by Hunt, Jack
He shook his head and blew out his cheeks. “Has it been handled?”
“His funeral or the one who shot him?”
“Both?”
“We’re working on it. No one is saying anything but we know. Listen, I didn’t call to talk about that, I just figured you ought to know. The funeral is tomorrow. If you can…” She trailed off. She didn’t need to say it. They all knew where he stood.
Colby was the black sheep of the family — a large family of brothers and sisters and cousins, larger than most. He’d been the one who’d crossed the line in the sand. Defied the very principles of what they lived by. He was also the only one that had moved on after the event that changed everything. The actions that couldn’t be taken back. All these things and more had stopped him from returning. But now…
“How’s mom?” He asked.
“You know her. Strong as an ox. Holding the family together.”
“The show must go on. Yeah, right.”
Sometimes he wondered if his mother wasn’t behind it all. The one behind the curtain pulling the strings, while his father acted as the face of the Rikers, the spokesman.
“How are you… doing?” Miriam asked awkwardly, as if she had to, as if a call after this many years warranted it, or maybe it was just her way of breaking the uncomfortable silence. He was about to reply when he noticed Alicia had drawn her knees up and was pounding her boots against the windshield.
He got close to the window and tapped it.
“Pack that in!”
She mouthed the words FUCK YOU!
She was a spicy one.
“What’s going on?” Miriam asked as Colby knocked on the window again.
“Oh you know, just knocking on the door of opportunity,” he replied, indicating with a finger to where Kane was. There was a steel divider that could be pulled back, allowing the dog to stick his head through. “I’ll open it,” he said, glaring at her. Alicia brought her boots down and lowered her head. “Yeah, just as I thought.”
“Colby, who are you talking to?”
“Look, thanks for calling, sis. I’ll see what I can do, okay?”
“See what you can do? You can’t miss this.”
“I’ll try. I can’t guarantee I can get back.”
“Colby.”
“All right. I’ll be there,” he said. Famous last words. Miriam hung up and left him looking off toward a group heading his way. He figured he’d overstayed his welcome. There was no telling who had seen him take her in. Colby took a snapshot of Alicia through the window then sent a quick text message with the pic to Manny to confirm he had the woman and was on schedule. He then stuck the phone in his jacket and made his way around to the driver’s side. He didn’t waste any time getting the heck out of there and heading for LAX.
Manny Rodriguez’s only claim to fame was that he owned a business off Wilshire Boulevard — the famous street that extended from Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica all the way east to the tall distinguished buildings of the Financial District in downtown Los Angeles. Of course, his hole in the wall was unnoticeable among the post-1956 skyscrapers, most people didn’t even know he was there unless they called his number, and if they were doing that, they either had the wrong one or were in a tight bind.
Still, saying that he was in the Financial District had done wonders for his bank account, at least until California Proposition 25 nearly put him out of business. The state government had wanted to end cash bail, replacing it with some bogus risk-assessment tool and giving the buffoons in court more power and discretion. What a nightmare that would have been. The criminal justice system was already marred by racial bias and skewed criminalization data. Had it gone through, it would have ended a billion-dollar industry.
Fortunately, they had defeated the proposition.
Nope, having a firm in the heart of the business sector had allowed him to present himself as a serious bail bondsman, a guy who catered to the who’s who, not like his low-life counterparts that were chasing low-level bonds.
Now, having said that, his clients weren’t exactly celebrities; they were mostly soccer moms, dads who had been caught with their pants down, street bums, drug addicts, or those who wound up before a judge because they had rolled over and shit on the wrong side of someone’s bed.
That’s exactly what Alicia Scott had done.
The details of her crime were sketchy as the feds had managed to keep the media out of her initial arrest. However, Manny had managed to squeeze a sliver of information out of Cynthia Howell, the notorious, self-titled Queen of Seattle. It was her bond. All she would say was Alicia had pissed off the wrong person and had been named a key figure in a high-profile case that could send shock waves throughout the country.
Now, the usual procedure would have been for Cynthia to send out some of her in-house or contract fugitive recovery agents to collect her, but, with Alicia fleeing the state and word of her arrival in L.A., Cynthia had reached out to him, offering a generous reward for him to handle the capture.
In his line of work, that wasn’t the norm, usually he was the one holding the bond, but this was no normal bail-jumper and Cynthia was no normal bondsman. They had history, history that extended back to his younger days and a drunken night in Santa Barbara. Damn girl was wild. Since then he couldn’t bear the smell of peanut butter.
Regardless, it seemed like a win-win situation.
The agreement was he would net the lion’s share of the profit and Cynthia would continue to flaunt her pristine track record. And for a brief moment, he thought he was about to walk away with a fat piece of the pie until the feds showed up a week after Cynthia called him. They pulled the whole big brother act on him. They’d been monitoring Cynthia’s phone calls. They threatened him with serious time if he didn’t contact them if and when Alicia was found.
Strangely, he wasn’t alone, he’d gotten calls from several of his competitors in town, all of them were on high alert, all of them on the prowl for this girl. It seemed Cynthia had wanted to hedge her bets, or she was desperate.
But now he’d caught her.
