by Sidney Bell
He was in the process of turning when the door swung wide directly in front of him. Church jumped, and the broad-faced guy about to emerge jolted to a halt, his mouth forming an O of surprise.
Church’s gaze slid over the man’s shoulder to see four men grouped around five of the 32-gallon ingredient bins that the bakery used to store sugar and various kinds of flour. The sugar and flour had been dumped into a dozen rubber buckets, however. Three of the men were in the process of refilling the bins with large plastic Ziplocs stuffed full of a remarkably clear, almost glass-like substance, where, Church assumed, the bags would be re-covered with flour or sugar and hidden, probably for transport.
Church had spent nearly as much time on the streets growing up as he did in school. He knew what meth looked like.
And that was a lot of meth. The kind of meth that could supply half of Denver for a month.
When the big guy standing in front of him said, “I knew I’d heard something,” the men in the back room all looked up and went still.
“Fuck me,” Church muttered, his gut going cold.
“Pretty much,” the big guy said, not unsympathetically, and grabbed Church by the arm to haul him into the back.
Chapter Nine
Of the five men, Church knew the names of two: Vasily and Matvey. He guessed the others were Krayevs too, but though they’d been in and out of the bakery for a couple weeks now, it wasn’t like any of them had bothered to introduce themselves.
The big guy shoved Church against the rear wall. His head hit cement and a bright flare of temper sparked along with the bright flare of pain. He gritted his teeth.
“So much for no trouble,” Vasily said, and Church said, “You’re telling me.”
“I don’t—” Matvey began, but Vasily swiped a hand through the air. He examined Church with dark, unfriendly eyes.
“Question becomes,” he said, “what do we do with you, little snooper?”
“I know how to keep my mouth shut.” Church knew exactly what would happen if he didn’t figure out a way to calm this down, and that meant finding the magic words. “I’m not a snitch, and I don’t give a shit about whatever you guys are doing, which I don’t know about anyway, because I’m blind. Maybe Matvey didn’t mention that.”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
Sweat pooled, cold and clammy, at the small of Church’s back. “Still. I don’t rat.”
“Problem is, I don’t know you. I don’t trust you.”
“But Matvey knows me. He knows I can be trusted.”
As much as a guy could know a guy after working with him for just over a month. Stay calm, Church told himself. He was outnumbered and these guys weren’t frat-boy assholes running their mouths after a game. The Krayevs would be armed, and Church had to keep his head. Taking a swing might feel good in the moment, but it wasn’t going to keep him alive.
“He doesn’t steal,” Matvey said, which was less than helpful.
“Different situation.” Vasily nodded to his brothers, who started pawing through boxes. One of them stopped after a few seconds and said, “Matvey, do you keep a tarp?”
Fuck.
“Look, I’m not an idiot,” Church said. “I want to live. I know what’ll happen if I talk, so I’m not going to talk.”
“You talk a lot, actually,” one of the other brothers said, smirking. “For a guy who don’t talk.”
“Vasya,” Matvey said, which Church knew by now was a nickname for Vasily—Matvey had explained the system of Russian naming to him once, not that it had stuck. The whole thing was fucking confusing, and he’d just resigned himself to the fact that all Russians had nine million names. It made the five Krayevs seem countless.
Never more so than right now.
Church was starting to get the feeling that his best option was to run for it, which meant he’d probably be dying from a bullet in the back in about a minute and a half, so as far as best options went, it was a pretty fucking shitty one. He aimed a pleading look at his boss, putting every bit of please that he had into his expression and tone.
“Matvey, you know I won’t say anything. I wouldn’t screw you over like that, you’ve been nothing but good to me.”
“You’re done talking,” Vasily said to Church. “Leave him alone.”
“Why not beat him?” one of the middle brothers said to Vasily. “Hard to talk through a broken jaw.” His words took longer to come out, sort of like a surfer’s, and he leaned lazily against the wall as he spoke.
