to the demise of some critical business interests. So, reaching an agreement here is not optional; it’s mandatory.”
Santino hunkered down in his seat. His Beretta was still smoking from whacking Stevie Pics, and every fiber of his being wanted to pull it out, snap the trigger back, and set the barrel on fire, until every last one of them struck a dead-man pose. The Russian stumps standing in the shadows made him think better of taking action…except to say, “Somebody’s got to pay for what they did to Dante.”
The words fell out of his mouth without effort or thought. Zero consideration for Nicky’s position which was a no-no. What else could he do? Sit by and let Nicky and this Russian prick play his family like a bad poker hand?
Uncle Sal’s voice echoed in his mind. Watch your temper.
As expected, Nicky shot him a “shut the fuck up” glare to warn him he was talking out of school. “Despite the impetuousness of the Boss’s nephew here,” Nicky began, “I’m afraid he’s right. My orders say we can’t let your people skate on this one.” Nicky eyed Max with a poker face.
Santino wondered if the rat bastard thought him both blind and stupid. Stevie Wonder could’ve seen the looks passing between them. Maybe the problem was less that they dismissed Santino, and more that they didn’t give a damn what he noticed because they never planned for him to walk out alive.
“Stop right there,” Max said. “The people who hit your cousin weren’t my people—I’m with Levi Mashkov. Pavlov Mashkov, his brother in Moscow, ordered the hit. And he’s untouchable; nobody gets to him. So, you’ve got to deal with me.”
Santino made a mental note of the instigator's name. Pavlov Mashkov. If life in the mob had taught him anything, it was that nobody was untouchable. Anyone with a head could take two in the back of it.
He glanced at his escape route. A shadow appeared outside the window, breaking the beam flowing from the street light. No one else noticed. All eyes burned on him. Max shifted in his seat to face Santino and clasped his fingers together on the table. “You’re the boss’s nephew. What does he plan to do if we’re unable to reach a meeting of the minds?” Max asked.
Santino shrugged. “To be truthful, I can’t say,” he replied, which in no way meant he didn’t know. “I’m just a crew chief. He would be more knowledgeable than me about such matters,” Santino said, gesturing toward his Captain.
Nicky hunched his shoulders in reply.
“So, this still leaves us with the question of who’s gonna answer for Dante?” Santino said, still unable to restrain himself.
“Then I’m afraid we’ve reached an impasse, and it will do you well to remember one thing.” Max’s lips thinned; his nostrils flared, and the whites of his eyes cracked red. “We don’t have to answer for shit!” He swept his hand in the air, signaling the mountains. With the precision of a color guard, their rifles crackled as they snapped into position—each barrel pointed at Santino’s head.
Frankie turned to Santino and back to Max. “What the fuck is goin’ on here? I told ‘em you were a stand-up guy, and you go and pull this bullshit?”
Santino cocked his head to the side and smirked before leaning back in his seat. In a blazing fast move, he snatched the cold steel from his ankle holster and locked his aim on Max’s head. A second later, the gun cocked. “Put your fucking guns down,” he told the mountains. “Shoot me and nobody’s walkin’ out of here alive. Nobody.”
Chapter 31
Monday Morning — New York City
J.J. had done it. Succeeded in stopping the truck that she hoped contained the Mashkov’s shipment. With his front bumper now lodged firmly in her car door, and the driver annoyed, she needed to play her next step cool or her attempt to create probable cause might land her six feet under.
She threw up her hands in the air, feigning shock and frustration at the crash she caused. Then she turned down her driver side window and signaled for the driver to turn down the one on his passenger side.
The driver looked like the Russian missing link, one of the matched pair seen in Max Novikov’s surveillance photo. Could’ve been a brother, equally wall-like. His nose beaked and his mouth curled into a hardened grit.
Once his window opened, he yelled, “What the hell are you doing?”
“What do you mean what am I doing? What the hell are you doing?” She yelled as though she’d missed a few doses of Prozac. “You can’t see from under those eyebrows?”
