Yuri chuckled. “I told you, pretty lady, old habits die hard. He was suspicious that you were from the government.”
Jen shook her head. “Sir, you can trust me. I’m not from the Russian or U.S. government. I was born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina.”
“I can see that,” said Tokarev. “There aren’t too many black people here in Saint Petersburg, and those that live here, I’m sorry to say, aren’t treated too well by my fellow countrymen. Now please stop calling me Mister Tokarev and call me Valery.”
“And you can call me Jen.”
“Come, we have a bit of a drive ahead of us,” said Yuri. With that, Yuri promised Tokarev’s wife to have him back sometime after supper.
With Tokarev comfortably seated between Sam and Cardinal, Yuri drove off and made his way back onto the busy road. Merging with the traffic, Yuri failed to notice a black Lada 4x4, three cars back, as it began to follow them out of the city.
“Who are those people with Uvarov?” asked a bull-necked man with close-cut hair and cold, dark eyes sitting in the Lada with his hands clenched firmly around a pistol.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied the driver, a squat man with long, black hair and massive hands that could easily crush the life out of anyone he laid his hands on.
“Shouldn’t we call in and ask Stanislav for advice?” asked the bull-necked man, thinking about their immediate boss in the local mafia.
“Screw that! He’s grown soft. Once he hears that there are Americans with Uvarov, he’ll just tell us to back off. I want the million-dollar bounty on Uvarov’s head and there’s nothing that Polish bastard can say or do to stop us from collecting it. Not now, not when we have him.”
The bull-necked man wasn’t so sure; disobeying the boss in the mafia wasn’t a wise move. Each spring the bodies of men foolish enough to do so were pulled from the rivers all around Saint Petersburg. However, the man sitting next to him wasn’t known as the Butcher for nothing. The thug took great pride in his work and had once bragged that he could keep a man alive for hours while he cut off pieces of his body with his razor-sharp meat cleaver. Whatever happened in the next few hours, the bull-necked man was sure it wasn’t going to be too pleasant.
18
Mitchell stepped out from the modern, air-conditioned, red-bricked church and into a humid afternoon. A light drizzle fell from the sky. He moved off to one side and waited patiently for his friends while everyone slowly made their way outside. Funerals ranked up there with a visit to the dentist to have your wisdom teeth pulled, in Ryan Mitchell’s book. He smiled when a child ran out of the church and jumped up into the arms of her mother. The joy on the young mother’s face made Mitchell realize that there still was happiness and life to be found even after saying goodbye to a friend.
The people slowly began to trickle out of the church.
Dressed in black, only Mike Donaldson and Maria’s closest family, as per her brother’s wishes, were heading to the cemetery to watch as Maria was laid to rest for eternity.
O’Reilly shook the priest’s hand, thanked him for the service, walked over and set a hand on Mitchell’s arm. “I can see that look in your eyes, Ryan. We’ve been over this; Maria’s death isn’t your fault.”
“I know sir, but I can’t help how I feel,” replied Mitchell.
Changing topics, O’Reilly said, “Have you heard from Jen since she left?”
“Yes, she called this morning and said that they landed safely and that Yuri was there to meet them.”
“Well, that’s good news. Hopefully, they’ll be on a plane heading back home in the next day or two.”
“Yeah, that would be nice.”
“You know, Ryan, you never told me how your visit to Houston’s ranch went.”
Mitchell grinned. “He offered Nate and me triple our current salaries if we would come and work for him.”
“Good Lord, that’s a lot of money. What did you tell him?”
“Don’t worry boss, we turned him down. We don’t do this for the money. People are everything in this business and frankly, we have some of the best.”
“That we do,” replied O’Reilly proudly.
“Man, I hate funerals,” said Jackson, under his breath as he moved over beside Mitchell.
“I don’t think there’s anyone in the world that enjoys these things,” said Mitchell.
“Reminds me of the time my father died. He was a cop. I still remember the day when his boss came to the door and told my mother that some punk at a routine traffic stop had shot him. I’ve hated these things ever since.”
Mitchell knew that Jackson’s father had been a cop. It was the first time he had heard him mention how he died. Mitchell’s feeling of loss and melancholy returned. The sooner they were all back home, the better, as far as he was concerned.
“Well, gents, I think we should gather our things and then head to the airport,” said O’Reilly. “Houston called me this morning and said that we can use the plane you two flew in on to take us all back to Albany.”
“Oh, to be a billionaire,” mused Jackson.
“Keep dreaming,” replied Mitchell.
A short while later, their cab pulled off the highway and made its way towards the Baton Rouge Metropolitan Airport. Turning down a side road, the taxi drove to line of hangars at the far end of the airport where their private plane was waiting for them. After showing their IDs, Mitchell, Jackson and O’Reilly were allowed to proceed inside by a bored and indifferent airport security guard who looked like he was more than ready to retire.
The cab came to a stop outside of the tall, blue-and-white wooden hangar. Mitchell paid the cab fare and helped his friends move their luggage inside out of the falling rain. The expansive building was empty, except for Houston’s bright-yellow-and-green executive Learjet, waiting with its front door open and its stairs hanging down.
A second later, a blue-coated pilot with short blond hair stuck his head out and waved. “I take it you’re the folks I’m flying to Albany?” said the pilot cheerfully.
“That’s us,” replied Mitchell.
“Just leave your baggage by the stairs, and we’ll stow it on the plane for you.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Jackson, dropping his bags.
“We’re a couple of minutes behind schedule,” explained the pilot. “There’s a small lounge with awful coffee and a vending machine at the back of the hangar. If you’ll wait in there, we’ll come and get you when we’re ready to take off.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Mitchell, just happy to be heading home.
They walked to the back of the hangar and into the empty lounge. The worn furniture looked as if it had been bought in the 1970s. There were several old and tattered magazines lying on a small table in the middle of the room.
Jackson headed straight for the vending machine. He dug through his pockets, turned and looked over at Mitchell. “Hey Ryan, you got any change on you?”
“You really need to get your allowance upped,” quipped Mitchell as he handed Jackson a couple of one-dollar bills.
On the hangar floor, a couple of men in dirty blue coveralls and carrying toolboxes walked in from outside and strode towards the pilot as he stood filling out some paperwork. One man was white, with curly brown hair, while the other was African-American, with a smooth-shaven head and a neatly trimmed goatee.
“Excuse me, sir, is this the plane that’s scheduled to fly to Albany today?” asked the black man.
“Sure is,” replied the pilot without looking up from his paperwork.
“Have your passengers arrived?” queried the curly-haired man.