Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (58 page)

“She
isn't
one of my kids, thank God,” Semyon said. “Listen, you can't think that way, you can't get soft. This is Roman's property, we can't ask, we can't judge.”

“Ours is not to reason why . . .”

“What?

“Nothing,” Ned's head was in his hands. Sopho was still chattering, eyes wide open, almost certainly aware that neither of them had any idea what she was saying. Ned sighed.

“So, do you know any more Georgian?”

“Kartveli,” Semyon corrected. “Just a few swearwords . . . oh, and hello is
gamarjoba
and good-bye is
nakhvamdis
.”

“Gamarjoba!” said the girl brightly.

Ned grinned. “Gamarjoba,” he said sadly, then turned to Semyon. “Let's get the fuck out of here.”

Just as he was about to turn the key, he heard his phone ring. Semyon shot him a serious look. Despite his better judgment, Ned hoped it was Dave. It wasn't. It was Katie from the office. Her upbeat tone angered Ned. “Hey, Eric,” she said in a sing-song voice. “How are you?”

“I've been better.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” she giggled, even though nobody had said anything remotely funny. “Just a couple of things here at the office . . .”

Ned regrouped. “Really? What's up?” he asked in as close to normal a voice as he could muster.

“Nothing really,” she said. “We got twice as many coils from Romania as Steve ordered . . .”

“Yeah.”

“So I sent some of the extra ones up to Mr. Andersson.”

“What?”

“Mr. Andersson, he's at a trade show at the Jacob Javits Center up there in Manhattan,” she said. “I thought he could use them to show his customers.”

Ned felt cold run through his veins. He collected himself and asked, “Which half?”

“The second half, I think. I'm not really sure,” Katie replied, paused and added an insincere giggle. “And there were some men here looking for you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, a couple of guys,” she said. “They didn't say much—just that they wanted to see you . . . in person.”

Ned breathed deeply. “Fine,” he said. “What did they look like?”

“Big guys,” she said. “Lots of tattoos. One of them had a tattoo of a spade—you know, from like a deck of cards—on his wrist. Anyone you know?”

Ned sighed. He didn't know anyone with such a tat, but he also knew that the Ace of Spades was a very important part of Sons of Satan imagery. He knew that, in all likelihood, any pair of men visiting him at work were either cops or bikers, and cops generally didn't tattoo their wrists. “I'm not sure,” he told her. “Did they say anything?”

“Not much, really, just said they wanted to see you and when I asked them what they wanted they said it wasn't related to Hawkridge,” she said brightly. “Are they friends of yours?”

“Probably.”

“Anyways, I thought you should know.”

Ned thanked her and said good-bye. He could feel his blood pressure rise. He turned to Semyon. “I gotta see the Swede.”

“No way, we're headed east to New York,” he snapped. “Not back in time to Delaware.”

“No, no, it's cool, he's in Manhattan—at the Javits for a trade show,” Ned answered. “We can see him
after
we take care of Roman.”

“Now you're talking sense.”

Ned started driving. Sopho finally stopped talking and started to look out the window. Semyon thanked Ned again for coming to his senses. They were approaching I-95 when Ned noticed two Harley-Davidsons behind him. They were bikers. Ned could tell immediately. Their faces were too small in the rear-view mirror for him to even try to recognize, and they weren't wearing any colors, just orange-and black Harley jackets—but he could tell they were bikers.

He changed lanes. They changed with him. He sped up to about ninety. They followed suit. Semyon, drinking out of his familiar Evian bottle, didn't notice anything. Sopho was still looking out the windows at the huge trucks and the passing countryside. Ned brought the car onto an off-ramp that led into the Ironbound neighborhood on the other side of Newark. Semyon looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Gas,” Ned assured him. “And food for the package. God knows when she last ate.”

Semyon giggled awkwardly. It was clear he was happy that Ned was going along with the task ahead of them, but he, too, had his misgivings.

Ned looked in the mirror. The bikers had also taken the off-ramp, and had actually closed ground on them. Ned looked back at Semyon. “You go in the store and get some food and drinks—stuff kids like,” he said. “And I'll get the gas.”

