Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (18 page)

30

“WHAT YOU HAULING? Wait. Don’t tell me. Rock salt.”

Med wanted to tell the guy fueling his big SUV at the next pump aisle to mind his own business but that wouldn’t be fitting in. Fitting in was important if he wanted to stay out of a cage.

“Nothing now. Heading over to Chicago for a job.”

“Chicago is in a deep freeze. Not much work there. What do they have you doing? Has to be the salt.”

“You got it. They can’t keep up with it.”

“That wasn’t really a guess. I am in construction up in Chicago. About the only thing getting hauled and dumped is salt.”

“That’s why they called. They’re paying good.”

“Make sure you get your check up front. The city’s broke.”

“Good advice.”

Why is this man so curious? Do I look like I want to talk? And why does he have to be from Chicago?

The Bear had slept in a cheap motel in Gary, Indiana, last night. He wasn’t on a set deadline, so he pulled off early so he could catch up on the news. The Russian Mafiya war in New York City—CNN was calling it Red Storm Rising—was getting nonstop coverage. There were five more murders and an explosion the day before. The Mayor had ordered a citywide curfew and called for federal help. The next story was an outbreak of flu. He switched stations, looking for more news.

A pretty blonde was reporting:

Day two of hostilities have raised the tally of dead to at least twenty-six known members of organized crime, in what is called the American bratva. That is the largest total of homicides in a
two-day period in New York City’s history. The number of arrests will not be confirmed by the New York Police Department or the FBI, but there are independent reports that the number now tops one hundred and is rising every hour.

There is much speculation as to what the catalyst was for this outbreak of violence that is pitting different factions of the American bratva against itself.

In an exclusive WolfNews interview, the director of the New York FBI station had this to say.

Blah blah, Med had thought as the man droned on. I want to see the pretty blonde. Fortunately the man in the dark suit and red tie didn’t take long to say nothing. Then she was back:

The man who is considered priority number one in a manhunt by the police and FBI alike is named Pasha Boyarov. He was widely believed to be the heir apparent to Aleksei Genken, who was killed two nights ago in an attack on his home that police describe as an unprecedented use of heavy weapons on American soil. When we return from a commercial break we will provide an in-depth profile of a man who is reputed to be one of the most ruthless killers in the American bratva—and reasons why he may have turned on his boss.

Could Lady Udacha be smiling on him yet again? Pasha out of the picture?

When the commercials ended, Med was disappointed on what the blonde and her interviewees had to say about Pasha. They obviously knew little about Boyarov. Most of the talk was of Genken. Then the network showed pictures of the twenty-six dead—Med knew some of them by face and a few of them on a first name basis. The first twenty on the list looked like an even split between Genken’s personal
army and Pasha’s gang. The last six were Ishutin’s men. Unfortunately, Vladimir Zheglov, the angel of death, was not pictured.

So the other brigadiers went to war with Pasha. That meant he was fighting the NYPD, FBI, and other brigadiers. Pasha was lethal and dangerous, but no way could he win against those odds.

But the shooting hadn’t stopped so he was still fighting. If Vladimir Zheglov was still alive and at large, he would be at Pasha’s side and those two men would not go down easily.

The one thing the news people got right, maybe by accident, was that Pasha was the mastermind behind the coup on Genken.

As long as Boyarov was alive, Med would never be safe. But what could Pasha do now? Unless he seized control of the
bratva
, Pasha’s days were numbered. Could I get so lucky? The thought of delivering gravel in Phoenix or San Antonio or Dallas warmed his heart.

The gas nozzle shut off with a clump. He had prepaid three hundred in cash. It was going to take some time to get the truck legally registered in his name so he had to watch his funds. The Western Star was great but it was a gas-guzzler.

He climbed in the cab, started the engine, shifted into first, and rolled it over to the parking lot next door. He might as well start the day with a big breakfast. He’d find a cheap motel in Chicago and figure out how best to hit Detective Conner over the next few days.

Shoot her, hope Pasha and Vlad get gunned down, and you are a free man.

“What’s up, Pasha?”

“Just waiting another ten minutes to use the phone again. I’m going to send Yuri to hit Ishutin’s grandson—I know where the kid hides his mistress. If Ishutin thinks I’m going to roll over, he’s going to learn the hard way not to mess with Pasha.”

“Good,” Vlad said. “Make them think hard about how far they want to take this.”

“Exactly,” Pasha responded.

