“Great,” Battaglia said with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel.
“This one’s a little darker, but I think you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“So let me know what you think?”
“Sure.” He cleared his throat. “Can I read it when I wake up, though? I’m bushed.”
“Of course. Get some sleep.”
“All right. Thanks.” He turned to go again.
“Babe?”
“What?” he asked, a bit sharply.
Rebecca’s expression turned slightly hurt, but she didn’t acknowledge his tone. “I love you,” she said. “That’s all.” After a moment she added, “Good night.”
Battaglia nodded and turned away.
He climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Frustration and guilt burned in his chest as he took every step. Once in the bedroom, he kicked off his boots and peeled his clothing off. He ignored the sheet of paper on the nightstand, written in Rebecca’s flowing script. Instead he flopped into the king-sized bed and hoped that the beer and the long night would lower the curtain of sleep on him right away, but the wheels of his mind started turning.
He shouldn’t be thinking about B.J. Rebecca was a good woman. She was his wife. The mother of his children.
Battaglia sighed into his pillow. All of that didn’t matter. It wasn’t the same anymore. Rebecca just didn’t… excite him. And she made him feel stupid. She’d taken to reading a lot of different books. Some were poetry or stories, other times it was history or philosophy. He asked her why and she said it was for entertainment. To expand her mind.
For entertainment, Battaglia would just as soon watch a shoot-’em-up movie or catch a ball game. As far as mind expansion went, the only thing he equated that with was drug use. And there wasn’t a cop alive who thought that was okay.
The quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the dark room. He could almost hear the rustle of the paper on the nightstand. He thought about B.J. to drive away the sound. Her laugh. Her eyes. The smell of her hair when she’d brushed up against him. The feel of her lips when they’d grazed his cheek.
“Jesus,” Battaglia murmured.
He was going to have a hard time getting to sleep this morning.
1020 hours
“You did well, my brothers,” Val told the assembled group in the deserted auto shop. “The TV stations are reporting four kills. I am pleased.”
Val noticed the way each man stood ramrod straight in his presence. He noticed the subtle reaction of pride when he praised them. He allowed himself a flutter of satisfaction-these were now truly his men. No longer Sergey’s, but his. That would matter later on. It would be critical. Plans within plans within plans.
“The van?” he asked Yuri.
Yuri smiled, showing the rot of his blackened teeth. “At the other shop on Market Street. By noon, it will be in pieces. Then I will transport those pieces to the salvage yard.”
“Good. Any piece with a VIN on it must be destroyed.”
Yuri nodded. “I understand.”
Val turned to Black Ivan. “You are ready for the next move?”
“Da.” The large man stood even straighter. “We’ll give the burros the same thing we gave the chernozhopyi this morning.”
“This one must be quieter,” Val said. He motioned toward Mikhail, the smallest man in the group. “He is good with the knife, no?”
Mikhail glanced at Ivan. Then he removed a large folding knife from his pocket and snapped the blade into place with a flick of his wrist. Without looking down at the knife, Mikhail spun and twirled the black blade adeptly. He swayed his arm back and forth as the knife danced in his hand. The motion reminded Val of a hooded cobra. Then, just as quickly as he started, he stopped, the knife poised to strike.
“He is good,” Ivan said simply.
“Then you know what to do,” Val said. “And do it soon.”
“It will be so.”
Val met the eyes of each man, his demanding gaze a mixture of threat, trust, and pride. Then he turned and left. He slid into the passenger seat of his green BMW.
“Go,” he told Pavel.
Pavel turned down the music on the stereo and drove north. “Where next?”
“I am to meet your father at the bakery on Hamilton Street.”
“Good,” Pavel said. “I’m hungry.”
Val didn’t speak. He ignored the mindless tune on the radio and turned over the morning’s events in his mind. The execution by his men had been nearly flawless. The remaining Crips would be shell-shocked from the attack. Once the next stage of Sergey’s plan was completed, Val was sure that they’d be ready to deal their way out of any further problems.
That left the bookkeeper. He’d put the word out to everyone he could think of regarding Oleg. There was a substantial reward for anyone who came forward with information on the traitor. Of course, he didn’t need to tell anyone that there was an equally substantial penalty for anyone who hid Oleg or helped him in any way.
If he were Oleg, where would he run? Certainly not home to Ukraine. With all of the business and family connections there, it would be tantamount to walking into Sergey’s living room.
He couldn’t go to any of the cities in the U.S. that had a heavy Russian population. The result would be the same-someone would see him, and whether they had the word that Val wanted him or not, the knowledge of his whereabouts would eventually find its way to someone who did. It wouldn’t take long for the promise of cash or the fear of a visit from Black Ivan to result in a phone call, and that would be that. Oleg was not stupid. He had to know this.
Where, then? Val frowned. It was a difficult proposition for him to consider, because he himself would never run. He might lie low for a brief time until he was ready to exact his vengeance, but flee like a coward? Never.
He didn’t think Oleg was a coward, either. He would want revenge for those three beloved bodies that burned up in his home. How best to accomplish that?
Val stared out his window as the businesses on Nevada Street flashed past. Several blocks of mini strip malls were filled with niche businesses from ceramics to used music to pet grooming. He smiled as they passed a small Russian grocery store. The bold lettering of the Cyrillic alphabet on the red sign above the door gave him some measure of satisfaction.
We are gaining a true foothold here, he thought. We are making it home.
Oleg may not have been a coward, but he was no soldier, either. There was no way he could successfully come after Sergey with guns and force. Oleg was smart. He had to know that wasn’t possible. So how best to exact his revenge?
Val resisted a sigh. He’d known the answer instinctively all along, but had wished it weren’t true. He’d hoped that even though Oleg had betrayed Sergey, he wouldn’t go so far as to betray his entire people. But his hope had been a vain one. There were no other possibilities. Oleg had gone to the police.
Val supposed that this made things easier, in a way. He could focus his efforts on finding information, casting his nets around the police station instead of a wider area. But it also accelerated matters. He had to find a way to get to Oleg before the bookkeeper gave them too much. Every hour counted.
Pavel signaled and pulled into the small parking lot outside the Russian bakery. He turned off the car and released his seat belt. Val reached across and stopped him. “Wait here.”
Pavel scowled. “But I’m hungry.”
“I’ll bring you something.”
“Maybe I want to see my father,” Pavel suggested.
Val turned a cold, hard glare onto his nephew. “Then stay home for dinner tonight instead of running around with your imbecile friends. But for now, you wait in the car.”
Pavel pouted but said nothing.
Val went inside. Sergey was seated in the corner with a newspaper, sipping coffee and nibbling a pastry. He didn’t look up when Val sat across from him. Val checked the masthead of the newspaper. It was the local paper of record, the River City Herald. The much smaller Russian-language weekly sat at his elbow.