In Plain Sight (13 page)

“I'll get out. I'll get out. Don't shoot!” the man inside the car shouted.

I ignored his screams and came off the concrete enough to put my elbow on the glassless window ledge. The small white-haired man inside tried to slip out, but my left hand found his throat, and I held him up. The man gagged and went stiff; his pants became wet as he pissed himself. Over the shoulder of the human shield, and through the windshield, I saw Miller approaching with the same two-handed police combat stance. Miller hadn't seen me behind the man in the car. I aimed wide and let three bullets go. The gunshots rang inside the car and etched a network of spider webs into the windshield. I let the white-haired man go, and he put his hands over his ears, sobbing wordlessly with pain and fear. When I came up from behind the car, Miller was out of his combat stance. He was hauling his fat ass back to his squad car and his radio.

I kept my head down and ran down the street. I made the first left and opened the door to the Volvo. I had left the car under the cover of a low-hanging tree. The branches covered the car like probing fingers, making it hard to see from more than three metres away. I reloaded the gun using bullets I had packed in the glove box — and kept my eye on the corner for Miller. I saw something else entirely. The third Chinese lookout, the blond, rounded the corner in his tight leather jacket. In his hand he held a black pistol.

Only two of the guards had made an appearance in the gunfight. That meant the third man ran either for cover or for a phone. The fact that he was here looking for me meant that he must have gone for the phone. A coward wouldn't follow someone who had put two of his associates down; he'd stay put and cook up a story. The blond man didn't let emotion or pride colour his actions. He let his friends get carved up in the street while he protected the front. He did what he was trained to do, and now he was making up for lost time. The blond was a pro who kept his head in a fight. That kind of man would get the make and plate of a car that sped away. I had to get out of the area before Miller's backup showed up and the whole neighbourhood was locked down. I also had to keep anyone else from putting me on their shit list. That meant the last sentry had to go.

I reached up, turned off the overhead light, then eased the door open. The blond guard had started down the middle of the street, gun in hand. He checked each car with a cautious lean from a safe distance. He never totally turned his back on anything he hadn't already checked. This guy was by the numbers and dangerous. I opened the car door wide and stepped behind the tree trunk.

The blond saw the door ten seconds later and slowly approached. I took the gun by the barrel and got ready to slip out from behind the tree. Too many gunshots had rung out; more from this direction would make it harder to slip away in the commotion and confusion. When the triggerman bent to look under the branches and into the car, I rolled out from behind the tree and closed the distance between us. The blond saw me coming at the last second. His gun was useless pointed inside the car, so he bent his head forward and turtled, trying to take the impact and stay conscious. The butt of the .
45
glanced off the back of the Chinese man's head with enough force to send him to his knees. I pivoted and swung the gun down on his wrist, sending his pistol into the darkness of the Volvo. My elbow drove back towards his face, but a kick met me halfway. The kick connected with my knee and hyper-extended the joint. I staggered back, using the car to stay up before awkwardly lunging back in. The blond was off his feet coming to meet me.

Part of me expected kung fu. What I got was a boxer's stance and a haymaker starting somewhere near the blond's back pocket. I shuffled forward and erased the gap between us, making the haymaker ineffective. My hands took fistfuls of shirt and pulled him towards me. His hands were still set up for the haymaker when my forehead connected with the bridge of his nose. He grunted, and readjusted, sending an uppercut between my hands on his shirt. The punch grazed my chin, and my teeth cracked together. I was dazed, but I stayed in tight. Boxers need a certain distance to remain effective. Eliminate the distance and the referee separates you. When there's no ref, the boxer is left somewhere unfamiliar. I introduced the blond to the new place by pulling down on his shirt with my left hand. His head came forward into my right fist. My knuckles compressed the soft cartilage of his throat, creating a gag and then no sound at all. The blow interrupted the flow of air and startled the blond. The effect was visible from head to toe. He was no longer fighting me; his body was instead fighting for air. My left hand pulled him in again, but my right hand stayed away. My head collided with his nose again, and it flattened like a balloon deflating. His body bounced off mine, but my left arm reeled him back in. My elbow came across my body and caught the gasping face in the jaw. I didn't let his body fall, I shoved him into the car and got in behind him.