Pasha did know where Ishutin’s grandson kept his mistress and he would send Yuri to kill him. But it was show. If Vladimir only knew what he had really been working on it would get ugly. The deed was done. Basic terms were agreed upon and being reviewed by attorneys from the US Justice Department. He, Pasha Boyarov, would voluntarily walk into custody sometime late afternoon. It wouldn’t look voluntary—couldn’t look voluntary. That was part of the deal. To get what he wanted, Pasha had to offer up his lifelong friend, Vladimir Zheglov.

It was in everyone’s best interest if he and Vlad went down together. Vlad would be okay in prison. He was a ferocious killer. He would be left alone or people would die. He had to maneuver him carefully in the next few hours.

“Vlad, I think we need to move hotels again.”

“We moved this morning, Pasha.”

“Something doesn’t feel right here.”

Vlad shrugged and asked, “When?”

“Let me think about that after I send Yuri.”

That was fast. They weren’t supposed to arrest Nancy. It’s her own fault. She panicked. I’ve got to save her—and myself. I guess if it comes down to her or me, it’ll have to be her. But there should be something I can do to send this investigation a different direction.

Problem is, there wasn’t supposed to be an investigation. Why couldn’t the police take the situation at face value? The guy slipped on ice and hit his head.

In the few months we’ve sort of been seeing each other, Reynolds and I go days without talking. It’s the nature of our profession. I’m not sure all Agent Reynolds does for the FBI, but he does disappear for days and even weeks at a time.

He’s calling again. I’m not sure what to say, but I better answer.

“Conner.”

“Reynolds,” he says, matching my tone. Then he laughs and says, “with everything you’ve got going on and everything I’ve got going on, I wasn’t sure when we were going to get a chance to talk again. Without a committee present.”

How do I play this? I decide aloof and cool.

“I am absolutely buried. What do you need?”

Okay, that might have been abrupt and semi-rude.

“Why do I get the feeling that something I don’t understand is going on in that lovely mind of yours?”

“Get in line to fathom the depths of how my brain works,” I answer.

“Am I in trouble for not checking on you? If so, I promise it was not by choice or design.”

“You are not in trouble for not checking up on me,” I answer him more warmly than I feel.

He misses the implication, which is good, since I’m not ready to confront things with him and Klarissa.

“Listen, we need to talk,” he says. “But right now I’m catching a flight to New York and will be out of pocket for a day or two.”

I’m relieved.

“But I wanted to be the one who gives you some good news.”

“Good news is always welcome here.”

“You’re going to like this—and no applause necessary—just throw kisses until I can see you in person. Then you don’t have to throw them. You ready for this?”

“I’m on the edge of my seat with bated breath.”

“Is that for the news or the kisses?”

“Austin! Spill it.”

I wasn’t going to call him by his first name.

“It’s official. You are no longer a target. We confirmed it was Genken that ordered the hit on you. The shooter we picked up finally talked, knowing that his boss is dead.”

“So this is over?”

“We believe so. And the good news keeps coming.”

“Yeah?”

“Pasha Boyarov, the man who started this internecine war within the Red Mafiya, is turning himself in. He’s struck a deal to roll over on his comrades and then disappear into Witness Protection.”

“So he gets off?”

“Yes, which is unfortunate. But we will get the information to shut down or at least severely disrupt operations that include extortion, prostitution, and drugs.”

“So it’s putting a big hurt on the bad guys?”

“Definitely. They’re already hurting with this civil war they’re waging.”

“So what’s in New York for you?”

“Yours truly is going to kick off the Pasha Boyarov debriefing.”

Yours? Truly? We do need to talk. Now? Nah. Not yet.

“Congratulations. I’m glad for you. What about the mountain man that cut Frank Nelson’s throat?”

“That’s Nazar Kublanov. They call him Medved; the Bear. No sign of him. I’m looking forward to finding out where he fit in Boyarov’s plans. I’m guessing he’s at the bottom of the East River if they managed to cut a hole in the ice big enough to push him through. He’s officially a missing person but is presumed dead. He’s the least of our worries.”

I can hear engines roar in the background.

“I need to sign off. I’ll call when I can,” he says.

“Sounds good.”

Take your time.

So no one is planning to kill me at the moment. That’s one step toward normalcy. Next on my agenda is making sure I keep a serial killer incarcerated so he faces trial. I’ll worry about Austin and my sister later.

No sooner had Reynolds hung up when my phone chirped again. Zaworski. Could this be good news? Or bad?