by Roxie Rivera
Suddenly feeling tired and cranky, I rubbed my forehead. “I understand.”
“I know it’s a lot, Holly.” She reached across and squeezed my arm. “It’s easy to accept that crazy shit like this happens to other people, but it’s hard to take when it’s happening to you.”
Feeling as though I could trust her, I asked, “Do you think he’ll ever be able to get out? To walk away from the mafia?”
She was quiet for a moment. “Others have done it. Ivan Markovic, Sergei Sakharov—they’ve both left.”
“But?”
“Their cases were different than Kostya’s. Ivan and Sergei were street soldiers. They were high up in the local hierarchy, but they weren’t a huge threat to the original family back in Moscow.”
“But Kostya is,” I said quietly.
“Literally knows where the bodies are buried,” she interjected. “And that doesn’t even take into account the shit he did with FSB before he joined the mob.”
“What’s FSB? Is that a different mafia family?”
Eyes wide, Fox glanced at me. “Did he not tell you about FSB?”
“No. What is it?” I asked, dread creeping back into my chest.
“Federal’naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii,” she said in what sounded like perfect Russian. “Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation,” she translated. “It’s basically the modern version of the KGB. Technically, it was FSK when Kostya joined as a teenager and got renamed to FSB later.”
I swallowed hard. “So, he was, like, Russian CIA?”
“Yeah, basically,” she confirmed. “That’s how he learned all the skills he uses now as a cleaner.”
I felt my world tilting again. Kostya wasn’t just in the mob. He had been a spy. A secret agent. “Is Konstantin Antonovich even his real name?”
“Konstantin is,” she confirmed. “When he joined as a teenager, they gave him a clean name and papers. Konstantin died with his parents. When he got burned, he decided there was no reason to hide under an alias anymore. He went back to his birth name.”
“Burned? I didn’t see any scars on his body.”
“Not that kind of burned,” she said. “It’s what they call it when a spy’s cover gets blown and they lose the support of their government. It’s why he had to leave FSB.”
“Why was he burned?”
“Politics,” she said matter-of-factly. “He needed to get out so he went to the big boss in Moscow, got put together with Nikolai and came here to Houston.”
“But, I mean, like our government knows what he was, right?” I gripped my seatbelt tighter as I considered how many people might have me under surveillance.
“Sure, they know, but they also know that he knows the dirtiest shit about the things they were doing. There’s a professional sort of courtesy they have when agents retire. As long as he doesn’t meddle in government affairs here or try to support Russian government ops, they don’t bother him.”
“But he’s in the mob here,” I protested.
“You know that. I know that. Is there proof?” She looked at me and shrugged. “The police here know what goes on with Nikolai and the Albanians and Nickel Jackson and the Reyes brothers and the cartel and bikers—but if they could prove their crimes, they’d have them all in jail. These guys that run around in the underworld are fucking smart. They’re careful. They’re clean. They stay out of trouble.”
“What if their luck doesn’t hold? What if someone makes a mistake?”
“There are ways to handle that.”
“Like?”
“Bribes. Blackmail.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Exile.”
“To where?”
She shrugged. “A country without extradition treaties, or a place where you have friends who can help you live under the radar.”
“Where would you go?” I wondered, thinking how easily she took all of this in stride.
“Nepal,” she answered without hesitation. “I’d embrace my inner Doctor Strange and find myself in a temple somewhere.”
“Doctor Strange?”
“You know, Steven Strange?” She made bizarre movements with her hand almost as if she were performing a magic trick. “Brilliant, asshole surgeon who tears up his hands in a car wreck so he runs away to the Himalayas to find the Ancient One to heal him, but in the end, he becomes the Sorcerer Supreme.”
Still confused, I asked, “Is this, like, a superhero thing?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
“Jesus, okay, listen, after you take your nap, we’re having a Marvel marathon.”