He grumbled a bunch of expletives under his breath.
“You saw me pulling out,” she continued. “You ever hear of a blind spot, douche bag. Back the truck up! I can’t get out.”
He reversed just far enough to allow her door to open. J.J. scanned the area, still looking for Tony’s NYPD buddies. No one was in sight. She was beginning to understand why they weren’t Feds.
She jumped out of the car and waited for the Russian to do the same. The moment he stepped out to confront her, she slipped the .45 into his passenger window and dropped it on the seat, hoping it landed in plain sight.
“Are you blind? What the fuck are you doing?” she said, continuing her rant in order to stall. Still no back up. Where were they?
“I had the right of way. You fly in front of me into the street. Are you blind, you stupid bitch!”
“Bitch? Yo’ mama’s a bitch, you stupid asshole.” She planted her hands on her hips and twisted her neck in a ghetto frenzy. “I can’t half understand you with that accent. You no speaka de English?”
“Better than you, you dumb cunt.” He spat his words like venom.
J.J.’s eyes shifted waiting for NYPD to appear. She’d continued stalling but hoped Tony wouldn’t swoop into intervene and blow the op too early if he feared the situation getting out of hand. Short of him shooting her, she could handle him.
The angry Russian walked over and scanned her door. “You call this a dent? This is nothing, a little nick.”
“Are you kidding me? I could fit your head in there?” she said. “Where’s my cell phone? I need the number for 9-1-1. And give me your license, registration, and insurance information.”
He scanned left and right, surveying the area for potential witnesses. J.J. happened to know the only ones in the area were FBI agents and Russian Mafiya.
“Lady, I don’t have time for this bullshit.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of hundreds, looking down the street past her toward the warehouse. “Listen, I have an urgent appointment. Here,” he said, handing her a wad of hundreds. “This should cover it.”
She peered over his shoulder, feigning impatience. Then started counting the money. “One hundred, two-hundred…nine-hundred, a thousand…two thousand five-hundred, two-thousand five-hundred…wait? Did I just count that twice? Let me start over. One-hundred, two hundred…”
He snatched the money from her hand, snapped his finger around her throat, and slammed her against the car.
She couldn’t breathe, taking life-and-death grasps at his fingers trying to pry the stumps from her neck. He leaned forward and growled, “You take this money and move this piece of shit out of the way or I will—”
Two sirens sounded. Out of the corner of her eye, the red and blue lights flashed in her peripheral vision. He released her and growled as he stepped back, unleashing a barrage of curse words in Russian. Then he spat toward J.J.’s face and fired the N-word at her like a hollow point.
As they stepped into the escalating scene, one officer checked on her as the other ordered the driver to strike the perp pose. “Sir, get on the ground and put your hands behind your back.”
“Fuck that! I’m not getting on the ground. Sh
e pulled in front of me.”
“Is it her fault you had your hand around her neck? I’m not going to ask you again,” he said, raising his voice. He pulled out his Taser and yelled. “Get on the ground and get your hands behind your back! Now!”
The man conceded, grumbling all the while. The officer cuffed his wrists and went to retrieve the registration from the glove compartment.
J.J. eyed the cop’s partner as he glanced inside the passenger window, and his head turned downward. “Fisch, there’s a weapon on the floor. I’m going to search the rest of the car.” Leaning against the car as she waited for them to find the loot, she felt a twinge of regret over crossing the line to make the bust, but defended her actions by blaming Fitzpatrick and his stone-walling. If he’d followed protocols and granted her requests, she wouldn’t have had to resort to such extremes. A few moments later, Farley called out, “Holy shit! There must be millions in cash, thirty kilos, and enough Uzis to arm Brooklyn.”
She suppressed a smile. The plan worked. Once again she’d bent the rules, but, in her mind, the end justified the means. Yes, she’d falsified the probable cause, but she hoped like hell the gamble would pay off once they made the bust.
“That belong to you, Mr. Jov Rakov?” Farley said.
