“You don’t remember me, do you?” the stranger asked, directing the question to Richard Ammon. Ammon looked up to study the face. He stared into the water-blue eyes. They were cold and unfeeling. Pale as haze and reflective as glass. He knew those eyes from somewhere. Sometime long ago. He studied the face, taking in the shaven head and bulging neck. It, too, was familiar. But from where, he didn’t quite know.
“I don’t know who you are,” he finally said, sounding very vague.
“Oh? You don’t? Come on, Carl. Think. Think back on your past.” the stranger prodded.
Ammon still shook his head.
“Well, we were both much younger then. Really no more than children.
“But I know all about you, Carl Vadym Kostenko. I know where you come from. I know why you’re here.” The stranger stared intently into Ammon’s eyes and frowned. He challenged him, willing him to look away, a cold burning in his eyes. Ammon returned his cold stare, his mind racing, searching his past to place the stranger’s face. The waitress approached their table again, pot of hot coffee in hand, a check protruding from her apron string. Upon observing the two men, she changed her mind and quickly turned to the side and passed their table by.
“Let me see your hand,” the stranger said, reaching across the table to examine the top of Ammon’s knuckles. Ammon did not pull away. With rough nails, the stranger traced the thin white line of a scar that ran between Ammon’s third and fourth knuckles. He tapped lightly on the ring finger, still knotted from the long-ago beating.
“Good ol’ Mrs. Downer,” he sneered. “That ol’ wench could sure swing a pipe.” He let out a husky laugh. Ammon pulled his hand away. Morozov’s lips spread into a thin smile and he raised his left hand to cover his face.
And then it hit him. “I remember you now,” Ammon said. “Back at the school. You were a little bit older. I competed against you once in boxing. Broke two of your teeth. Everyone laughed. You were already the ugliest kid in the school. Made you look even worse.”
The stranger faked an exaggerated smile, exposing two crooked front teeth. “One day, I’ll give you another chance,” he breathed. “We’ll go at it again, you and I. See if you can take me out twice. I don’t think that you can. From what I’ve heard, you’re turning soft and pink in the middle.”
Ammon didn’t reply. The stranger coughed and looked away. Under the table, he reached into his front pocket, pulled out a tiny bundle, and hid it inside his fist. Leaning forward, he grasped the back of Ammon’s neck. He pulled Ammon’s head across the table until their foreheads nearly touched. Ammon reeled from the smell of his breath and pushed himself back. He felt the man’s enormous fingers tighten around the muscles of his neck. His bones and tendons crunched together. He felt as though the stranger would pull off his head.
“Do the right thing,” the man commanded in a hiss. “Do what’s right for the girl.” Tiny drops of spittle splashed across Ammon’s face. “Finish the mission, and don’t let us down.” He squeezed once again to emphasize his point.
Ammon’s eyes flickered. He reached out and grabbed the man’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look in his eyes. “Touch her,” he breathed, “and I’ll kill you. It will be my only reason for living. To find you and tear out your heart.”
The stranger’s lips curled up in the corners. “You do that, Carl,” he whispered. “I’ll be waiting for you. Pretty Boy.”
The stranger released his grip and leaned back in his seat. Tossing something across the table, he got up without another word, placed his baseball cap upon his head, turned, and walked away. Several people, including the waitress, watched him warily as he left, his patch of dark hair curling out from under the back of his cap.
Ammon turned to look down at the object which lay before him. As he stared at the bundle, his heart sank into his chest.
There sat a four-inch lock of silky hair, tied in a tight knot around a simple gold ring. Jesse’s hair. Jesse’s wedding ring.
He reached out and, ever so gently, raised the ring and hair to his face. He could smell the soap and cream rinse. The hair smelled of Jesse.
He lifted his eyes to Morozov. He burned with murderous rage. His shoulders shook. He swallowed hard. He fingered the hair with trembling hands, then closed his eyes.
Morozov watched Ammon for a moment, then smiled and said, “Let’s go,” as he slid across the booth and stood up. He dropped a fifty dollar bill on the table and walked casually out the front door.
After a very long time, Ammon followed him outside. They climbed into the car, and Morozov pulled out of the parking lot, turned onto the interstate, and headed north. After accelerating up to seventy, Morozov set the cruise control, then turned on his wipers to their lowest setting. It was just barely starting to mist, but ahead of them a long line of rain clouds loomed. Ammon stared at the dark shadows that passed by on his side of the car. Blackness filled his soul. The lonely miles melted by.
After driving for a long time in silence, Morozov suddenly turned to Ammon. “Carl, I’m going to ask you something.” he said. His voice was very direct. He made no attempt to hide his bitterness or impatience. “I want you to think about this before you answer. And I want you to tell me the truth.”
Morozov paused. Lightning flashed in the distance. A huge semitrailer sped by, washing their car in a spray of dirty mist. Ammon waited.
“Where does your heart lie?” Ivan Morozov continued. “What is important to you now? Do you feel any allegiance to your past or this mission?” The wipers stroked the windshield at an even pace as Morozov leaned across the car toward Ammon and asked in almost a whisper. “Carl,” he said, “can I trust you?”
Richard Ammon didn’t respond. He continued to stare into the distance, watching the shadows from their headlights. His mind flashed back to the picture of Jesse tied to the bed, cigarette ashes specking her face. He thought of the ropes and terror in her eyes. He thought of the thug in the diner. He reached up and gently touched the tender bruise on the side of his head.
Morozov already knew the answer to this question. Ammon really had nothing to say.
Morozov turned his attention to the road ahead. “I want you to know something, Carl,” he said after a while. “I want you to know where you stand. I want to be very clear about the seriousness of your situation.
“I want you to realize that it was you. You are the one who brought in Jesse. It was your disloyalty that dragged her into this mess.
“You forced us to do that, Carl. I want you to know that. I would have preferred to not get Jesse involved. But as we watched you over the past few weeks, as we started to do a little digging, it became very obvious that you couldn’t be trusted. So we had to use Jesse. It wasn’t something we wanted to do. It was you who forced our hand.”
Morozov glanced over at Richard Ammon, his yellow-green eyes darting between the road and his passenger. He could see that Ammon was furious. Morozov drummed on his steering wheel for a few seconds, then continued. “Ammon, your personal feelings about this job are irrelevant. And you know what I have told you is true. You would have taken off and run before I could even have stepped off the plane back in Dallas, except for the fact that you now have to worry about Jesse.
“But as I considered your loyalties, I started to wonder. If you could be so disloyal to me, was it also possible you would walk out on your wife. I had to ask myself. What if the coward leaves me, too? What if he doesn’t really care about Jesse? What if he cares more about his thin hide than he cares about that poor little girl?”