“I don’t know if that’s something I—”
“Listen, you can sit in my safe house and worry about Kostya or you can kick back and let me distract you with sexy superheroes. This will all go a lot faster if you’re keeping your mind occupied.”
“Fine.” Grudgingly, I nodded and accepted her advice. When we turned onto Sampson Street, I studied our surroundings. It was a mix of residential and commercial. It seemed as if there were attempts to gentrify the area. By the looks of it, the attempts weren’t very successful.
“This is us,” she said, turning onto Capitol and then into a private alley between rows of townhouses. The one car garages were hidden along the back of each unit. As she pulled into ours, I said, “This place looks new and really nice.”
“The listing called it industrial chic or some realtor shit like that.” She snorted. “I try not to think about the asbestos they probably tiled over and the lead paint they just covered with a few coats of primer.” She killed the engine. “But I got a good deal on it. Most of the townhouses in this price point are absolute hell holes, you know?”
“Yeah.” Unbuckling my seatbelt as our journey came to its end, I asked, “What do you think he’s doing right now?”
“Who? Big K?”
“Yes.”
“Plotting,” she said seriously. “Trying to get a handle on his murder rabies.”
“What the hell are murder rabies?”
“That’s what Max calls it when one of his loved ones gets hurt,” she explained. “The only cure is death—and he’s the grim reaper.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“YOU’RE A HARD man to reach,” Gabe Reyes growled, his voice rough and deep.
“I’ve been busy,” Kostya said, spraying an enzymatic cleaner into the trunk of his car.
“You and me both, asshole.”
Kostya smirked at Gabe’s rudeness. It wasn’t anything personal. It was just his usual attitude toward everyone. “I’ll show more professional courtesy next time.”
“You better,” Gabe snapped. “I don’t have time to chase you down, man. I’m over here running down multiple leads, keeping tabs on the cartel and this psycho fucking old Russian and you can’t even pick up the damn phone?”
“I apologize, Gabe,” Kostya said, hoping that was enough to soothe the irritated mercenary.
“Yeah, man, what the fuck ever,” he snarled. “Listen, you got problems, Kostya. Your city? It’s about to get really loud and really bloody.”
“Oh?” He moved the phone between his ear and shoulder and reached into his black bag for another bottle of solution that he used to saturate a few spots of the trunk upholstery.
“I’ve been keeping an eye on the cartel stragglers who haven’t pledged loyalty to Hector. I figured there’s a chance they’ll lead me to Lorenzo or the escaped con the old lady has me chasing down. A Border Patrol agent I pay for intel let me know that the stragglers all crossed over yesterday evening,” Gabe explained. “They came across at different points—Hidalgo, Laredo, Progreso, Brownsville. Some of them were in private vehicles. The others came in commercial trucks. It’s a mix of Mexican nationals and Americans.”
“How many?”
“Nineteen.”
“Shit.” He glanced at his watch and then did the mental math on how long it would have taken them to drive from th
e border to Houston. Glancing around the empty warehouse parking lot, he said, “They’re here already.”
“Yeah. I figured I’d let you know in case Hector wasn’t aware of what was coming.”
He hadn’t heard from Hector in weeks. The new cartel kingpin was busy rebuilding his empire and swatting the last of Lorenzo’s forces, but he should have been trading more information.
“Hit squad?”
“Some of them, yes. The rest aren’t well trained. There will be collateral damage.”
He winced, thinking of all the innocent lives that could be lost and all of the publicity and police that would bring. Nikolai was going to go ballistic. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Wish I could be more help, man. Call Diego and Nate. I sent them a list of the names. These guys will probably try to hide in their territory until they strike. My brothers might be able to give you some intel from the streets.”
“I’ll find them later.”
“You get one of my brothers shot, and I’ll shoot you, Kostya. You know that, right?”
“I know you will.” From anyone else, he would have considered it an empty threat, but Gabe was fiercely protective of his family. He had done much worse than shoot someone to earn his exile.
