was too much bother to come investigate. British coppers these days
were more concerned with issuing eighty-pound sterling fines for
littering. Easy money for a state on the verge of economic collapse.
He turned away from the blackening and twisting photo and
studied the two large whiteboards he'd installed to keep the operation
visually present. He was a visual thinker. Flow charts and mind maps
helped him keep track.
There was Zaitsev in the middle, surrounded by his entourage and
his main rivals. He'd just removed Andrei from the picture to keep
matters simple.
There were no loose ends, so he could take Christopher Gibson
off the operational map too. The photo was of Chris in Andrei's house,
near the window. He'd shot the photo when preparing to enter that
house. That pensive look seemed very unlike Chris, but Nikita
suspected a hidden depth behind all the acidic humor.
No matter. As entertaining as Chris Gibson had been, he was not
part of the current situation. Nikita pulled down the photo and gave it a
weak toss toward the ashtray. It fell short, fluttered to the ground,
landed under the camping table. He shrugged it off as not important and
turned back to the boards.
He looked at the other board and Yuri Shkadov, the central figure
there. Shkadov would have looked like a benevolent uncle if not for the
dark, hooded gaze that gave nothing away. He, now, was a proper vor,
a “thief” of the old mold, tattoos, connections, and an unhealthy dislike
of any kind of authority, especially as represented by the state. Nikita
remembered a sentence Shkadov had spat at him more than ten years
ago: “I’ve seen three regimes come and go—I’ll still be around to see
the fourth!”
But he didn't wait around in Moscow for that to happen. Instead,
he'd established himself in East Berlin, using old contacts in the GDR
and among Germany's large Russian expat community. He could
summon leg breakers from just about anywhere in Germany, and his
tentacles reached into Poland, the Baltic States, and of course,
Amsterdam, which was another stronghold of his operations, largely
because he delivered fresh women to the brothels and meat markets.
Nikita had probed the depth and width of Shkadov's operations
and thought by now he understood how most of it worked. For his
purposes, it was enough that Shkadov and Zaitsev had each other by the
balls—they'd worked with each other on occasion, whenever Zaitsev
needed something done that expensive English lawyers couldn't
accomplish. Another connection was Zaitsev's taste for young girls,
which Shkadov could supply in seemingly unlimited quantities.
In short, Shkadov was perfect to take the fall when Zaitsev got
killed.
BERLIN was a john's paradise and a hell of a lot cheaper than Vegas,
Chris thought as he cruised the street, hands shoved into the pockets of
his leather jacket, Ray-Bans shielding his eyes even as the sun was
setting. He'd been here a couple days, ostensibly on business, gathering
intel for GORGON to get their foot back in the door of the flesh trade
case.
He'd learned quickly that a lot of flesh was traded on these streets
with sadly too much of it of the subprime type. Like the bleached
blonde with a few missing teeth, and the buxom true blonde whose
fishnets had seen better days and fewer holes. He watched a frumpy
hausfrau type bitch-slap a couple skinny brunettes who were barely
legal, if that, and he decided they were probably Bulgarians. He'd
heard there were a lot of Bulgarians walking the streets because they
were the cheapest at five to ten bucks a pop. And rumor had it the
Eastern European girls flooding the area were brought in by Russians.
Well, one Russian mostly. Guy by the name of Shkadov who'd been
top dog in these parts for a long-ass time.
He was quite the stereotypical scary motherfucker, all menacing
glares and old school tats and, evidently, a sometime alliance with
Chris's old buddy Zaitsev, the one who'd hired him to carry out the hit
on Andrei.
Chris checked his watch and cut across the street, shaking his
head at the hookers who tried to call him over. He headed to a little
chain coffee shop called Balzac Coffee, which looked like a rip-off of a
Starbucks located a block away. He was slated to meet with a local
contact who was working with a prominent support organization for
hookers.
Chris removed his shades when he entered the coffee shop and
scanned the fringes for his contact. There she was, all conservatively
dressed, her sandy hair pulled back in a tight bun, her makeup light and
impeccable. The dark-rimmed glasses she wore gave her a serious case
of intellectual sex appeal. Why he hadn't tried to get her in the sack
since meeting her a day ago was a riddle he didn't feel up to tackling.
He slid into the seat across the small round table from hers. “Hey,
babe, whatcha got for me?”
“He's planning for company this evening,” she said before
sipping her coffee. “And rumor has it that they aren't getting along as
well as they might, so you should probably hurry. They're at a club
near the river Spree, a former warehouse, part of the area's makeover.
It's easy to spot. The surrounding buildings are still being renovated.”
