If The Seas Catch Fire (15 page)

But it had become his job when Corrado had made noise about putting Felice in charge of this particular industry. Felice had no qualms about doing more than putting the squeeze on people. Threatening a man’s wife and kids was not below him.

So Dom had taken it on, if only to be the humane voice of reason.

Dom gazed at the terrified Russian. “How is the family?”

Kirill eyed him. He clutched the armrests tighter. “Please, don’t hurt my children.”

“I’m not going to hurt them.” Dom leaned forward, ignoring the aches and twinges in his lower body and folding his hands on the blotter. “I need you to listen very closely, Kirill.”

The Russian nodded vigorously.

“I have your papers,” Dom said quietly. “Full citizenship for you and your family. Social security, passports, driver’s licenses for you and your sister.”

Kirill gulped, and sat straighter, but he didn’t speak. He’d been at the family’s beck and call long enough to be wary of the strings that would be attached.

Dom pulled a couple of envelopes from a drawer. He slid the manila one across the desk. “These are all your documents.” Then he held up a sealed white envelope. “And this is three thousand dollars in cash.”

Kirill blanched, eyeing the white envelope like it was a venomous snake. It didn’t take a psychic to read his mind. You didn’t say no when a Mafioso offered you money, even if the terms were cruel or impossible. And if he was like any of the other immigrants currently indebted to the Maisanos, he needed that money no matter what came with it.

Dom set the envelope on top of the larger one. “I’m erasing your balance from the ledger. You owe nothing. This”—he tapped the envelope—“is a gift. From me.”

Kirill still didn’t take it. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m letting you out of your contract,” Dom said, almost whispering. “I want you to take your kids, and your sister, and all of your papers, and get the fuck out of Cape Swan.”

“Get… out…” Kirill shook his head. “Where do we go?”

“Anywhere. The money will keep you going until you can find work.”

The Russian gulped. “But why? I… I don’t under—”

“It doesn’t have to be you.” Dom started to withdraw the envelopes, but Kirill suddenly lunged for them.

“No! Please. We… my family, we need this. But…” He raised his eyebrows. “What am I to do in return?”

“Nothing.” Dom let go of the envelopes and sat back. “All I ask is that you leave Cape Swan. And if you breathe a word to anyone about where this came from, or the erasure of your debt, and you and your family will answer to me. Am I clear?”

“
Da
. Yes! Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Dom gestured at the door. “You can go.”

Kirill stood. “Thank you, Mr. Maisano.” He smiled, clutching the envelopes to his chest as if they might suddenly be yanked away from him. “We’re very grateful.”

“You’re welcome.”

The Russian quickly left Dom’s office, and Dom leaned back in his chair. Corrado and Felice would both have his head if they knew about his little sub racket, but Dom knew how to cover his tracks. He’d learned to use both of his jobs—handling the debts of the immigrants, and overseeing the laundering of the dirty money—to help the people his family was intent on screwing over.

Once a month or so, he quietly released one of the immigrants and sent them on their way. With a little financial magic, he erased the remaining debt and the money he gave them to start their new life, and no one was ever the wiser. If someone started sniffing around and asking questions about the books, he slipped some of his own money in and wrote it off as laundered money resurfacing after being routed and rerouted to separate it from its dirty origins. Since no one but him could follow where a dollar went before it reappeared, no one could prove he’d massaged the books as long as he didn’t do it enough to raise red flags.

He hadn’t had any issues with immigrants telling each other what he was doing, and he doubted that would ever become an issue. Most of these people had been threatened twelve ways from Sunday by the Mafia, and wisely believed every word of every threat.

If he could’ve done it without risk to the people, he’d have canceled the debts and sent every one of the families away from Cape Swan. But he couldn’t. In some cases, their papers hadn’t been processed yet, and they’d be left in a terrible limbo between him and the family. Mostly, though, he knew he’d be marked for death if anyone knew he’d even considered forgiving that much debt and cutting loose the entire pool of cheap labor upon which the narcotics ring depended.

But one family at a time, he let them go.

At least that helped him sleep at night. It didn’t clear his conscience, and it didn’t rinse away the blood on his hands.

But it helped.

Baltazar was back. A little thrill shot through Sergei as he continued dancing for the money-waving men in front of him. He wasn’t used to seeing the Greek this often. Once or twice a month at the most, but Baltazar had been in here almost weekly since the beginning of the summer. Things were heating up all over the place, weren’t they?

After his performance, he went through the motions of letting the other men bid, and of course, Baltazar won. They moved into the booth at the back of the club, where Sergei turned up the music.

“Dmitry,” Baltazar said with a subtle nod.

“Baltazar.” He didn’t return the gesture—felt a little too much like bowing, and he didn’t bow to this guy or anybody else.

The Greek absently tugged at his jacket cuffs. “I’ve got an invite to a party on Saturday. A dinner cruise.”

Sergei bit back a curse. This was a seaside town with a lot of illicit activity happening out on the water, which meant that sometimes he had to fill contracts on boats. And he fucking hated boats. “Who’s hosting?”
Who’s the mark?

