Good Intentions (Samogon 1) (17 page)

As the days rolled by, the grain alcohol from Luke Gentry rolled out. Like clockwork, two hundred barrels a week traveled from the Gentry’s warehouse to Donovan Delights to wherever Mikhail’s crew took it. Rochelle assumed it reached Russia okay, otherwise Mikhail would have said something.

Every week, a truck driver
―the same truck driver―would deliver a load of spirits from the Gentry distillery in Lexington to the warehouse in Ashland for distribution to wholesalers. Luke knew the driver, who had been driving for the family business for over ten years. Before letting the driver head back to Lexington, Luke would have him deliver the two hundred barrels to Donovan Delights, where Chris would be waiting to pay the driver $2,500 cash. The driver knew without asking what was in the barrels, but for $10,000 a month he kept his mouth shut. For $10,000 he would have hauled a dead body.

Ashland International, that was the name of her venture capital investment group.
It was a multinational shell corporation Bowers formed in Canada with bank accounts in the Cayman Islands. He then formed Appalachian Investments, a subsidiary owned by Ashland International, operating in the United States. Now she could have the Rimskys wire transfer the
samogon
money from anywhere in Europe to her Cayman account. From that account, she would funnel money back to Appalachian Investments.

Rochelle also had Luke Gentry open an account in another Cayman bank, and every week Rochelle would transfer $60,000 from her Cayman account to his.

The Rimskys had a couple of people on their payroll who worked as cashiers at a check cashing store, and introduced them to Rochelle. Afterward, Rochelle would pay the cashiers two percent for every wire transfer she made to herself. Whenever she needed to move some cash, she would wire $5,000 from her Cayman account to the check cashing store in Columbus in the name of Celeste Morris or some other girl’s name. The cashiers would then give Rochelle the money without validating identification, minus the standard twelve percent service charge and the two percent charge for looking the other way. Rochelle was shuffling $40,000 in and out of the check cashing store every week using several different identifications.

***

Spring semester went by without a hitch. Before she knew it, commencement day was near. Rochelle spent her spring break moving into her renovated home. Chris came and spent the weekend with her. He was a little hurt she hadn’t asked him about the renovations, but they both knew he didn’t have time for it.

She finished her freshman year with a 3.99 grade point average, but didn’t consider it impressive because all her classes were one and two hundred level courses.
It was still a lot of work and a long year. She needed a break but didn’t plan on slowing down. She planned on taking a business course over the summer schedule and testing out of Spanish―no need in taking the course when you're half-Spanish and speak it fluently.

The rest of the summer she spent managing the vending company and managing the whiskey money.
Rochelle was happy to see that traffic in the laundromat hadn’t dropped off as much as she thought it would. The play at Hazer’s remained steady from all the high-school kids and local graduates who were still too young to get into bars. Much of that, though, was to be credited to Paavo, who was pretty cool about letting some of the kids drink beer as long as they had a decent fake ID. Knowing they could drink something somewhere kept the kids coming around. Nevertheless, Rochelle made sure to deposit an extra $5,000 into the accounts of the laundromat and arcade, all in one and five dollar bills.

She calculated the max amount of play time and usage she could get in a twenty-four hour period from the arcade games and from the washers and dryers.
Then, she calculated the coinage generated for that much time, and that was how much got deposited each night. It wasn’t a lot of money―$40,000 a month―but it helped to clean the cash.

***

It was mid-June when Rochelle noticed all the news stations were reporting an increase in drug arrests and gang violence across Columbus. Black and Hispanic street gangs were fighting for control of the neighborhoods and street corners.

Until recently, the Hispanic gangs had been rather small and not particularly violent.
Now they were appearing more organized. Someone had stepped in and provided an infrastructure to the loose-fit gangs, forming a united front so they could compete with the larger black gangs for the drug profits.

One Wednesday night, Rochelle was driving out to
Sylvio’s to see Mikhail. As she drove, she noticed an unusually light fog forming over the Olentangy River and moving northeast as if it were following her.

As she started to change lanes to turn into Sylvio’s, she spotted Mikhail’s Aston Martin at Deblin Auto Mart and turned in.
Inside, she walked through the aisles looking for him. Surprisingly, the large store was empty, and just a couple of employees were up front. No one had even seen her enter.

She found her way to the back service area.
A sign hung on the door that read, “EMPLOYEES ONLY.” Quietly, she slid through the doors. Again, no one saw her. Her instincts told her to get out, but she had to know what went on here and see what Mikhail was doing. Slowly, she made her way through the service area. Curiosity moved her feet, one foot in front of the other while the rest of her followed in step. Maybe she was just being crazy or paranoid. Maybe there wasn’t anything going on except people working.

Then she heard them.

Two men were speaking in Russian, and another in English. Someone was whimpering in pain, but
who?

She stepped out of her heels so she wouldn’t make any noise walking across the service area.
The voices were getter louder, then she saw them. She stepped behind a row of shelves storing auto parts and found a vantage point to watch everyone.

Mikhail stood leaning against a work table with Paavo next to him.
Across from them, two black men stood. One of the men appeared to be in his late twenties with a heavy gold chain around his neck and gold rings on his right hand. They were both members of the West Side Posse street gang. The other appeared to be Rochelle’s age and as big and strong as Chris. Neither appeared to be directly involved in what was going on, but they were gangsters, no doubt about it. Rochelle sensed they were there to witness some event.

I
n the middle of everyone, a Hispanic boy in his twenties hung upside down from a chain. He was naked, his hands bound with tape behind his back, and his legs were taped at the ankles. Blood poured down his face from where he had been beaten. A chain wrapped around his feet and legs suspended him in the air from a pulley system above. His mouth was covered with a strand of tape to silence his screaming.