J.J.’s ears perked up. She remembered the name. He was the former FSB officer and link between the drug and arms factions of the Mafiya network. The deal must’ve been major for him to travel to the states.
“I want my lawyer!”
“You’ll need him. We’re putting you under arrest,” he said, just before they stuffed him into the back seat.
Rakov glared at J.J., baring his teeth. She crouched next to the squad car door, snarled through clenched teeth, and said, “Nigger? No. Bitch? Oh, yes. All day every day, you sorry son of a bitch.” Then she returned his spit.
Once back at her car, J.J. retrieved her radio as Tony, Scott, and Manny ran to the scene after the action ended. As they approached her, she could see Novikov’s henchmen step out the door of the warehouse and disappear inside as fast.
Rakov was off the streets. They were next.
Within in seconds, the street swarmed with press trucks. “How in hell did they know we were here?”
J.J. turned to the NYPD officers who both shrugged as if they had no clue.
Damn it, J.J. said. This can’t be good.
•••
Back at FBI New York, J.J. and the crew returned to write their reports, hoping to get the right details to Fitzpatrick before the press got everything wrong.
“Donato, McCall, Lewis, Vasquez. My office—now!” Fitzpatrick yelled. She’d never worked for him before, but he was far from a happy camper. They all trudged inside exchanging guilty looks although none of them knew exactly why except J.J.
Once seated, he dropped the bomb, so to speak.
“Your arrest is a bust. We had to let the perp go.”
“Why?” J.J. asked, thrusting forward to the edge of her seat.
“Seems in all the media excitement, NYPD failed to read him his rights.”
“What about the drugs, guns, and money?”
“Oh, we keep the goodies. But the perp walks. And he’s got a hard-on for you Agent McCall.” She didn’t have to guess why. There were a lot of things she could let slide.
Spit—no.
The N-word—hell no.
Fitzpatrick held back Manny and Scott as J.J. and Tony returned to their desks.
“Well, at least we’ve got the shipment off the streets and copies of the paperwork from the van.”
“Yeah,” Tony said. “But we’ve still got no direct link between Troika and the shipment and now we’re on the radar. They’ll probably start conducting damage control, and we’ll never get access to the information we need to take them down.”
J.J. closed her eyes, shook her head, and thought, Things couldn’t possibly get worse. Then her cellphone buzzed. It was a message from Sunnie.
Nixon got access to your mother’s case file.
It’s gone.
Chapter 32
Tuesday Night — New York City
With his fingers tight to the grip, Santino’s palm began to sweat as he waited for Nicky’s reaction. Of course, the sorry fuck just sat there looking dazed and confused. Nicky glanced at Frankie, who stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. Then Nicky looked at Santino, who stared him down, wanting to fire a bullet into both of his faces.
Santino had to hand it to Max, who’d refused to budge or flinch despite the reversal of fortune. Max impressed and intimidated Santino; he wondered whether Max’d pull a rabbit out of the hat that he had not anticipated.
In a sluggish motion, Nicky pulled out his gun with a shaky hand and aimed it at Max’s head, too, clearly second-guessing the wisdom of his move. His sorry performance had nothing to do with loyalty to Uncle Sal or to the family; it was for Frankie. If indeed the Russians took out Santino and Nicky lobbied to become boss, then Nicky needed a witness to vouch for the fact that he wasn’t in cahoots with the Russians or they’d turn on him like rotten milk on a weak stomach.
Max signaled to the mountains to put their weapons down, but none of them moved. Neither did Max; his voice lacked the sincerity his request conveyed.
“C’mon,” Frankie urged. “Stop this shit before it gets outta hand.”
Santino didn’t believe Frankie would support Nicky or this attempted trap but now his suspicions were confirmed.
His eyes still pressed on Max, Santino said, “Oh, I see what the problem is. My gun’s too small. Why don’t you have one of your brothers take a peek out the window over there?”
Mountain One walked over and rubbed his hand against an unpainted spot in the corner of the window. “Uhh, boss? Looks like he brought some members of his family with him.”