“The first mate, if he’s there.”

Sergei nodded. So the mark wasn’t specifically named. He was to take out the second highest ranking man aboard. Just as well he knew his way around the complex hierarchy of the families. Pity he couldn’t blow up the whole boat and let the crabs finish them off, but overkill was a good way to accidentally take out an ally. Or an ally of someone whose bad side Sergei couldn’t afford to be on. Or, worst of all, one of the innocent immigrants who the Maisanos used as slave labor.

Sergei nodded, and as Baltazar put the photo away, asked, “How many fireworks?”

“Just enough for the party.”

So the hit was intended to send a message, probably to the highest ranking man aboard. By taking out the next man down, he’d be telling the top dog “
It could’ve been you, and next time it just might be.
”

“What about security?” he asked. “On the boat and the marina?”

“It’ll be handled.”

Sure it would. Though Sergei’s handlers had always come through when they’d agreed to compromise security—disabling alarms, putting personnel out of commission, setting up diversions—there was a first time for everything. He never, ever took for granted that a job wasn’t just a means for putting him in the crosshairs of another hitman. Or, worse—law enforcement.

“All right,” he said, making a mental note to go to the marina the night before and do a security check. “What time?”

“Saturday. Party starts at three-nineteen.”

The boat is in row three, slip nineteen
.

“That only gives me a few days to prepare,” he muttered.

“That’s when the party is. Be there, or don’t count on another invitation.”

Invisible scorpions crawled up Sergei’s spine. This was one of
those
contracts—kill him when you’re told, or it’s your head next time. No room for error.

“This is another hundred grand job,” Baltazar said. “They want it done right, and they want it done on time. You in?”

As if Sergei had a choice. He knew about the job, so now he either had to accept the contract or wait for a bullet of his own.

“Yeah. I’m in.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up when it’s done. I don’t see you by 10:30 am, though, you’re on your own.”

Sergei nodded. “Where will you be waiting?”

“Red four.”

When the navigational buoys had been placed out in Cape Swan’s harbor to guide watercraft, he couldn’t help wondering if anyone had ever imagined they’d be used as rendezvous points for people like him and Baltazar. But, intentionally or not, the buoys served that purpose well, and Sergei would either be at the fourth red buoy by 10:30 in the morning, or he’d be in for a very long swim back to shore.

He settled up with Baltazar, and the Greek left the club. Not long after, so did Sergei. He’d already made arrangements for a shorter shift tonight because he needed to meet with someone out in a remote spot off Highway 103. It was a hell of a drive—almost two hours through hills, forest, and not much else.

Out in the middle of nowhere was a rest stop, and this time of night, there was no one around except a single silver sedan parked near the restrooms. There weren’t even any idling semi trucks out here. Most truckers didn’t stop here for long unless they were lost or broken down.

He didn’t like this area. This whole road was littered with bad memories. He couldn’t remember exactly where his family had been massacred, only that it was out here somewhere.

He shuddered and ignored the echoes of gunfire and screaming that always needled him out here.

As Sergei parked, his contact, Katashi, got out of the sedan.

“What’ve you got for me?” Sergei asked.

“Special delivery, of course.” Katashi set a box on the hood. “Eight hundred.”

Sergei opened the box and inspected the vials inside. They were intact, full, and appeared to be legit. Katashi had people on the inside of several pharmaceutical companies along the west coast, and they managed to smuggle out all kinds of shit. In this case, an experimental sedative that the FDA hadn’t yet approved but was helpful when he needed to put a mark on ice for a little while like he had with Nicolá Cannizzaro.

“Looks good.” Sergei paid him. “Anything else coming down the pipe?”

“Well, I got a lead on that stuff you’ve been asking for. Guy I know says he’s got something that’ll do the job.”

“Yeah? What’s he got?”

“Don’t know.” He shook his head. “But he said it’ll put someone out”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that. No pain, nothing.”

Sergei raised his eyebrows. “But you don’t know what’s in it?”

“There’s cyanide, that much I know.”

“Cyanide? Seems a little old school.”

Katashi shrugged. “Gets the job done. Just gotta spray it right in a guy’s face, let him breathe a little in, and good night. Long as you get the dose right, it looks like he’s had a heart attack.”

“Interesting.” That was a method of delivery Sergei hadn’t considered. Usually he’d heard of putting cyanide in food, or mixing it into a drink, but it was difficult to make sure someone got enough to kill them. Worse, with the wrong dosage, the symptoms were horrific. Surviving cyanide was a hell of a lot worse than dying from it.

“I need to know what’s in it to get the dose right, though.”

“I’ll make sure I get that for you along with the chemical.”

“Good.” Sergei nodded. “I need that one ASAP.”

“Guy wants two grand an ounce.”

“He does?” Sergei lifted his chin slightly. “Or you do?”

“Hey, man. I gotta get my cut too.”

“Yeah?” Sergei narrowed his eyes. “How big of a cut are you getting?”

Katashi gulped. “I can do eighteen hundred an ounce. No lower.”