I drove out of the neighbourhood in the opposite direction of the commotion. Miller's call had gotten out fast, and the response was even faster. Ahead of me, I could see flashing lights; seconds later, I heard the sirens of the approaching police cars. I let my right foot sink to the floorboards and felt the Volvo purr in response as though the engine were thanking me for the chance to run head first at the police cars. The odometer hit seventy as I leaned across the seat and pushed the passenger door open. The emergency brake flatlined the odometer and sent the car into a long skid. I turned the wheel and released the brake, pulling out of the controlled
180
. The blond's body hit the pavement and rolled. Each limb flailed out straight like spokes on a tire as the body tore down the street at ten over the speed limit. Eventually, the broken limbs made slow, fluid, limp arcs as the body careened to a stop on the asphalt.

The lights, now behind me, had a speed bump to deal with, and the cops inside had protocol to follow. Procedure dictated that they had to stop and help the body in the street before they followed in pursuit. The Volvo was already purring again as I made use of the diversion and wound around a corner to a side street. Two turns later, the sound of police sirens was barely audible as I drove away from the crime scene. I slowed the car down and became just another downtown car on its way out of the core.

I
drove out to Igor's house but found the driveway empty. I parked the car and moved around the back of the house. All of the lights were off inside. Through the window, by the dim light given off by the digital displays on all of the appliances, I could see the burned and beaten dead body of Tatiana still on the floor.

Igor had a head start and nothing else to lose. Holding up the Secret Garden had been his fourth-quarter Hail Mary. The plan failed, and now there was no way he could recoup what he had lost. I needed to catch up with him before he went to see his boss. If he got there ahead of me, he would disappear without a trace, and so would my chances of keeping my face out of the news. I didn't know where Sergei Vidal operated, and I couldn't ask Morrison. After he heard about Miller getting shot at, his conscience would force him to come after me. Morrison was the type to bend the rules to get the job done, but no cop would let a murder attempt on one of their own go. I had to find Igor on my own.

I left the house and drove to my only other lead, the Steel City Lounge. I drove by the entrance and saw Igor's car double-parked out front. The car was empty, and the engine was still ticking. I did a drive around the neighbourhood to make sure Morrison wasn't still hanging around the club. His car was nowhere to be seen. I figured everyone played dumb when he first came to the club and he struck out. He wouldn't have wasted more time on a dead-end lead, he'd have decided to go after Igor another way.

I parked on a side street and waited under a burnt-out streetlight for the right moment to move. At
12
:
15
a.m., the street was bare. If Igor was watching his back, he'd see me coming. After twenty minutes, my patience was rewarded. A Hummer limousine pulled up out front and belched out a rowdy bachelor party. The groom had a jail-striped shirt on and a foam ball and chain around his ankle. The group chanted “Whores!” as they walked into the club. All of them were too drunk to notice that their party picked up one more member at the door. I broke from the party inside, took a corner table near the bar, and scanned the room for Igor. He wasn't hard to find.

The Russian was on stage screaming at one of the girls. The music still pumped as Igor's words put a look of terror onto the girl's face. Spit left his mouth as he screamed; it arced high in the stage lights before nose diving into the topless dancer's hair. The floor staff, each wearing a T-shirt with
SECURITY
printed on the back, all turned their backs to the stage. Igor ran the club, and they knew better than to try to control him; they focused their attention on the audience. The crowd, drunk and horny, did not know how to deal with the spectacle. Many turned their attention to another dancer or their drinks; others got excited. There was part of the crowd that liked watching the intimidation and humiliation of the girl on stage, and there was a murmur of appreciation from the men still watching. The groom from the bachelor party screamed, “Hell, yeah!”

He broke free from the party he was with and approached the stage.

“You tell that bitch, man.”

Igor took a fistful of hair and pushed the stripper to her knees. He pointed to the pole she had used and screamed more words in her face. Igor backhanded the girl onto her ass, and the groom jumped. Both his hands were in the air, and he cheered loudly. I heard his hoot, over the bass, from my table. He clumsily pulled out a camera phone and held it high in the air as Igor slapped the girl again.

Igor's body blocked the groom's shot, so the fake jailbird drunkenly climbed onto the stage for a better angle. He stumbled around Igor and forced the camera towards the girl's tear-stained face. Igor was surprised by the camera and even more by the presence of the man in the jail stripes on the stage with him.