Max bowed his head, feigning respect. “Is that so? That was not part of the agreement,” he said to Santino. He glanced over his shoulder to the mountains and asked, “How many?”
“Judging from what I can see,” the mountain began, “all of them. And they’re all armed.”
A slight miscalculation on everyone’s part, including Nicky’s. Santino had, on his Uncle Sal’s orders, directed his earlier text to one of his Uncle’s most loyal captains. Patrizio “Patty” Cuzmano, who made emergency phone calls to every soldier and associate he could contact; they stood guard outside Novikov’s place. Without uttering a word, Santino sent a message. The Bonannos walked heavy and rolled deep. The family protected its own.
Santino narrowed his eyes and growled. “I might die tonight, but I won’t die alone. Every motherfucker in the room will walk through the gates of hell beside me.”
A stone silence permeated the room; every eye shifted in nervous beats, sweat beads dripped from every forehead—except for Max. Each man waited on the other’s next move. At once, Max broke the silence with applause. Then a chuckle that evolved into an uproarious laugh, which he followed up with a standing ovation.
Max smiled wide at Santino. “Bravo, Mr. Castellano!” He wagged his finger and waved off the mountains who also laughed. Each released their weapons and leaned them on the walls in the back. “Heard you were crazy. Wanted to see for myself. I like my partners as mad as I am.”
For Santino, the room spun because he was so filled with adrenaline. Took him a moment to return to his right mind.
“Partners?” Santino looked at Nicky and Frankie, who both shrugged. Nicky seemed more than content to put his gun away.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what’s goin’ on here?” Frankie said.
Max patted Frankie’s hand to reassure him all was okay; then he looked over his shoulder and yelled, “Get the cases,” to two of the mountains. They disappeared, and moments later their footsteps faded.
Santino lowered his weapon but didn’t return it to his holster. The streets had taught him well, and the only thing more lethal than a dangerous man was a lunatic. Max was bat-shit crazy.
“Please, have a drink. Russky Standart Platinum. The best for my friend here,” he said. The second pair of mountains brought glasses for the table and a fresh frosted white bottle with a black label. Santino’s first drink disappeared as fast as they poured—the best Vodka, Russian or otherwise, he’d ever had in his life. Made Grey Goose taste like piss water.
Perhaps he and Max were friends after all.
Mountains one and two returned and dropped two large briefcases on the table, unlocking them without popping the latches open.
Max patted the tops of both, one with each hand, and said, “In these briefcases lay our agreement,” he said. “But first I need you to understand something. The Mashkovs and I are at a crossroads in our relationship. I prefer a peaceful separation; they lean toward mayhem. The sooner I can break off my partnership with them the better. I’m here to tell you the order came from Moscow in retribution for Svetlana Mikhaylova’s murder. To be frank, I hate those security service fucks. Our allegiance is an uneasy but necessary one…at least for now. That’s where you come in.”
He popped both cases open, one filled with at least ten kilos of cocaine and the other money. Piles of it. Five-hundred grand if there was a penny.
Nicky’s hungry eyes devoured the case’s contents. “So, what are you offering?”
Max turned to Santino. “We have some product we need to unload. I have a shipment of cash and cocaine my people are picking it up as we speak. You’ve already got distribution channels in ten cities. We’ll cut in both of your families.” His eyes shifted between Santino and Frankie Z. “An advance—say 1 million—and a percentage of the sales.”
“Advance?” Frankie said. “Where I come from advance means you gotta pay it back from future earnings.”
“Okay, fine. Let’s call it a tax. In this briefcase is $500,000. I’ll give you the rest of the supply and the money once our shipment is secured, which should be any moment.”
The peace for one million dollars? Even Uncle Sal hadn’t predicted they’d offer that much. Instead of getting himself killed, Santino’s brand of crazy had helped secure a partner willing to bankroll a multimillion dollar operation. Santino waited a moment before speaking, but the pause gave Max concern.