Semyon nodded, and said something to Sopho in Russian. She just looked at him in a fearful silence, then started talking nervously in her own language. He chuckled and told Ned that he was just checking to see if she was faking about knowing any Russian. “What I told her was fucking hilarious,” he said. “If she understood even just a few words of Russian, she'd be laughing so hard she'd fall out of her seat.”

They pulled into a Hess station and Ned went to the pump farthest from the convenience store. Without another word, Semyon got out of the car and started trudging toward the store. Ned opened his door and Sopho started talking excitedly, as though she was scared to be alone again. Ned put one leg on the ground, and looked behind him. He saw the two bikers getting off their Harleys. A second later, they were approaching him.

Ned pulled his leg back into the car and slammed his door shut. He restarted the Lexus and laid rubber out of the gas station. Sopho started screaming. She undid her seatbelt and jumped between the two front seats. She was hitting Ned, not trying to hurt him, just to get his attention, as though he had forgotten about Semyon. She was crying and pointing back at the convenience store until she ran out of breath. Then she slumped back into her seat, silently. Ned scanned the rearview mirror and was relieved that the bikers were not coming after him.

He hurried to get back on I-95. Just before the on-ramp, he stopped and got out of the car. Sopho started screaming. He opened up her door, and she stopped screaming and started chattering in a nervous way that made Ned think she was asking questions. He fastened her seatbelt, closed the door and got back in the driver's seat. He looked at Sopho and smiled. She didn't smile back, but seemed to calm down a little.

Ned took 95 south, toward Delaware. About forty-five minutes of silent driving in which Ned ran ideas through his head stressfully and Sopho looked out the window sadly, Ned turned off into a pleasant enough little blue-collar town called Burlington. He parked behind a chrome-trimmed diner on High Street and gestured for Sopho to follow him inside.

They took a booth with a window through which Ned could see their car and sat down. He ordered bacon and eggs with coffee for himself and a cheeseburger with fries and a Coke for her. The older, heavy-set waitress spoke to Sopho, who did not answer back. The waitress then shot a questioning look at Ned. “She's deaf,” he said. The waitress apologized.

When the food arrived, Ned was too stressed to eat his. Sopho ate hers quickly but politely. She started to talk in her own language again, perhaps to thank Ned for the meal. Ned noticed the waitress and a man she had been talking with stop and stare suspiciously at them. Ned put his fingers to his lips in an effort to silence Sopho. She got the picture. He then got up and escorted her to the washroom, realizing she probably wouldn't know how to get there herself and wouldn't have the ability to ask. He waited nervously outside, hoping she wouldn't climb out the window to escape and watched the waitress and her friend talk about the pair of them. After a few minutes, Sopho re-emerged and Ned took her back to the booth. The waitress walked quickly and forcefully to their table, and put down the bill with a thud. Ned looked up, she was glaring at him. “Well, I hope you and
your daughter
enjoyed your meal,” she said sternly.

“Thank you,” Ned said angrily. “We did.”

“I know it's not my place to say anything,” she continued. “But she don't sound like no deaf person I ever heard—sounds foreign—and she don't do the sign language either.”

Ned stared at her. He was trying to formulate a story when he realized that he had bigger fish to fry than to rationalize his situation to some fat, suburban New Jersey egg-slinger. He sighed, looked her in the eye and said, “You're absolutely right. It's not your place.” Then he pulled out a twenty, put it on the table, got up and gestured for Sopho to come with him.

After a moment of stunned silence, the waitress yelled after him. “I know you're up to something, mister. Something no good,” she shouted. “And Dan here, his brother's a trooper, so you just watch out.”

Ned and Sopho got back into the car. He looked at her and wondered what people would think when they saw the two of them together. She didn't look too out of place in New Jersey if she kept her mouth shut. Her clothes were not as flashy or covered in logos as most of the kids in the area (and a little threadbare), but she could probably pass as an ordinary, if perhaps poor, kid. She was actually too old to be his daughter in any realistic scenario—and she didn't look anything like him anyway. And when she opened her mouth it was clear she was from some place far away.