The groom slapped Igor's back and nodded to him. Igor looked around the club, squinting to see beyond the stage lights. More people had looked away, trying to pretend the degradation on stage wasn't happening. The bachelor party at the bar was still all eyes, watching their captain. Igor slapped the camera away and sucker-punched the groom. His drunk body went down all at once, and Igor was on him. Igor mounted the groom's body and began pounding down onto his face. His fist jackhammered into flesh. At first, he just broke skin and bruised flesh, but each successive punch did more and more damage. Blood began to spurt into the brightly lit air on the stage. More and more of the fluid shot into the air like liquid rubies. As the groom's face gave way to becoming pulp, teeth skittered away from the limp body.

The bachelor party rushed past the floor security and hit the stage after the twenty-seventh punch. The groom was convulsing when a member of the bachelor party finally tackled Igor. A crowd formed around Igor on stage as everyone tried to get a shot in, but the
VIP
section upstairs was on stage before Igor got hurt. A brawl broke out between Igor's men and the bachelor party. The twenty-something kids were all completely shit-faced, unlike Igor's men, who were hardened toughs. Igor's men had been drinking all night, but alcohol was an everyday thing to these men. The booze only dulled them enough to silence any morality that might try to speak up. They weren't drunk; they were ice-cold numb.

The bachelor party was thrown off the stage one by one until none was left but the groom. Igor spat on the still shaking body and walked upstairs to the
VIP
lounge with his crew. The audience that had been ignoring Igor's abuse of the stripper had taken notice of the fight and cleared their chairs. Everyone was on their feet trying to stay clear of the men being thrown from the stage — no one wanted to be mistaken for a member of the bachelor party. The floor security did double duty holding the crowd back and dragging the bodies of the bachelor party out the door one by one. There were murmurs and scared looks from the faces in the crowd until a new dancer hit the stage. It was amazing how fast a new gyrating naked woman on stage lured the crowd back to their seats.

Upstairs, the lounge was comprised of black leather, chrome tables, and neon lighting. Igor and his men sat on the shiny leather couches watching the action below. The lights made their angry faces demonic and made the roped-off area look like a modern circle of Dante's Inferno. The hours that followed were full of binge drinking and sexual assault. Women went up the stairs with trays of drinks and ran back down with torn clothing. Igor screamed and yelled at the stage, and more than once he came close to falling over the railing to the floor below.

Igor left at three, opting to drive himself home. I followed him out and stood ten feet away while he tried repeatedly to open his door. Igor had lost everything: his girl, his money, his job, all of it was gone. What he hadn't lost yet was his usefulness. Igor could still get me off the hook with Morrison. He'd lost Sergei Vidal's money; Sergei would not let that slide. The day's grace Igor said he needed was three hours over. Igor was late, and now Sergei would come collecting. I had worked for a mob boss for a long time. Money drives every action, and pride keeps everything in line. Igor had fucked with both. It would be time to pay up very soon.

Igor got home in one piece. His tires dragged against the curb more than ten times, and he dinged the side mirrors of a whole row of cars on a side street, but he survived the trip. He parked diagonally in the driveway and walked towards the house, making only two detours into the flowerbeds before he managed to get to the door. Covered in dirt, Igor managed to fall into the open doorway.

I parked across the street and watched the house. No lights came on, and no curtains moved. I gave Igor five minutes before I opened the trunk and pulled out the cash I stole off him the night before.

I lugged the bag across the street and let it rest beside the front door. I unholstered the .
45
and took out the house keys I'd stolen from the kitchen drawer earlier. I used my left hand to quietly ease the key into the lock. I turned the key to the right, but the mechanism offered no resistance — Igor had left the door unlocked. I crept inside, letting the black eye of the .
45
lead the way. Tatiana was still in the kitchen, and Igor was nowhere in sight. I covered the first floor and then moved up the stairs. The second step responded to my weight with a groan, so I put my next step closer to the wall. The wood was more stable there. Halfway up, I saw a black shoe dangling over the edge. At the top of the stairs, I saw that Igor had done my work for me; he was sprawled out on his stomach — unconscious. His chest rose and fell at a regular rate, and his mouth pushed out puffs of air in measured gusts. Igor was alive, for now.

