Dead End Fix (21 page)

“What time was your last communication with the pilot?” Allie used Russian as she spoke to the man standing in front of the tall windows of her living room.

“Less than ninety minutes ago, czarina. The two men you sent should have returned to the airstrip yesterday. We have heard nothing from them.” The man's face conveyed his hesitancy. “Perhaps it is time to declare the mission a failure. Allow our pilot to return.”

“These decisions are the czarina's to make!” Fyodor Ratchikov roared at the man.

Allie turned toward her lieutenant. The brocade divan he occupied offended her eyes, as did every stick of ridiculously ornate furniture in this middle-of-nowhere dacha.

But Allie had vowed never to stand second to anyone. And while she'd prefer nothing more than to leave this rococo palace in the Moscow woods, never again to be offended by its velvet drapes, gold-leafed icons, and Versailles-scale mirrors, she knew it was important to maintain the illusion.

“Fyodor,” Allie cooed in English to keep her remarks private. “The boy is only a messenger. There's no need to bark.”

Fyodor Ratchikov had been her fiercest ally since that night in Yemen. Another man might have been driven to madness after killing his own nephew. But Ratchikov was a Russian. A man who understood the unflinching power Allie had demonstrated when she took command of a small Yemeni army. Ratchikov now gave her the same unquestioning devotion he had once reserved for Vadim Tokarev alone.

Ratchikov had come today to take possession of Lydia Corriger. He was to have transported her to Abu Al Fared as a final demonstration of Allie's ability to supply the Middle Eastern shahs and potentates whatever they needed to satisfy their darker tastes. Allie would lock in that market, securing over a billion dollars annually for her enterprise and extending her global influence.

But Rick and Johnny had failed her. She had sent the two Englishmen on a one-goal mission. Travel to the small town of Olympia, Washington. Track down Lydia Corriger and bring her back in one piece. Allie had supplied them with all she knew. The men had had the addresses of Lydia's home and office. She had warned them about Lydia's security systems and home arsenal. She had admonished them not to underestimate their target. She had told them how Staz's efforts to capture Lydia had resulted in his death.

Both men had assured her one woman would be no match for them.

“She'll never see us coming,” Johnny had promised her. “Fixer or no, she's no match for old Rick and me. We'll 'ave 'er standin' in front of you soon as you can say ‘Bob's your uncle.' ”

Yet there had been no word from them in more than twenty-four hours.

“What shall I say to Al Fared?” Ratchikov asked in English. “He was impressed with what he saw in Yemen. But he is an Arab. One show of might is not enough to convince him to continue doing business with a woman.”

Unlike you and your Russians?
Allie thought.
Have you all transformed into renaissance men? Is it my intelligent approach to leadership you recognize? Or my iron hand?

“Is he asking?”

“No, czarina.” Ratchikov sounded like a man who was choosing his words carefully. “But I have reason to suspect he is an impatient man.”

Allie thought about the five women Al Fared had taken to his yacht that night. They might be enough distraction to buy her some time. She looked toward the man standing and awaiting her orders.

“Call our pilot back home,” she commanded in Russian. “Route him through London. He'll pick up Cranston. Once they land in Moscow, have them prep the plane to be ready for departure immediately.”

Ratchikov lowered his head. Allie knew he didn't trust her English pilot. He thought of her as one of his own now and believed any important matter was best served by a Russian. But Allie needed a fresh aviator.

“Yes, czarina.” The man bowed and left the room. Allie waited until she heard the creaking of the massive oak front door to speak again to Ratchikov.

“Abu Al Fared will have his Fixer,” she said.

Ratchikov nodded. “The Arab is intrigued. His blood runs high when he speaks of her beauty. The idea of possessing his own personal assassin is like an aphrodisiac to him. He senses the power he would wield.” He added cautiously, “But must it be this particular woman we deliver?”

“I gave him my word.”

“Yes, czarina. You did. And the world will soon know what your faithful already do. What you speak becomes true. But
this
woman.
This
Fixer. She has eluded you—us—twice. First Staz. Now the two English. Three men dead.”

Allie didn't care about losing Rick and Johnny. They were a pair of cocky braggarts, reliant more on testosterone than on wit. If Lydia had disposed of them, as all evidence indicated, it meant nothing to her beyond the annoyance of having to train two more men as her personal guards. But losing Staz, the one man who had risked the rage of Vadim Tokarev to care for her while Tokarev held her captive, left her with a rage needing to be avenged.

“Perhaps there is another way,” Ratchikov continued. “If it is a beautiful woman Al Fared wants, there is a limitless supply available. If he desires his own assassin, we can provide that as well. I'm thinking of Taras Volkov. He is good with both gun and knife. Vadim used him often. Or perhaps Spartak Egorov. He's young, but he is hungry. Both men, I know, would welcome a chance to serve you. They could be your eyes within Abu Al Fared's business.”

Allie shook her head. Abu Al Fared was a man of sophistication and style. Necessity dictated she tolerate the knuckle-dragging, heavy-browed, vodka-swilling clan of Russians she had inherited from Tokarev. There was no way Al Fared would accept a similar fate.