Well, Colby and that dog of his had.
They were like gold in his back pocket.
He’d made sure not to tell Colby of the feds’ involvement or there was a chance he would have just let the woman go.
So, as soon as he received Colby’s text message, he made two phone calls.
The first to the feds, the second was to an organization that already had their fingers in his wallet. He paid them a small percentage every month for protection.
It seemed everyone wanted to get their hands on Alicia, and he had yet to hear the real reason why. Still, he was a gambling man, a screw-them-all kind of fella. If there was even the slightest shot that he could get that woman back to Cynthia first and get paid, he was taking it. That’s why he’d delayed the calls by ten minutes after Colby had sent confirmation.
No harm, no foul.
The chance of them monitoring his calls was next to none.
He hoped.
West Hollywood was the heartbeat of the Russian-speaking community, a melting pot of Soviet immigrants that had originally entered the U.S. between 1970 and 1985. Since then, tens of thousands were still entering the U.S. illegally every year. Among the mixed influx was everyone including hardened criminals, ex-KGB, former special forces, and members of the Russian mafia, otherwise known as Bratva. The organization that had in recent times made the Italian mob look like child’s play.
In the dim basement of a dance club just off the fabled Sunset Strip, Viktor Solonik sat across from Hollywood mogul Sam Kohen. A thin rail of a man, given to luxury and extravagance, it hadn’t taken long to break him. Stripped down to his underwear, his ankles were tied to a chair, his hands restrained behind his back. His head slumped forward, blood dripping to the floor; the aftermath of a beating to get names, numbers, the right people in line to deliver a $10 million ransom.
Viktor ran a bloodied hand over his tattooed ba
ld head and with the other lit a cigarette as he sank into a chair five feet away. He squinted as smoke spiraled up into his right eye, obstructing his view of the man. His knuckles were red, swollen, the way he liked it. There was something very primal about getting up close and personal with his victims. The smell of iron, sweat dripping, the breaking down of a person’s hard exterior. It never got old.
While he dabbled in everything — loan sharking, fraud, computer crime, racketeering, narcotics, and pimping — kidnapping and holding wealthy individuals for ransom was big business. Few batted an eye when millions vanished and someone wound up dead. They’d assume it was a drug deal gone wrong, another wealthy individual caught up in some untoward dealings in the back alleys of Hollywood.
His phone vibrated. He took it out and hit accept. It was one of his guys.
“We got the money.”
“Any problems?” he asked.
“None.”
He hung up and sniffed hard. “Well, my friend, our time has come to an end.”
Through swollen eyes, the mogul lifted his chin. “So we’re good now?”
He gave a nod and rose. “We’re good. Very good.” He removed a 9mm GSh-18, with rounds that were known to pierce body armor.
Sam’s mouth widened. “But… but you got the money?”
“We always do,” he said before unloading a round into his skull.
Letting people live was never in the cards. That led to too many problems. With a nod of the head, two of his guys dragged out the body and chair to be disposed of in some local reservoir. The mogul would be the second kidnapping that year. One every six months. Surprisingly, the cops had yet to piece together who was behind it, and those that knew didn’t dare tell out of fear – fear of retribution to themselves, their family, cousins, neighbors.
When they sent a message it was always clear.
Viktor wandered over to a thick mahogany table and sank his hands into a steel bowl of ice-cold water and watched the red swirl to the surface. After he was done drying, he placed a call to update his boss, Mikhail Boddrov. “It’s done.”
“And he’s gone?”
“On his way.”
“Good. I have another job for you. I’m sending the photo and details in a minute. And Viktor… after this maybe it’s time you joined us at the table.”
The words he’d been waiting to hear ever since Mikhail had taken him in as a young boy. Years of proving his worth and loyalty would finally pay off. Few ever got to the level he had in the organization, even fewer reached the table — a collective group that controlled more, had more, and did less. The kind of people whose hands were clean but their consciences marred.
Since his arrival at the age of twelve with his mother, life in L.A. had been a roller coaster. After she died from an overdose a year later, he’d spent his days on the streets, caught up in petty crime until he got involved with Bratva.
Working his way up the chain had cost him. Beatings, near-death encounters, others testing his mettle. He’d done a few short stints in prison but always returned to the hand that fed him.
“Would you like that?” Mikhail asked.
“If it’s what you want.”
He snorted. “That’s why I like you, Viktor. Always mindful.”
Their conversation ended and he inhaled deeply, allowing the nicotine to enter his system. When he wasn’t doing jobs he was overseeing several of the clubs in West Hollywood. It was a front, all smoke, and mirrors for the real moneymakers.
A few minutes passed.
His phone lit up. A message with an attachment.
Opening it, Viktor stared at the photo of the woman in a passenger-side seat.
He could just make out the reflection of someone else in the window. It was an amateur snapshot. Brunette. Attractive. His type. It would be a waste but it wouldn’t be the first female he’d killed. The question was why Mikhail wanted her dead. He scanned the message, then saw her name. “That’s why.”
THREE
The rioting had intensified. Numerous buildings set ablaze throughout the county had created a glow of orange that arced in the distance. It was like the bowels of hell had opened up, spitting flames. “You really should let me go,” Alicia said.