I went back down the stairs, opened the door, and pulled the duffel bag inside. I put the bag on the welcome mat and quietly unzipped the double zipper. I took eight of the paper-bound bundles of cash and walked into the kitchen. I ripped the bands and spread the money over the kitchen table, the counters, the floor, and Tatiana's body. The bills landed on her blistered face and lay on top of the crusted blood. I took the rest of the money into the basement and used an old chair to stand on while I pushed free some of the ceiling tiles. When there was enough space, I put the bag up in the ceiling. The weight of the bag pushed some of the other tiles out of place and made an obvious lump in the ceiling. I left the chair in place below the money and walked back upstairs. Igor never stirred when I opened the door — he was dead to the world, just the way the rest of the planet wanted him.

I slid back behind the wheel of the car and got comfortable. Igor had been drugged and then had gone on his own bender — he would sleep for a while. I dry chewed more caffeine pills and chased them with warm soda while I watched the house. My plan would only work if the Russians responded in the same way every other gangster I'd worked with would have.

At
9
:
30
a.m., a black Hummer pulled to the curb in front of Igor's house. The windows were too tinted for me to see inside, but I knew whoever was inside worked for Sergei Vidal. I memorized the plate while I waited for something to happen. Both the driver and passenger side doors opened, and I saw that I was right. Nikolai and Pietro, Nick and Pete, Sergei's personal security, got out. They looked around the neighbourhood before taking a step away from the cover of the vehicle. They were not anywhere as big as the man they had replaced. Ivan had been six and a half feet tall and at least
300
pounds of beef. These men were unlike Ivan; they were compact — five-ten, maybe
200
pounds. They had bodies built in the military. Running with heavy packs and relentless days of body weight exercises had left the men with hard, wiry physiques. They would be fast, tough, and relentless — like wolves. Wolves weren't large, that would conflict with their purpose. Wolves hunted prey almost twice their size, and they always came home with dinner. They ran their prey down in relentless pursuit, then hit them where they were weak. These two men had the same feral look I saw every time I looked in the mirror.

The military campaigns in Afghanistan would be a problem. You shoot at some corner thug, he runs. Maybe he shoots back at you over his shoulder as he goes. Army is different. Combat veterans don't lose their heads, and they don't run unless there is a tactical reason for it. They will take cover and shoot back, and not over their shoulders. Most of the veterans who took a job in the streets were adrenaline junkies who got spoiled in the service. Pulling the trigger for a paycheque was a high they couldn't shake, and normal life didn't have an equivalent.

The blond, Nick, unholstered a gun and held it against his thigh between the Hummer and his leg, while Pete walked to the door. The light reflected off Pete's scalp as he crossed the driveway. His hair was shaved so short that it was hard to tell what colour it was without squinting. He kept a hand behind his back while he peeked in the darkened windows. He finally tried the doorknob, and when it worked he motioned Nick over with a single hand gesture. Nick hid the gun inside his leather coat and walked up the driveway. On the porch both men looked around one more time before drawing their guns and nodding their heads.

The two men entered the house in a professional two-man formation keeping their shit tight. Their guns went up in two-handed grips, and Pete went in straight. Nick followed, covering Pete before angling off to check the front room. I saw Nick cross the doorway, and then the door closed. I pulled the Colt from my shoulder holster and put it in my lap. Igor had never noticed me parked across the street, but he sucked. Nick and Pete might have caught sight of me from the tinted Hummer. They could have decided to scout me out from the house and use the back door to come at me from a spot I wasn't watching. I rolled down the window and slouched in the seat, making as small a target as possible. No bullets came. Instead, Nick and Pete came out the front door with Igor. Both had a hand on a shoulder, and Igor's face was bloody — Nick and Pete had asked some questions with their hands. Igor didn't struggle, he just got into the back seat with Pete. Nick threw a grocery bag into the front seat and got in. I figured the bag had some of the money I'd spread around the kitchen.

The Hummer slipped away from the curb and headed into the city. I gave the boxy vehicle a head start, but I kept it in sight as I followed behind.

Morrison's
CI
's had done their job. Sergei Vidal heard through his twisted grapevine that Igor was stealing, and the proof came when he was late with the money. Sergei had sent his two best to pick up Igor — that meant Sergei was focused. I had come across Sergei's focus once before in an office building belonging to a bunch of computer programmers. In broad daylight, in a crowded neighbourhood, Sergei sent a crew to execute more than ten men and women. He sent his right hand after the most important man in the office. Everything would have gone down according to plan if I hadn't gotten there first. I put a bullet in Sergei's right-hand man, three more a day later. I didn't deal with the rest of Sergei, and now he was back with two new right hands.