“You don't understand,” she said. “Al Fared wants an assassin he can bed. It must be one woman.”
And I am owed. I've been robbed. My family. My Staz. That woman has taken what is mine.
“It must be Lydia Corriger.”

“What, then, do you suggest?”

“The goal remains the same. We get the Fixer. We bring her back and we hand her off to Al Fared. From there she is his to deal with.”

“And whom shall we send this time? How many?”

Allie looked out the tall windows, running her mind over a list of her most effective men. An overnight storm had left the forest blanketed in a heavy November snow. She imagined there were those who might find the landscape beautiful. But the isolation of the dacha left her as cold as the frigid Russian air.

She watched a rabbit hop across fallen logs. It stopped in a clearing, rearing up on hind legs to catch a scent.

In an instant a flash of brown and red appeared. A fox was on the rabbit. In less than a heartbeat a stain of crimson scarred the carpet of white. The fox looked up and for a moment seemed to lock eyes with Allie. Then it trotted off, the dead rabbit between its bloody jaws.

“Two is still the most effective number. But a better two this time.” Allie paused. “You and I, Fyodor. You and I.”

Kashawn sat on his bed thinking about what he would miss most. Probably the bed, he figured. It had been nice having those clean sheets and warm blankets. Having a real pillow instead of a balled-up jacket to hold his head while he slept.

No,
he thought.
I'ma miss that bathroom more. Toilet available anytime a person wants it. Take a shower each and every morning. That been nice. Them towels the cleaning ladies leave. Smelling like somethin' sweet for a man to start his day.

His thoughts went to breakfasts at the clubhouse. It wasn't just the food, though he was getting used to eating his fill. He'd miss his brothers sitting around first thing in the morning as much as he'd miss the eggs and flapjacks. Talking business. Sports. Teasing and making jokes with him like he belonged there.

I wonder if you miss things when you're dead. Is it like them church folks talk about? Does a body look down from someplace after they died and miss the smells and tastes they left behind?

Somebody had once told Kashawn all that heaven and hell stuff was just a bunch of stories to make a person follow the rules. Promised him there was nothing but nothing after a body's lights went out. Said a person didn't even know they were dead.

Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Leastwise I wouldn't hafta think 'bout all I'm leavin'.

He glanced at the clock on the shelf he'd brought back from that furniture store. It was silver and the numbers glowed against a background of colored lights that changed every few seconds. Right now it read 7:49. Black numbers against bright orange.

D'Loco hadn't spoken to him since they got back from that meeting with those two people from the Picos.

How'm I s'posed to know it wasn't a real Pico walkin' down that street in that jacket? What kid stands that tall?

Kashawn tried to justify things. Any kid stupid enough to pull on a Pico jacket and go strolling through a 97 neighborhood deserved what he got. But it wasn't working. Those Picos said the kid was just twelve years old. Said he was walking back from doing something with his church.

Then why somebody drive up and shoot his ass? Kid musta been up to somethin'.

That wasn't working either. Kashawn tried to remember what life was like for him when he was twelve. It was only five years ago. He ought to be able to remember. Where was he living? What school was he going to? Try as he might, he couldn't place himself as a twelve-year-old.

One thing's for sure, though. Wasn't nobody takin' me to do somethin' good at no church. And for damned sure wasn't nobody give a fuck somebody in a car roll by and shoot me.

Kashawn looked toward the blank space on the wall and recalled his lunch with LaTonya. She seemed to like the tiger art. Said she'd take good care of that soft blanket until he got back.

I ain't comin' back. Truce is gonna be over. D'Loco gonna hafta give me up. That's gonna be that. Can't have brothers dying in a war ain't ever gonna end.

A tear slipped down his cheek. Kashawn heard a knock on his door and wiped it away.

“Hold on.” He stood and straightened the covers on his bed. He looked at the clock; 8:02 glowed against deep blue neon. “Come on in.”

J-Fox opened the door and leaned in. “Why it so dark in here? You sleepin' already? Get on downstairs. D'Loco waitin' for you.”

Kashawn was suddenly cold. He didn't think his legs would work, but when he took a step forward they supported him just fine. He took one long look around his room before following J-Fox down the stairs. D'Loco was in a small room off the main living area, talking with Big Cheeks and Mouse. The leader of the 97s looked up, locking eyes with Kashawn.

“Y'all leave us now,” D'Loco said to the men in the room. “Green K and me got some discussing to do.”

The door closed and Kashawn was alone with the man he'd sworn to follow into the grave.

“Take a seat.” D'Loco pointed to a chair across from his. “You have somethin' to eat already?”

Kashawn nodded. “There's chili in the kitchen. Cornbread, too. It's good. You should try it.”

D'Loco held his stare. “That was some talk last night. The Picos, I mean.”

Kashawn nodded again.

“You had time to do some thinkin' on what they said?”

Kashawn didn't tell him that except during his time with LaTonya, the meeting between the two leaders was all that had occupied his mind.

“I guess you only got one option.”

“A man always got more options than he thinks,” D'Loco said. “What you figure I'ma do?”