A voice speaking in Russian startled Rochelle.
She looked past Mikhail and Paavo and saw a man in his sixties with gray hair. He was sharp-featured and was noticeably shorter than all the other Russians. She remembered seeing the old man at the airport climbing into the limo the night Nikolay Rimsky arrived.

The old man continued talking in Russian to another younger Russian, who was probably in his thirties.
The younger Russian stood next to the suspended Hispanic. He wore a white tank top with jeans and soft-leather work boots. His arms, chest, and back were well defined and muscular, and covered in tattoos.

Everyone else stood quietly watching.

The tattooed Russian took hold of some jumper cables and fastened one of the cable’s clamps to the Hispanic’s scrotum. The old Russian kept speaking to him, obviously giving him instructions in torture. The tattooed Russian gave him a sinister grin.

Rochelle put her hands over her mouth and wanted to look away but couldn’t.
Her eyes were locked on to what was about to happen.

Outside, life in Columbus continued as normal for all its inhabitants.
The world was oblivious to the evil that was unfurling inside Deblin Auto Mart.

The tattooed Russian secured the other clamp to the Hispanic’s foot.
The remaining two clamps were fastened to a power source.

“
Ahhh! Ahhh!
” the Hispanic cried in pain as volts of electricity entered his body. His screams were muffled by the tape across his mouth or all of Columbus would have heard him.

After the fifth time of being shocked, his scrotum and toes were turning black.
The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Rochelle almost gagged when the smell hit her, but she forced herself to remain silent.

Tears rolled from her eyes as she watched the Hispanic urinate all over himself and on the floor beneath him.
Mikhail was stone-faced.

“Damn, Rob,” whispered the younger black man.
“Look at that mother fucker’s nuts.”

The older black man, Rob, motioned for his partner to remain quiet and watch.

The tape was removed from the Hispanic’s mouth. Drool and snot ran down his face. He was crying as he faded in and out of consciousness.

“Hey!”
shouted the tattooed Russian as he slapped the Hispanic. “Look at me. Where did you get the cocaine and guns?”

Nothing
.

“You’re going to answer me, spic.”
The Russian grabbed the Hispanic behind the head with one hand, and with the other he repeatedly pounded the Hispanic in the face with his fist.

Still nothing.

The older Russian began speaking again. Mikhail and Paavo lowered the Hispanic to the floor and unchained him. They picked him up and carried him over to the work table where they laid him down.

Mikhail held him steady while Paavo placed his head into a steel vice and closed it against his skull.
As the Hispanic started to squirm, Mikhail punched him in the stomach. Paavo continued to apply pressure to his skull. The pain was agonizing for the Hispanic and he yelled out.

The tattooed Russian asked him again, “Where did you get the cocaine?”

“Ochoa!”

The Russians all stopped and looked at each other in disbelief, then they looked to the old man, who was evaluating what was just said.
Could it be?

Rochelle recognized the name Ochoa, and wondered if he meant Damon Ochoa from her night class.
Surely he did. It was Damon Ochoa in Sylvio’s that first night with members of his dad’s drug cartel.

A command was given by the old man.
Paavo loosened the vice, freeing the Hispanic’s skull, and then grabbed him by the feet and pulled him off the table. Paavo hoisted him back into the air and steadied him.

The old man looked to the tattooed Russian and nodded.
Rochelle continued to look on from behind the shelves, horrified, but unable to move away. She sensed the end for the naked man.

The tattooed Russian took a roll of tape and taped-up the Hispanic’s entire head to suffocate him.
For the next two minutes, everyone watched in silence as the Hispanic’s body jerked and flailed.

Rochelle was finally able to lower her head and turn her eyes.
She did not want to see someone suffocate to death. Finally, his body went lifeless and swung back and forth.

The old man walked over to the black man named Rob and addressed him.
“You see, Mr. Taylor, we told you we were not supplying the Hispanic gangs. We honor our agreements. We agreed to supply you and not your rivals. We have done just that.”

“Who is Ochoa?” the black gang leader wanted to know.

“Mexican cartel. We will deal with Ochoa. Apparently there is a misunderstanding between Ochoa and our family. Now, we need you to leave as we still have other matters to contend with that are none of your concerns. We will clean this up.”

Rochelle was trapped in her little spot behind the shelves as the two black gangsters left the service area.
She was scared she would be seen, but was lucky not to have been.

After Rob Taylor and his man left, the old man barked out orders and Paavo and the tattooed Russian went to a back room.

“Mikhail, come over here,” ordered the old man in English. He took Mikhail’s face in his hands, and for a moment he could see a young Gregor Rimsky staring back at him. It had been years ago since the two brothers made their bones. Now, it was time for his nephew to make his. “Nikolay and Peter would have wanted to be here but it is prudent they stay away.”

Rochelle looked back through the shelving, wanting now to see what Nikolay and Peter were passing up.

Paavo and the tattooed Russian came back dragging another man, a white man―
a Russian
.

“Mikhail,” said his uncle, “this is one of the Pistilli soldiers who tried to kill your brother, Nikolay.”

Mikhail stepped closer to the Pistilli soldier and stared at him closely.

“It is time for you to prove yourself, Mikhail.
To prove you can kill your enemies and that you can kill for your family.”

Rochelle stood open-mouthed.
Tears once again rolled from her enchanting green eyes as she slowly shook her head, wanting to scream out, “No, Mikhail. Don’t do it.”