Mike Faricy - Russian Roulette

I went home to study the handouts. I drove around my block three or four times in different directions just to be sure no one was lurking in the dark. I parked on the next street over, then stuck a business card in the steering wheel reminding me to check the engine before I turned on the ignition in the morning. Then I cut through the backyard of the house directly behind mine and went in my back door. I left the lights off and quietly went through the house. Thankfully it was empty. I placed a trunk in front of the kitchen door and an upholstered chair against my front door just in case someone decided to forego sneaky and just kicked the door in during the middle of the night.

I pulled the shades before I turned on a light, then fired up my computer and Googled Russian mafia. Two hours of reading and watching five-minute videos later, I knew more than I wanted to, none of which was good. Reviewing Peters’ handouts I learned absolutely nothing about Kerri Vucavitch or Nikki Mathias. I learned even less about Braco the Whacko. But Agent Dziedzic had managed to slip her card in there and I placed it in my wallet. Her first name was Valentina.

I phoned Aaron the next morning, left my daily message.

“Just checking in, anything I can help with, just let me know.”

I phoned the Spot next, Linda answered after a half dozen rings.

“Spot Bar and we’re open.”

“Linda.”

“Yes,” she said cautiously.

“Dev Haskell, just checking in. Anyone been looking for me?”

“Are you kidding, who needs to ruin things this early in the day?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Wow, I don’t know if it’s a wife or girlfriend this time but they really got you spooked.”

“Just trying to be careful is all. Don’t want anyone to get hurt, especially me.”

“No one’s been asking. You wanna describe the guy to me? Maybe if I see him I could give you a call?”

“Not sure who it’d be. They might have an accent, maybe a muscular guy or a good-looking blond woman.”

“Now you’re dreaming, an accent, like what in Fargo or something?”

“No, more like Russian.”

“Yeah right,” she said but didn’t elaborate. “I’ll give you a jingle if anything comes up. Look, I gotta run. We got a breakfast special, shot and a beer with a second shot for free,” then hung up.

I decided to drive over to the world’s most depressing parking lot and see who came in and out of the Moscow Deli. Not because it was necessarily a good idea but because I didn’t know what else to do.

It was raining the following morning, not hard, but a steady drizzle. A flat gray sky that gave all the indication the rain would continue for at least the next month. I left the chair pushed up against the front door and ducked out the back, cut through my neighbors backyard to my car parked on the street. My card was stuck in the steering wheel, reminding me to check the engine. I debated for a moment, looked at the drizzle, debated a moment longer. Water dripped slowly but steadily through the bullet hole in my windshield. It had pooled up on the dash before it dripped into one of the defrost vents. I decided my luck had not been the best of late, climbed out of the car back into the rain and popped the hood.

Other than filling the gas tank and bringing my car somewhere to have the oil changed on a quasi-regular basis I know nothing about cars. I do know enough that a plastic bag with what I assumed might be C-4 explosive wrapped around a series of wires with black electrical tape was not part of some manufacturer’s upgrade.

I called Aaron, twice, just so he’d know it was urgent. Left the hood up and climbed back inside out of the rain. Aaron phoned back shortly.

“What?”

“I’ve got a situation,” I said.

“What kind of situation?” Aaron asked calmly. He rarely, if ever, showed strain in his voice.

“A bag of what looks like C-4 is wrapped around what I’m guessing is the starter coil of my car.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the car,” realizing as I said it how dumb that sounded.

“Take the key out of the ignition and get the fuck out of the car.”

“The key isn’t in the ignition,” I said climbing out from behind the wheel.

“Get out of the car, Dev, and get far away from it, now. Move!”

“Will you dial down, I didn’t…”

“Don’t argue, just get the hell away from there.”

“I don’t think the thing is gonna blow, Aaron, I haven’t started the engine. I’ll probably…”

“Get away from that car, fast. That device could be on a timer, or a mercury switch activated by your weight behind the wheel or maybe there’s someone watching with a remote-control device.”

I glanced around as I began to walk away, didn’t see anyone watching, figured Aaron’s hyper cop rant wasn’t really helping just now.

“Look, how about you have the bomb-disposal guys quietly come out and…”

The explosion was so loud I didn’t hear it. The force of the blast bounced me off the back of a parked van. I probably walked about thirty feet down the street as I was talking to Aaron before the bomb detonated. I was in shock, dazed, and had no recollection of anything until after the surgery.

I woke, sort of. I was groggy, confused and in a beige recovery room. There was a blue curtain drawn around me, and I was on my stomach lying on pillows or something that seemed to lift my entire backside up in the air. I had IV’s taped to my right hand. I could move my head but it hurt to do so.

“Can you hear me?”

I attempted to look up. I moved my head to the right and there was a vicious stabbing pain from the back of my head. I heard a groan I didn’t recognize then slowly realized it was coming from me.

“We have you on a pain killer for now, just lay still. Do you mind, if I have a few of our students come in?”

I didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded distant and seemed to echo in a weird sort of way. I murmured something and closed my eyes again. When next I opened them I was looking down at four pairs of shoes, three round toes and black, the fourth pair was sort of a pearl gray with a pointed toe and a small heel. From somewhere behind me a voice droned on about buttock contusions and anal laceration, then said, “Miss Shipley, if you’d clean up here, please. Gentlemen follow me.”

The three pairs of black shoes disappeared and the pointed toe, pearl gray pair moved closer.

“Three years of med school and I’m wiping your ass, have a nice day, asshole,” she whispered.

Eventually I came to, but still felt a little foggy. I was in a different beige room, still on my stomach with pillows propping my butt in the air at what felt like a forty-five degree angle.

“You waking up?” I recognized Heidi’s voice.

“Ughhh,” I groaned.

“Here,” she said, holding some sort of container at an angle and directing a straw into my mouth.

“Ughhh.”

“The nurse said to get plenty of liquids in you. You’ve been out for the better part of the day. It’s a little after eight.”

I sipped what I guessed was water.

“Oh God.”

“You’re telling me! You’re lucky to be alive, Dev. If you’d been any closer to that explosion,” her voiced cracked.

I took another sip, if it was water it was some of the best I’d ever tasted.

“My car, is it okay?” I asked, exhausted with the effort.

“Your car? You can forget about that. I think it was scattered all over the street. Don’t worry about it, just rest now.”

I did, or attempted to. I had frightening dreams. Faces exploding, wolves or something chasing me, a lot of fire all around. I was aware of being woken by nurses at least twice, both times they had me sip liquids. I think it was water but I can’t be sure. Someone gave me a hypo in the butt.