Bosch looked through the back windows at the plaza shopping center as it retreated in the distance. For all her fuck-offs and leave-me-alones, the woman with the stars on her hand had warned him about Brody and then about the bust going down. It made him believe that there was still something inside her worth salvaging.
27
There was no calamitous wakeup call on Sunday morning. No one walked down the side of the bus, hitting it with a broomstick and yelling for everyone in the camp to get up. On Sunday the camp slept late. Having not been able to sleep at all his first night in the camp, Bosch had succumbed to his exhaustion Saturday night and slept deeply, moving through murky dreams of tunnels. When he was roused by the Russian with the dyed-blond hair shaking his cot, he was completely disoriented and at first unsure of where he was and who the man looking down at him was.
“Come,” the Russian said. “Now.”
Bosch finally came to and realized that the guy was the one who spoke the least English and had hung back on Friday night when his partner had put a gun against Harry’s head and pulled the trigger.
In his mind, Bosch had labeled them Ivan and Igor, and this was Igor, the one who didn’t normally speak.
Bosch swung his legs off the cot and sat up. He rubbed his eyes, got his bearings, and started pulling on his work boots, wondering if they were going to fly off to hit pharmacies again, even though most of the non-chain stores were likely to be closed on Sunday, especially those in low-income Latino neighborhoods, where a reverence for the day of rest and religious reflection was strong.
Igor was waiting for him, holding the front of his T-shirt up over his mouth and nose because of the stench in the bus. He pointed to the door.
“Come. Hurry.”
At first Bosch panicked, because he thought Igor had called him Harry and that his cover had somehow been blown. But then he understood what had been said in the Russian’s thick accent.
“Okay, okay,” he said.
Bosch looked around and saw that he was the only one Igor had rousted. Everybody else in the bus was still dead to the world.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
Igor didn’t respond. Before pulling on his left boot, Bosch reached to the floor and grabbed the knee brace. He pulled it up over his left calf for use later and then put the other boot on. He tied his laces, grabbed his cane, and stood up, ready to go fill prescriptions, though he had a growing suspicion that wasn’t the plan for the day.
Igor pointed to the floor.
“Backpack.”
“What?”
“Bring backpack.”
“Why?”
Igor turned and headed out of the bus without another word. Bosch grabbed the backpack and followed, stepping out of the bus into blinding sunlight. He kept asking questions, hoping for some hint of what awaited him.
“Hey, what’s going on?” he asked.
There was no answer.
“Hey, where’s your pal with the English?” Bosch tried. “I want to talk to somebody.”
The Russian continued to ignore Bosch’s words and just used his hands to signal him to keep following. They walked through the camp to the clearing where the vans had picked up the shill groups the morning before. There was a van waiting with an open side door. Igor pointed to the opening.
“You go.”
“Yeah, I get it. Go where?”
No answer. Bosch came to a stop and looked at him.
“You go.”
“I need to hit the head first.”
Bosch could tell the Russian didn’t understand the slang. He pointed the cane toward the south side of the encampment and started walking that way. Igor grabbed him by the shoulders and roughly redirected him to the van.
“No. You go!”
Igor shoved him hard toward the van and Bosch almost dropped the cane while grabbing for the doorframe.
“Okay, okay. I’m going.”
He climbed onto the bench seat behind the driver. The Russian then climbed in, slid the door closed behind him, and took the bench behind Bosch.
The van started moving, and soon enough Bosch could tell they were heading to the airstrip. He knew the man behind him did not have the language skills to answer questions, but Bosch’s growing concern over what was happening left him unable to stop asking. He leaned forward to catch the driver’s peripheral vision.
“Hey, driver? What are we doing? Why am I the only one going to the plane?”
The driver acted like he neither saw nor heard him.
In less than ten minutes they were at the airstrip. The van pulled up to a plane with an already spinning prop. It wasn’t the “minivan” Bosch had taken all of his previous flights on but still clearly a jump plane that could carry several passengers. The other Russian, Ivan, was standing next to the open jump door, using the overhead wing to shade his face from the sun.
Igor got up and opened the van door. He grabbed a handful of Bosch’s shirt and yanked him toward the opening.
“You go. Plane.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
Bosch nearly tumbled out of the van, but used his cane to keep upright. He immediately started walking toward Ivan. He carried the cane by the barrel rather than walking as if he needed it. He wanted to dispense with any sign of weakness in front of the man he was about to confront.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Why am I the only one going?”
“Because you go home,” Ivan said. “Now.”
“What are you talking about? What home?”
“We take you back. We don’t want you here.”
“What? Why?”
“Just get on plane.”
“Does your boss know this? I got you four hundred pills yesterday. That’s a lot of money. He’s not going to like losing that.”
“What boss? Get on plane.”
“All you guys do is say the same thing. Why? Why should I get on the plane?”
“Because we take you back. We don’t want you.”
Bosch shook his head like he didn’t get it.
“I heard people talking. His name is Santos. Santos is not going to like it.”
Ivan smirked.
“Santos long gone. I am boss. Get on plane.”
Bosch stared at him for a moment, trying to get a read for a sign of truth.
“Whatever. Then I want my money and pills. We had a deal.”
Ivan nodded and pulled a plastic bag from his pocket. It contained pills and currency, the outside bill a hundred. He shook it and handed it to Bosch.
“There. You good. Get on plane.”
Bosch climbed through the jump door and went to the back of the plane, as far from the door as he could get. He sat down on the bench that ran along the rear bulkhead and looked back. Both Ivan and Igor climbed on board and took seats on benches on either side of the plane at the front. They looked like they were guarding the exit.
Bosch knew he was in trouble. Giving him the money was the tell. They could easily have gotten away with stiffing him. But giving him what he had earned was a move designed to put him at ease, to make him believe they were actually taking him home.
Ivan knocked a fist on a small aluminum door that separated the cockpit from the passenger compartment, and the plane started to taxi to the head of the airstrip. Bosch thought of what Ivan had said about Santos and saw where it made sense. The DEA had no current intel on the man who had set up this operation. Hovan said the last known photo they had was almost a year old. Santos and those loyal to him could have been taken out by the Russians, especially if they had gotten wind of the indictment and warrant for his arrest, making him a liability to the operation. This would also help explain why the operation seemed to be short on manpower and why the two apparent bosses were doing the wet work.