“That won’t stop him from writing things down, Grisha,” Vasily intoned, and the brother in question wrinkled his nose. “No, we’ll take care of this now.”
The two still-unnamed brothers were all rooting around, looking for something to put on the floor so Church’s brains didn’t get on everything. Jesus, he had to make a move, which pissed him off and terrified him in equal amounts, because five to one, or even four to one, if Matvey didn’t throw down, were the kind of odds that relied on an awful lot of dumb luck.
If he was going to have to wade in before running out, he’d rather do it while some of the guys were farther away and distracted, and before the guns came out. The door to the front of the bakery was to his left, and if he could get outside, he’d be in full view of anyone in the parking lot. If he kept going and made it to the street, all the better. They might try to grab him, but he doubted they’d shoot him where there would be so many witnesses.
It would kind of defeat the purpose of killing him to hide their criminal activities.
Problem with that plan, though, was that the door to the front was a good ten feet away, and the unnamed brothers searching for tarps were in the way. Surfer Grisha was nearby too, either thinking hard or staring into space—it was hard to judge from his expression.
Back door was closer, and though he’d have to run the obstacle course of ingredient bins and buckets, he’d only have to get past Matvey and Vasily. He didn’t think Matvey would try to stop him, and if he could wait until Vasily was distracted, Church thought he could make it to the alley.
Which was, unfortunately, long and isolated. He’d have to run another fifty yards to make it someplace public, and a bullet between the shoulder blades would make that difficult.
Door to the front of the bakery, he decided. As soon as no one was looking. His palms were damp and he wiped them on his jeans.
“There’s got to be some plastic somewhere,” one of the searching brothers said.
“Just big freezer baggies,” the other said. He paused to consider, then added, “We could put one over his head.”
“Would it fit?” asked the first one. They looked at Church doubtfully, who couldn’t believe this conversation was taking place. A little voice in the back of Church’s head started whispering run run run. He rocked his weight to the balls of his feet.
“No, I don’t like this,” Matvey said, his voice vibrating like piano wire. “I don’t think we should do this, Vasya, I don’t want to.”
“I’m not sure it’s called for, you know? Might be overkill,” Grisha said, then ruined his support of Church by snickering at his own pun. When he sobered, he added, “Don’t want a reputation for being unreasonable. People won’t want to work with us.”
“Get a trash bag if you can’t find something else,” Vasily said to one of his other brothers, ignoring Matvey and Grisha. He opened his coat, and Church could see the butt of a pistol in a holster under his arm.
“How we gonna get the body out of here?” one of the unnamed brothers asked—the big one who’d stopped Church in the doorway. “We don’t have any carpet, Seryozha.”
“There’s the meat slicer,” Seryozha pointed out. He was tall and lean and remarkably handsome for a guy who liked the idea of putting a baggie over Church’s head. Church’s adrenaline spiked.
“I don’t have a screwdriver,” Big Yasha replied, holding out his hands in apology, like he’d failed somehow by not carrying tools on him in case he needed to take a meat slicer apart to cut up a dead body.
Now or never. Church rocked up onto his toes.
“I said no,” Matvey bellowed, and kicked one of the buckets over. Flour went everywhere, and everyone in the room started coughing. It was as good an opportunity to run as Church was going to get, but he was bent over, struggling to get powder out of his lungs. Besides, the Krayevs might be hacking their heads off, but they were circling him anyway, stealing his moment. Both ways out of the store were blocked by bodies now.
But when everyone was done coughing, Matvey was standing between Church and his brothers. His face was red and he seemed terrified by his own daring, but he was a flesh-and-blood boundary, and Church would take anything he could get.
“This is my place.” Matvey’s hands locked into fists. “I’m in charge, and I don’t want to shoot Church in here.”
Church’s heart thundered so hard he almost couldn’t hear over it, but he didn’t move. If Matvey was willing to back him, Church had a chance.
“Then we’ll go into the alley,” Seryozha—handsome promoter of the saw blade and death baggie—said soothingly. “We won’t make a mess, Motya.”