“I’ll be in touch if I have any other updates.” Gabe seemed to hesitate before adding, “Watch your back. You’ve got an avalanche of shit coming at you.”
“Duly noted.”
“Get rid of the phone.”
The call ended, and he broke down the phone. He finished detailing the trunk of his car, checked through his mental cleaning list to make sure he hadn’t missed a step and finally got behind the wheel. The urge to call or message Holly was strong. He pushed it away, reminding himself that every second he wasted was a second that his enemies were plotting. Grabbing his work phone, he called Artyom.
“Yeah?” Artyom grumbled on the second ring, his voice groggy with sleep.
“It’s me. I’m coming over.” He hung up and called Sunny next.
“Did Fox find you?” Sunny asked, all business.
“She did.”
“Are you guys okay?”
“We’re fine. Fox has Holly.”
“Safe house?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know which one?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Well, I’m almost done at Holly’s house. You owe her some new cleaning supplies,” Sunny warned. “I wasn’t sure where I needed to clean so I’ve done the whole house.”
“Thanks.”
“You get rid of the trash?”
“Yes. Fox said you found a bike?”
“I handled it.”
“Listen, we have another problem.” He quickly filled her in on what Gabe had told him.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked, ready for her orders.
“Get with Fox. Have her open surveillance on all of our tier one and two locations. Put the word out on the street that we’re paying for good information.”
“Anything else?”
“Tell Max to take Lobo out of the city. I don’t want either one of them here for the storm that’s coming.”
“I’ll handle them first. I’ll touch base later.”
“Be careful.”
“You first,” she said and ended the call.
He tossed his phone into a cup holder in the center console and stretched his neck. As he idled at a red light, he tried to get into the mind of the Mexican kill squad that had been sent to Houston. They wouldn’t try for big targets first. They would go lower down the food chain—street soldiers like Boychenko. Maybe hit a few captains like Artyom or Danny or the men who had gotten out like Ivan and Sergei.
Or, if they were looking to make a statement, they would go after the women and children. Vivian, Erin, Lena, Benny, Bianca, Holly—the women were the targets that would cause the most pain for Nikolai.
He wiped his face and hit the gas. Losing men was expected. A captain here, a few street soldiers there—it was just part of doing business. But families? Wives, girlfriends, kids—never. It would be the greatest failure of his life if one of them were hurt.
Yet, he couldn’t deny that using them as bait was probably the easiest way to end this whole mess with the cartel once and for all. It was risky. It was dangerous. It could end badly, but the thought wouldn’t leave him as he made the drive back into Houston.
He tried to remind himself that he had been planning for an event like this for years. There were layers of security. There were protocols in place. The men were trained. They knew what to look for and how to react. Drawing the hit squad into a trap using the wives and girlfriends would be relatively easy to plan.
When he pulled up to Artyom’s townhouse, he turned off the engine and took a moment behind the wheel to gather his thoughts. Stepping out of the car, he glanced around the quiet neighborhood. Most of Artyom’s neighbors were retirees or older singles. Anyone lurking around and hoping to make trouble would be spotted easily enough.
Glancing at the sky, he estimated how long they had until sunrise. Locking his car, he checked the street again before taking the sidewalk to the front door. Before he had even raised his hand to knock, the door opened and Artyom used it to shield his body. His gaze was narrowed with suspicion, and he had a gun in hand but pointed at the floor.
“Sorry to wake you so early.” Kostya stepped inside and waited for Artyom to lock the front door.
“I don’t even want to fucking know,” Artyom grumbled, his eyes still tired and his cheeks and head thick with stubble. He placed his loaded gun on the entryway table and scratched at his neck. His sweats hung low on his stomach. His bare chest and upper arms were a roadmap of dirty deeds and crimes, the dark tattoos covering almost every inch of skin. His forearms and hands were sparingly decorated, but there were more hidden under his pants.