“Mmhmm.” Sergei held the man’s gaze.

Katashi shifted. Squirmed. Cleared his throat.

Sergei didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t break eye contact.

“All right!” Katashi threw up his hands. “Seventeen fifty. Can’t go
any
lower, man.”

“Fine. Get me three ounces.” He counted out three grand and pressed it into Katashi’s hand. “You’ll get the rest when I get my merchandise. And I want it
ASAP
.”

“Man, I can’t—”

“For that price, you’re damn right you can.” Sergei stepped closer, looking straight into Katashi’s eyes. “And let’s get one thing straight. If this doesn’t work, and it’s not quick and painless and undetectable like you and your guy are saying it is—”

“I get it, man! I get it!”

“No, I don’t think you do, because you’re still trying to fuck me over. So if it doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to, I promise you that you’ll be finishing off my supply. Personally.”

Katashi gulped, drawing back. “Okay. Okay. Yeah. Got it.”

“Good. When can I get it from you?”

The man shook his head. “Dunno yet. I’ll let you know.”

“You do that. And make it quick, but I want it done right.”

“Will do. Definitely.”

“Good.” Sergei collected his new poison and got back in his car. Having the cyanide-based one for the yacht job would’ve been ideal—he could test it on his mark and see how well it really worked. But he wouldn’t have it in time, and anyhow, that poison would leave the mark looking like he’d had a heart attack or something. For Saturday’s job, the kill had to look deliberate. It was meant to send a message, not just quietly remove a piece from the board.

Still, he wanted that poison, and soon. As he drove away, following Highway 103 back toward Cape Swan, he had high hopes that Katashi had come through for him this time. With the government cracking down on every goddamned substance on the planet, it was getting tougher and tougher to get his hands on poisons with specific effects. Katashi had hooked him up a few times, or tried to. Every fucking time, though, there was some side effect. Some potential reaction that happened one time out of ten, or a hundred, or a thousand, that made the victim seize, or vomit, or something other than immediate death. Too much risk. Too much potential for an ME to figure out the victim had been poisoned.

Sergei was patient, though. He had other means to kill and leave only as much evidence behind as he wanted to. The job that required a fast-working, undetectable poison could wait until precisely the right concoction came his way.

But Sergei hoped like hell it came through soon.

*              *              *

With three days to go before he needed to kill someone on a boat, Sergei’s focus had been solely on his upcoming job and his late nights with Dom. Today, though, he had other things on his mind.

He stared through the windshield at the all too familiar stucco facility gleaming in the midday sun. After all this time, he’d have thought visiting this place might get easier, but it never did.

Chest tight and stomach in knots, he got out of the car and went inside.

There was a desk in front, chest high and staffed by a couple of college aged women. He didn’t recognize either of them today, so they might’ve been new. No surprise—the turnaround here was astronomical.

Can’t imagine why.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed down the hall that he’d been down a million times in the last ten years. The route hadn’t changed for a long time—second left, last door on the right.

“Morning, Sergei.” A familiar male voice turned his head. Jason, one of the nurses, offered a subtle, guarded smile.

Sergei forced an equally faint smile. “Morning.”

“How are you doing?” Jason asked.

“I’m all right.”

He wondered if Jason’s co-workers knew how much he liked his private dances. For that matter, he wondered how someone who worked here could afford a stripper like Sergei. But he wasn’t paid to worry about his customers’ finances, so he danced when Jason came to his workplace and kept a poker face when he went to Jason’s.

Jason cleared his throat. “Anyway. Um.” He gestured down the hall. “She’ll be…” He hesitated, and Sergei heard the words he didn’t say:
She’ll be happy to see you.

Not a day went by that Sergei didn’t wish that were true.

They exchanged halfhearted smiles, and Sergei continued down the hall. He was almost to his destination when a familiar redheaded nurse came around the corner.

“Oh, Sergei.” Brittany’s face lit up. “You’re right on time, as always.”

Sergei shrugged. “No thanks to an accident on the highway, but I made it.”

“Good.” She handed him a small paper cup of pills. “You know the routine.”

“I do. Thanks, Britt.”

No one else stopped him. At the door, just as he always did, he paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Then he forced a smile and stepped inside.

She was out of bed, sitting in the armchair by the window in her robe and slippers, gazing out at the yard.

He swallowed. She hadn’t changed much lately. There wasn’t any dark hair left to turn gray—she’d been snow white for years. Time had long ago deepened the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Her shoulders were thin, her posture hunching a little farther with each passing year.

She turned her head as Sergei pulled a chair up beside hers.

Sometimes she had little flickers of recognition. She’d look at him, and there’d be that spark, like she’d just figured out who he was. Today, it didn’t come.

In their native tongue, which he only spoke with her these days, he whispered, “Hi, Mama.”

She stared blankly at him.

He set the cup of pills on the tray beside her chair.

“What are those?” she asked in the same language.

“Medicine,” he replied. “You need them.”

She looked at him and blinked a few times. “Are you sure?”

“Take them, Mama.”

“But why?”