“No! I said no!”
Vasily exhaled. “So you think we should let this little prick wander around knowing that we’ve got enough product here to get busted for trafficking? You want me to go back inside? Do you want to go inside?”
“No,” Matvey said. “But he said he won’t say anything.”
“He said he won’t say anything,” Vasily repeated, looking at Seryozha as if they were sharing an inside joke, although it was one that Vasily didn’t seem to find funny. Seryozha shook his head like he was disappointed in Matvey too, and Vasily continued, “Oh, well if he said it, it must be true.”
“I don’t snitch,” Church said.
“You shut the fuck up.” Vasily pointed at Church before looking back at his little brother. “This has to happen.”
“It doesn’t, though.” Grisha raised his eyebrows at Vasily. “You’re doing that thing that you do, Vasya. That thing where you use more violence than you need to. Gets us in trouble.”
“You’re just lazy,” Vasily snapped. Grisha huffed, but didn’t add anything else.
“No!” Matvey shouted. “We’re not doing this!”
He set his jaw, and Vasily moved to stand directly in front of him, so close that only inches separated their faces. Vasily stared hard, then jerked a fist up as if he’d throw a punch, checking to see if Matvey would flinch.
Matvey did, but then he clenched his teeth and lifted his chin.
“Little Motya, you know why you get told to stay out of this stuff, don’t you?” Vasily whispered. “Because as much as we all love you, you’re dumb. You’ve got rocks in your head; you make bad decisions. You know it’s better when we handle things. It’s how you do your part best. We say how it goes, and you shut your fucking mouth.”
Matvey swallowed. “I’m not so dumb that I didn’t start my own business. And my business means I don’t have to worry about the cops. I told you I didn’t want this here, and you weren’t supposed to—”
“Shut up. Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Vasily said. “You’re gonna take a nice, long walk, little brother. And when you come back, everything will be fine.” Vasily paused to touch his brother’s face, and wiped the visible sweat onto Matvey’s shirt.
“It’s gotta be done, Motya,” Seryozha said kindly. “Your heart’s too soft. Let us handle it, huh?”
“Doesn’t take a soft heart to know that bodies are harder to get rid of than drugs,” Grisha said. Church decided he liked laid-back, lazy Grisha, at least until Grisha added, “He won’t forget to keep his mouth shut if we cut him a little. Every time he looks in the mirror, he’ll remember not to fuck with us. Problem solved.”
“We’re not killing anyone.” Matvey’s voice shook, but his eyes were steady as Vasily stepped back. “And we’re not cutting him up. The bakery’s mine and he’s my employee. I’m not killing my employees.”
“Fine.” Vasily’s lip curled. The leather of his coat whined as he pulled it closed to button around his thick belly. “We’ll let Mama decide. Yasha, pull the car into the alley.”
Grisha winced. Matvey’s spine went liquid and he slumped, glancing over his shoulder at Church. His forehead was crumpled up like paper.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
* * *
After half an hour in a Buick with bad shocks, they turned onto a dirt road and the constant ping of gravel on the undercarriage became loud enough to drown out the sounds of Church’s blood rushing in his ears. When they eventually stopped, Yasha, the big brother who’d caught Church in the doorway, helped Seryozha, the one who suggested using the meat slicer, pull Church from the car. He took a quick glance around.
Muddy, grim grass fields stretched in all directions, unfurling outward from a slumped ranch house shaded by two gnarled oak trees. A faded red barn hunched off to one side, circled by rusted lumps of unidentifiable farm equipment.
“Don’t talk unless she talks to you,” Matvey said under his breath. “Be very polite.”
Church’s hands were shaking, but he nodded. He wished he knew what Ghost would do in this situation, but he couldn’t hazard a guess. He couldn’t imagine Ghost getting himself into this situation in the first place. But he could do polite. All he had to do was pretend to be Tobias.