“Scorpion broke into Holly’s house, held a knife on her and tried to kill us both.” There was no point in delivering the information in a nice way.
Artyom swore roughly in Russian before turning on his heel. “We need coffee.”
“I’d prefer vodka.”
Artyom pointed to the rolling bar cart in his kitchen as he continued to the coffee maker on the counter. “Scorpion?”
“Handled.” He looked around the ultra-sleek and modern kitchen. It had been Artyom’s last remodeling project in the townhouse. Soon, the street captain would put it up for sale, find a new property to flip on his downtime and settle in for a few months. Artyom had made a sizeable amount of money flipping properties around the city. It was part of his retirement plan. Every now and then, he would let another soldier in on the deals and share some of the profits and knowledge.
“Holly’s safe?”
“Yes.” He helped himself to a heavy splash of vodka and kicked it back in one swallow. He breathed out the fiery burn and then poured a little more. “I sent her to a safe house.”
“One of ours?”
“No.”
“Probably for the best,” Artyom agreed. “If you sent her to one of ours, Nikolai would be beating down the door in half an hour.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Does he know?”
“Not yet,” Kostya murmured before downing the rest of the vodka.
“I’d rather not be there when he does.”
“I don’t want to be there either,” he replied with a frown. “I promised him I’d keep her safe.”
“Technically, you did.” Artyom placed a mug of hot coffee on the center island for him.
“I don’t think Kolya is going to be happy about technicalities. Do you want milk?”
“Yes. You know, if you have worse news than Holly and Scorpion, give it to him after. Make it quick,” Artyom suggested. “He’ll be so pissed off by the new information that he’ll forget about the other mess you’ve made with his sister.”
It wasn’t the worst the plan he’d ever heard. Before he opened the refrigerator to grab Artyom’s milk, he notic
ed the childish drawings and art hung on the stainless steel. His gaze drifted to the paper zebra frame around a photo of Artyom with Chess and her little girl at the zoo. Artyom looked good in the photo. Happy. Natural. He was the kind of man meant to be a father.
“So, you and Chess?” he asked, stooping low to get the milk carton from the refrigerator.
“Careful,” Artyom warned, his voice deepening. “I’m not interested in any opinions on how I choose to spend my free time.”
Kostya held up a hand as he brought the milk to the island. “I don’t have a problem with it. Neither does the boss.”
“But you talked about it.”
“We did,” he confirmed. “I was told to leave you out of the dirtier work. Kolya doesn’t want you getting in trouble.”
“I appreciate the thought, but doing the dirty work is my job. It’s the whole reason I came here with him.” Artyom reached for the milk and poured in enough to turn his coffee a pale brown. “It’s not that kind of relationship, though.”
“What does that mean? You aren’t fucking her?”
Artyom scowled at him. “Do you have to be so fucking crass?”
“I’m just asking.” He shrugged and returned the milk to the refrigerator. “Is that a no?”
“It’s complicated,” Artyom finally said. “I care about Chess. I shouldn’t have let myself get close to her, but it happened so slowly that I didn’t even recognize what it was until—”
“Until you realized you loved her?”
“Yeah.”
“Does she love you?”
“I don’t know,” Artyom admitted. “Sometimes, I think she’s going to tell me that she cares about me. Sometimes, I think about finally asking her to go out on a date.”
“You haven’t even taken her out?”
“Have you taken out Holly?”
“No,” he admitted bitterly.
“Then shut the fuck up about my relationship with Chess,” Artyom snapped. “Worry about your own business.”
“I forgot how pissed off you get in the morning,” Kostya replied, not at all taken aback by Artyom’s rudeness. “Listen, take it from the man who waited too long to make his move. Quit fucking around and make it happen with Chees. You’re getting too old to play these fucking games. If you love her and you want to be that kid’s dad, you better you make your move before someone else does. Someone who won’t take care of them the way you will,” he added pointedly.