She tapped his folded tourist's map and marked the building with her
fingernail when he pushed it over.
“Any idea if Zaitsev's coming in person?”
“Well, my friends at the Hotel Adlon Kempinski say a Russian
checked in whose bodyguards are pissing off the hotel security.” She
tapped the side of her glasses. “Seems tensions are high.”
“Any idea why?”
She shrugged. “I guess money and power. It's always that.”
“And control. That tends to be a prominent ingredient in the mix.”
He shoved the map back into his jacket pocket. “Thank you, honey.”
“Be careful. You have my number if you get into trouble.”
That's where I already am, Chris thought, but he just grinned.
“See you soon, sweetheart. I'll report back to you and let you know
what went down between those two Russkies.”
She smiled and curled a wispy strand of hair around her index
finger. Chris gave her a wink but turned and kept going. He went back
to his rental car, all the while wondering if he should be concerned that
his dick hadn't even tried to give his cute contact so much as a half-
hard salute.
Darkness was settling in when he reached the nightspot. Scattered
amongst the party crowd vying for admission was some serious muscle
giving one another the evil eye, their jackets stretched taut against pecs
and biceps, their stances letting their rivals know they were packing
firepower. Chris smirked and slid his hands into his pockets. Probably
carrying a bunch of fucking Makarovs. Inaccurate, heavy pieces of shit.
Another car pulled up and parked near his. Chris gave it only a
cursory look, noting the heavy tint on the windows. He'd see who was
inside soon enough. He switched into his “business walk,” that self-
assured swagger that let the doorman ahead know he wasn't about to
cool his heels waiting with the hopefuls to get inside.
As expected, the bouncer gave him a once-over but let him pass.
The club was jumping, the air smoky and filled with the scents of
booze, perfume, and sweat-dampened flesh. Lightning blue strobes
flashed in Chris's vision, and he was distracted for a moment by go-go
dancers in the tiniest of leather and latex outfits, women and men, a few
of them hoisted up in polished chrome cages, grinding and gyrating in
time with the thumping disco beat, sometimes in pairs, both het and gay,
and clearly tasked to turn people on.
Chris located the bar area to the back. In keeping with the
industrial feel of this huge brick building, the furnishings were all done
in wrought iron and chrome, from the bar to the tables. Bar staff raced
to fill drink orders, and Chris spotted a fair collection of local meat
plying their trade at the bar and tables further back.
Ah, there was a walkway further up, almost right under the roof,
and from the four bouncers looking like they were protecting their balls
with both hands, he assumed that was where the meet would happen.
He sauntered to the bar, ordered a beer, and found himself a
vantage point to see the walkway without being obvious. He scanned
the place like he was cruising for a hook-up, pausing for just a moment
when a strobe flash illuminated an alcove across the way.
Oh ho, there was his old friend from Paris. Zaitsev. Chris moved
away from the wall, stepped closer to the bar, and began chatting up a
cute guy who'd brushed by him when he'd come in.
Chris half listened to the guy make small talk, his focus on the
local crime lord Shkadov, who headed with his muscle to an iron
stairway back near the restrooms.
Zaitsev and his minions soon followed. Chris raised his beer
bottle in a quick salute when the Russian noticed him. Chris broke eye
contact and bent down to peer at the cute guy, who was still rambling
on about his foreign exchange student days in San Francisco.
After a moment Chris glanced up. That bank of square windows
rimming the catwalk was a sniper's dream, and he almost wished he
had orders to take one or both of those fuckers out. It would be easy
enough. The shot could be done from the roof or from one of the
surrounding buildings that oversaw the club. Maybe even one of the
cranes standing around. He noted the place for later reference, just in
case.
The two Russians settled in and began to talk. From their
animated gestures, he assumed they were negotiating, possibly having a
heated argument.
One of Zaitsev's bodyguards played with his mobile phone, semi-
hidden behind a steel beam, possibly texting his girlfriend. Chris
noticed he wore a cast under the suit and a black sling to go with the
suit. Head of security, probably, or he wouldn't have been on duty
while injured.
Zaitsev stood, angrily, and violently enough to topple their drinks,
and marched off. Chris noticed how the bodyguard glanced around, did
something on his cell, slipped it into his pocket, and followed his boss
along the catwalk. There was a strategic distance, though; he looked
like he knew he should catch up, but he didn't.
Zaitsev passed the windows and suddenly stumbled. No wonder,
because most of his head was missing.
Chapter 7
DAMN fine shot, that. Brilliant, really, and Chris wondered what
weapon had done it. He would have chosen a Remington 700.