“And you should speak less.”
The woman beside him had been nothing but a pain in his ass from the moment they’d met. Some fugitives were like that. They didn’t know when to give up. It was as if they held on to a tiny strand of hope that things would go their way.
Her features twisted. “I thought you were taking me in?”
“I am.”
She thumbed over her shoulder. “But the detention center was back there.”
The one she was referring to was Century Regional, a female-only detention facility roughly nineteen minutes south of her apartment. Admittedly, it would have made his job easier but ten minutes from now he’d have her handed over to Carl, another of Manny’s puppets. From there he would escape the blossoming riots and head to his peaceful abode in the Simi Valley where he would crack open a cold one and spend the evening considering his father’s funeral. Any other family member might have been distraught, wracked with grief, and booked a flight immediately. Not him. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He just knew this day was coming, and the relationship with his father had broken down many moons ago.
When she saw the green signs for LAX airport she became even more restless, shifting in her seat. “The airport? You’re taking me back to Seattle, aren’t you?”
“I’m not, someone else is. I’ve got a dog to look after, a beer with my name on it, and…”
“Look, I don’t know what they told you and I don’t know how much you’re getting paid but I have money. I can give you more.”
He glanced at her and smiled, shaking his head. “That’s not how this works.”
“How much are you being paid?”
“Not enough to listen to this.” It wasn’t the first time a bail-jumper had tried that tactic. It would have been unusual for her not to. He’d seen her booking information, it was general, nothing out of the norm. It was almost strange that she’d traveled so far but he wasn’t one for probing. Questions led to a long spiel, an attempt by the fugitive to pull on his heartstrings. It was pointless. He’d heard it all.
C’mon man, give me a break.
My mother is ill, I can’t take care of her if I’m in jail.
You’ve got the wrong person.
I’ve got money, cars, weed, alcohol. It’s all yours.
I didn’t do it. That was the most common.
He’d even had a few sexual propositions. Men included. Anything to get out of the cuffs. Back when he first got started, he entertained conversation, now he just reached over and turned on the radio. It sent home the message loud and clear. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t give a rat’s ass, he’d heard it all before and he certainly wasn’t going to let them go.
One thing he’d learned was none of them had money. That’s why they were in this predicament, and as for sexual favors, that wasn’t his style. He’d met officers in the department who’d taken a BJ from a few lot lizards in exchange for a lower sentence. It was rare nowadays with cameras everywhere but it still happened.
Nope, every fugitive was his ticket out of here.
He glanced at a photo of a boat, attached to the front of his dashboard. A beautiful white 50-foot catamaran. He kept it there as a reminder. Don’t lose sight of the goal. Don’t forget why you’re doing this. He’d been saving to buy it for some time. Squirreling away some of his pay. Once he had enough, he planned on taking Kane and leaving behind the smog of L.A. He figured they’d sail around to Florida, maybe the Bahamas. Moor in different docks and live out the rest of his days drinking margaritas and sunbathing in the tropics.
Turning off westbound I-105, he looked up at planes taking off in darkness. Just blips of red and white. The last time he’d been on a plane was when he was twenty-four. He’d bought a one-way ticket south
.
Carl had told him he’d be waiting outside departures over at Terminal 6. As he veered around and joined the slew of taxis, Ubers, limos, and vans dropping off travelers, he drove by hoping to catch sight of him so he didn’t have to park for longer than it took to get her out. LAX like most airports was a real headache. They didn’t like cars idling for longer than necessary. As usual, the whole airport had construction which only added to the elevated stress. Fortunately, Carl was an easy man to spot. He was almost seven feet tall. Manny had nicknamed him Shaq. Despite his height, he couldn’t dunk a basketball if his life depended on it. How he’d managed to become a bounty hunter was a mystery that even Manny was tight-lipped about.
Not seeing him waiting, he circled again.
“Who we looking for?” Alicia asked.
“Extra-tall guy. Black. Bald. You can’t miss him.”
The second time around, Colby pulled up to the curb in front of the steel bollards and shut off the SUV. He got out and craned his neck, looking over the heads of travelers. He figured if he couldn’t see Carl, maybe Carl would see him. Nope. He opted to use his phone. Carl answered. “Where the hell are you?” Colby asked.
“Inside.”
“But I’ve got Kane with me. I told you that.”
“So park and bring Alicia in.”
He ran a hand over his face and looked at her.
“We’ll wait.”
“You’ll be waiting a while. I’m in the washroom. Bad guts.”
“C’mon, Carl.”
“The first fifteen minutes is free.”
“But my dog—”
“Sorry man. Gotta go,” he said, hanging up but not before giving him a chorus of diarrhea spraying from his nether regions.
Colby got back in, flustered, and stuck the gearstick in drive.
Alicia looked amused. “Changed your mind?”
“No, we’re parking.”
“I thought…”
“You thought wrong.”
“Just trying to make conversation,” she said, looking out the window as he swung the SUV around and entered P-6. With everyone and his uncle trying to get out of L.A. for the new year, the multi-level structure was packed. He parked the SUV on the third level, close to the doors. It would be a short hike.