They hauled him across the overgrown yard to the stoop, where one of the brothers knocked on the screen door. After a long minute, an elderly woman answered—round and short and leaning on a cane, her hair wrapped in a black scarf. Her glasses were an inch thick, and she still squinted as she peered at the bunch of them standing there.
“Oh,” she said, and let loose a long stream of Russian, showing off her few remaining teeth.
The Krayev brothers all pushed inside to give her kisses, hauling Church in after them, and Church studied the woman while trying to pretend he wasn’t. She didn’t look callous enough to order his death, but who knew?
As Vasily was telling the old lady something in Russian—she had her head turned as if she were having trouble hearing—there was a sharp word from across the room, uttered in a rough, low voice.
The Krayevs all fell silent.
The woman standing in the doorway was skinny and pale and somehow stretched, in her early to midfifties. She was kind of handsome, like a queen from an old painting, except there was nothing rich or fancy about her. Her brown hair was pulled back in a severe braid that dangled over her shoulder, and she wore oversized stained jeans, dusty brown boots and a heavy blue sweater.
Her gaze landed on Church, and he felt as pinned and picked apart as any butterfly on a collector’s board. Her blue eyes were crafty and cold.
This, Church decided, was Mama.
He swallowed. He understood now why Matvey had apologized. Church should’ve run for it.
The old woman sat on the nearby couch and picked up a pile of knitting as Grisha started rattling off in Russian, leaving Church wishing someone would say something in English. Somewhere in the middle, Mama’s attention shifted to Matvey, who flushed red but lifted his chin—it would’ve been more impressive if he wasn’t shaking. When Grisha finished the story, she crossed the room to stand before Matvey.
“Motya,” she said. She continued in English, and unlike her sons, she had a faint accent. “Your brother owes you an apology. The bakery is yours to do with as you see fit. He should not have trampled on your territory. Had he respected that, we would not have this problem
.”
Vasily’s cheeks flushed as if he was embarrassed, and Church realized she’d spoken in English to ensure that Church would understand. Vasily’s humiliation was part of the punishment. The older man struggled, but eventually gritted out, “I apologize, Motya. Please forgive me.”
“Of course, brother,” Matvey said.
She turned to Vasily now. “You said your venture would be profitable and low-risk. You didn’t say drugs.”
“Things here aren’t like back in Russia.” Vasily’s tone was hard to read. Respectful, but something about it reminded Church of himself talking to his dad when he’d been a teenager, like he had to set his teeth against the urge to yell. “There’s a lot of money to be made, and it’s common enough that the risk is spread out.”
The old woman on the couch snorted into her yarn.
“They are low things to peddle,” Mama said, her voice going harsh like a dirty engine turning over, and Vasily’s confidence stumbled. He glanced around, chest puffing when he saw Church watching.
“I don’t do them. I don’t let my brothers do them. What business is it of ours if Americans want to shovel chemicals into their brains?”
She pursed her lips. The lines around her mouth deepened. “We will discuss your withdrawal from this aspect of business later.” When Vasily’s mouth opened, she interrupted him with a hiss between closed teeth, every inch the impatient mother, and he jerked back, furious but silent.
She looked at Matvey. “How did you meet this boy?”
“I hired him to pay back a favor to a friend,” Matvey said. “He’s been a good worker.”
“If the friend makes noise, tell me. I will decide whether it is you or your brother who pays it back.”
“Yes, Mama.” Matvey licked his lips. “I trust Church.”
“You’re not fit for business.” Her eyes dismissed him to focus on Seryozha. “Kill him.”
She turned away, as casual as if she’d asked them to turn the sound on the television down, and Church scrambled toward the door, already busting his knuckles on Seryozha’s chin. For a second he thought he’d make it outside. But the other brothers were ready, and a heartbeat later, Church was yanked off his feet. There was the meaty click of a hammer on a gun being thumbed, and Church kicked out at Yasha, his throat tight, his pulse pounding in his temples, his panic thick and thrumming. He heard Vasily say in exasperation, “Can’t you assholes hold one guy? Get him downstairs on the cement! Do you want to ruin the carpet?”