Blood and brain matter rained upon a woman near the restroom;
Russian voices boomed from above. Patrons near the back panicked as
the realization of murder hit home, and they stampeded for the exits.
Chris finished his beer before taking his own leave through a side
door, one in the direction of the shot. He glanced up once he hit the
pavement, scanning the surroundings.
Yes, that construction site looked like a good place. He broke into
a jog, went into the side alley of the building, and jumped one-handed
over the fence. Evading concrete mixers and piles of building materials,
he headed for the entrance.
The building was close to finished—at least the walls and floors
and ceilings were done, all in pale gray concrete, with rebar sticking
out where the structure wasn't completed. Up the main staircase that
had no railings yet, feeling his way around when there was no light
from outside, then up another floor.
Fifth floor up, he walked across the open floor and saw that the
angle was right to shoot into the club. Well played, good choice. Where
was the shooter? He kept walking and checked the floor and then
glanced outside when he heard police sirens in the distance.
Shit. The cops would have no evidence or forensics to pin the hit
on him, but he didn't need the bullshit time waste that dealing with
their accusations would bring.
Angry Russian voices filled the air outside, joining the wail of
sirens. The pop of gunfire followed. Chris drew his Beretta, stuck to the
shadows, and remained in them toward the exit on the opposite side of
the building. There, he spotted two men together, one of them, God,
that was Nikita, the other the bodyguard with the cast. Shit, inside job?
The bodyguard hesitated. Then he pulled a gun, suddenly
shouting something in Russian.
Shots rang out as Nikita ducked away, but Chris thought he'd
seen him freeze for a moment. He was still moving, though, and Chris
cursed, firing his Beretta and hitting one man, who went down, lifeless.
The bodyguard with the cast sought cover, and there was plenty
of it on the construction site. Chris moved down, carefully keeping an
eye on the situation. One bodyguard was firing more or less wildly, and
Chris waited for him to reload before he shot him. Dumbass.
He waited for the move of the bodyguard with the cast, but the
man was leaning against a pile of bricks, fumbling with his weapon as
if to waste time, looking nervously about, especially as the sirens got
closer.
Easy target. Too easy. Setup easy. Chris took off in the direction
Nikita had gone. Shit. Too dark, too much crap from the site in the way.
Something heavy fell, a groan followed, and Chris darted toward the
sound, tripping on the same exposed two-by-fours that had tripped up
Nikita. Where he clambered to his feet, Nikita was still on his knees,
gripping his side. Fuck. He was bleeding.
Chris wrapped one arm around the Russian's shoulder, and the
other hand gripped his right arm and gave a light tug. “Lean on me.”
Nikita cursed in Russian but relented.
“How bad?” Chris asked, scanning the dimness, searching for the
best way to go.
“Bad
enough.” Nikita grunted with each step. “Car to the left.
Behind the office trailer.”
Half running, Chris spotted the car—clever, it was a white
delivery van, and Nikita tugged the handle. The doors swung open, and
they climbed inside, pulling the door shut. Nikita released him and
crouched down to pull a first-aid kit from under the driver's seat.
“Key's in the ignition. Drive.”
“Gotcha.” Chris slid in between the front seats, into the driver's
position, and turned the ignition.
“Seatbelt. German cops are a pain about that,” Nikita grunted.
“Sure.” Chris belted himself in and drove the car away from the
construction site without hurrying, as if he had no clue what was going
down.
The cops were now arriving in force, but nobody had locked
down the streets yet. “Where are you staying?”
Nikita cursed and gave him an address that Chris typed into the
navigation system attached to the window.
“Couldn't find an out-of-the-way place, could you?” Chris shot
back when they finally reached their destination, a little hole in the wall
apartment building half an hour away. He undid the seatbelt and went
to the back. “Dude, that is not good.”
“Shut up and help me inside.”
Chris got out of the back of the van first and helped Nikita climb
down. A large wet splotch soaked through his dark shirt and jacket,
trailed in a line down his thigh.
“Go around the back, there's a nosy neighbor out front. She sees
everything. Second floor up.”
Nikita was weakening fast, but he didn't appear to be bleeding
out. At least he wasn't leaving a telltale trail on the street or sidewalk,
or in the narrow alley leading into an unlit yard that smelled of trash
and refuse. It would have been much easier if there had been a fire
escape, but the stupid Germans didn't have those.
Nikita leaned heavily against the wall, fiddling for his keys.
When he'd found them and offered them, his hand was covered in
blood, and the keys were sticky. Just the fact that Nikita gave him the
keys rather than try and open the door himself told Chris all he needed
to know. Chris opened the door. Second floor up? He could do that.
“Time to see if those bench presses paid off.” He adjusted his