Kashawn's heart pounded so loud he was afraid he wouldn't be able to hear his own whisper. “You gotta give me up. You gotta stop this war.”

D'Loco looked down at his hands, waiting a few seconds before responding. “This war gotta end. Can't be having more 97 blood in the street.”

“You gonna give up my block? Business be good there. You ain't gonna give them Pico shits my territory, are you?”

D'Loco slapped Kashawn hard across the cheek. “
Your
territory? Who give that block to you? Who said you got anything to say about anything?”

Kashawn rubbed the side of his face. “I didn't mean mine. It's yours. I know that.”

D'Loco slapped him hard again. “You learn nothin' from our time together?” he roared. “That's not my block. Ain't your block, either. That block belong to the 97s. That somethin' bigger than you. Bigger than me.”

Kashawn looked down. His cheeks stung. He waited to see if any blood would drip onto his hands from where D'Loco had struck him.

None did.

“Now we gonna get this straight,” D'Loco said. “Them Picos want who killed that kid.”

“I know that. You gotta give me up. I'm ready.”

D'Loco leaned back. “Tell me again how you killed that kid…that twelve-year-old you mistook for a Pico.”

Kashawn wished he could keep himself from breathing so hard. He didn't want to look scared. “It was like I said. I see this Pico walkin' bright as day down a 97 block.”

“ 'Cept it wasn't no 97 block, was it?”

“Close enough for me. I didn't know exactly what was where at the time. And he didn't look like no kid. Tall as shit. Wearin' their colors. Seemed like an insult to me.”

“Mm-hmm.” D'Loco's voice was calmer now. “So you just happen to see this kid. And you just happen to be carrying.”

Kashawn nodded.

“That piece you took down to the construction site and tossed in the porta-pot.”

Kashawn nodded again.

“Then you cut off his sleeve and bring it to me as a trophy. Enter the brotherhood then and there.”

“That's right.”

D'Loco stared at him in silence.

“You killed that kid,” he finally said.

Kashawn felt like one of those bobblehead dolls they show on television. Nodding up and down with some dumb-ass look on his face.

D'Loco ran a hand over his face. He stretched his neck to the right, then the left. Kashawn could feel the anger radiating from his leader. He braced himself for another hit.

“Where'd you get the car?”

“What, now?” Kashawn asked.

“The car. Them Picos said witnesses told the police a car pulled up. Shots fired. Kid goes down. Somebody run up and hover over the body. Next thing, that somebody take off runnin'. Where'd you get the car? You don't know how to drive before J-Fox schooled you. And if you in the car, how'd you get that sleeve cut off? Tough thing to do, what with you squealin' after you fired your shots.”

Kashawn's chest hurt. One second it felt ice cold, the next it was hot as the time he stood too close to a fire some guy had built in an old steel barrel on the corner.

“Witnesses got it wrong,” he said. “Wasn't no car. It was just me.”

“All them witness. All of them got it wrong. Wasn't no car. Wasn't no drive-by they all swear they seen. All them witness lied to the police.”

Kashawn's stomach rumbled. He tasted chili in the back of his throat.

“I don't know what them witnesses said. Alls I know is what I did. I shot that Pico.”

“Why?”

“I told you. That damn Pico was walkin' too close to 97 territory.”

“Why you bring that sleeve to me?”

“I dunno. Proud, I guess.”

“Proud of what?”

“What I did. Send a message to them Picos to stay away.”

“Why not just leave that Pico on the concrete? Let the street folk talk? Why bring that sleeve to me?”

Kashawn's anxiety climbed. His words tumbled out. “I dunno. I dunno what I was thinkin' in the moment. Actin' on impulse is all.”

“And you brought it to me.”

“I wanted to show you.”

“Show me what?”

“The sleeve. I wanted to show you I got me a Pico.”

“So I'd what? Give you a dollar or somethin'? You think this is the wild west and there some kind of bounty out on Picos? Wanted dead or alive? Some shit like that?”

“I wanted to show you I belong here!” Kashawn yelled. He started to sob, hating himself for the weakness. “I belong here. These are my brothers. I wanted to show you.”

D'Loco sat quietly. It took several minutes, but Kashawn was finally able to calm himself.

“I'ma have to tell them Picos something, boy. They gonna be expectin' an answer.”

“You give them me. I killed that Pico.”

“No you didn't. Now you best tell me who did. You tell me what you saw, let me take care of this.” His voice was stern. “There ain't no other option, Kashawn.”

Kashawn felt the stab of his leader calling him by his given name. He was no longer Green K. His leader had abandoned him.

“I killed that Pico,” he whispered.

“Tell me what you saw. Me and my boys take it from there.”

“It was me! I killed that Pico! I'm a 97!” Kashawn dared to lift his eyes to meet D'Loco's. He couldn't identify the emotions his leader displayed, but he knew this wasn't a day he made D'Loco smile.

“Get on out of here.” D'Loco's voice was low and calm. “Stay off the corner till we meet with the Picos.”

Kashawn pushed himself up out of the chair. He took a moment to steady himself.

“I said get on out of here.” D'Loco turned away.

Kashawn wondered if his god would ever speak to him again.