His phone rang. It was Semyon or someone using Semyon's phone. Just as likely, one of the bikers had taken it and was calling him with it. Either way, answering it was not a great idea. When it stopped ringing, Ned called Dave. No answer. So he called Nina. She answered on the second ring. “Nina,” Ned said. “It's me. I really, really need your help.”

There was a pause. Ned figured that since their phone conversations had been light and their entire relationship was based on their shared, tacit decision not to talk about the darker sides of their professions or their friends that she wasn't excited about the idea of having a serious talk. “Really?” she finally asked, sounding suspicious. “What's the problem?”

“I have a delivery to make—for Roman.”

“So, deliver it,” she sounded angry. “No more problem.”

“No, Nina, you don't understand,” Ned pleaded. “The package is a little girl.”

He heard Nina groan. “So deliver the package.”

“What? Are you nuts?” Ned yelled. “She's just a kid! Not even ready for junior high!”

“Calm down,” she sounded stern. “If you are trying to prove to me that you are a good guy, stop. This is not a Hollywood movie and you are not a hero. You have a job to do.”

“But she's just a kid . . .”

“I'm sure she is, but you have a job to do and if you don't, you will die,” her voice softened, but still sounded cynical. “Besides, if he loses this one, he'll just go get another. Do your job, Macnair, save yourself.”

He hung up.

He looked back at Sopho. He smiled and made a funny face at her. She gave a sort of half smile to acknowledge his effort.

Something caught Ned's eye. The waitress and her friend had come outside and were now writing down his license plate number. Ned realized that they were going to call the trooper. At least, he thought to himself, he had less than an hour left in New Jersey until he got into Pennsylvania.

He started the car again and rejoined I-95 south. After a few miles, he took the Chichester exit to Marcus Hook. He drove down the divided lanes of Market Street to Dave's office. For the first time in his memory, he really wanted to be there. Dave may have given him a hard time, but the FBI had saved his life once before, and he was in a much tougher predicament this time.

Parked outside, he took Sopho out of the car and walked up to the outside door. It was always unlocked during business hours. They walked upstairs, Ned in front, and came to Dave's office door. Ned was surprised to see it ajar. “Hello,” he called out. “Dave, are you here?”

No answer. Ned turned and looked at Sopho. She looked very afraid. He gestured for her to stay exactly where she was. A wave of desperate fear washed over her face, and she pleaded “
Ara, ara.
” Ned had no idea what she meant, but knew she didn't want to stay put. He put on his sternest face and made it clear she had to. She finally nodded.

He turned and went into Dave's office. Dave was at his desk with his back to Ned. “Hey, Dave,” Ned said cautiously. “Everything okay?”

No answer. Ned tenuously approached Dave. As he got closer, he could see that his file was open on Dave's computer. Ned smelled blood. He looked down and could see that the carpet was stained reddish brown. He got closer to Dave, turned him around and saw that his throat had been slit ear to ear, his white-collared blue shirt drenched with blood. Ned looked at Dave's PC—his complete file was up on the monitor. It included his address, the make, model and license plate of his car, his employer, everything. He was an open book. He was as good as dead whether he delivered the girl or not.

He rushed out of the office and put his arm around Sopho, nearly carrying her as he ran down the stairs. Ned almost threw her into the back seat of the Lexus. He jumped into the driver's seat and headed toward the Interstate. He had to get rid of the Lexus. But he also knew he had to get to Manhattan. If, he decided, he could get to the heroin-filled coils, he could prove that the Russians were smuggling drugs into the country. Otherwise, he'd have to explain why his FBI caseworker was dead and what he was doing with an undocumented little girl. Without the drugs, it was just his word against the Russians', and his past as a snitch would do him more harm than good. Instead of heading to the Interstate, he took Highway 13 south to Wilmington. The bikers or Russians would be looking for him on the Interstate, and if that stupid waitress had actually called the troopers, they'd be there too.