Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Mikhail glanced at Ivan. Then he removed a large folding knife from his pocket and snapped the blade into place with a flick of his wrist. Without looking down at the knife, Mikhail spun and twirled the black blade adeptly. He swayed his arm back and forth as the knife danced in his hand. The motion reminded Val of a hooded cobra. Then, just as quickly as he started, he stopped, the knife poised to strike.

“He is good,” Ivan said simply.

“Then you know what to do,” Val said. “And do it soon.”

“It will be so.”

Val met the eyes of each man, his demanding gaze a mixture of threat, trust, and pride. Then he turned and left. He slid into the passenger seat of his green BMW.

“Go,” he told Pavel.

Pavel turned down the music on the stereo and drove north. “Where next?”

“I am to meet your father at the bakery on Hamilton Street.”

“Good,” Pavel said. “I’m hungry.”

Val didn’t speak. He ignored the mindless tune on the radio and turned over the morning’s events in his mind. The execution by his men had been nearly flawless. The remaining Crips would be shell-shocked from the attack. Once the next stage of Sergey’s plan was completed, Val was sure that they’d be ready to deal their way out of any further problems.

That left the bookkeeper. He’d put the word out to everyone he could think of regarding Oleg. There was a substantial reward for anyone who came forward with information on the traitor. Of course, he didn’t need to tell anyone that there was an equally substantial penalty for anyone who hid Oleg or helped him in any way.

If he were Oleg, where would he run? Certainly not home to Ukraine. With all of the business and family connections there, it would be tantamount to walking into Sergey’s living room.

He couldn’t go to any of the cities in the U.S. that had a heavy Russian population. The result would be the same-someone would see him, and whether they had the word that Val wanted him or not, the knowledge of his whereabouts would eventually find its way to someone who did. It wouldn’t take long for the promise of cash or the fear of a visit from Black Ivan to result in a phone call, and that would be that. Oleg was not stupid. He had to know this.

Where, then? Val frowned. It was a difficult proposition for him to consider, because he himself would never run. He might lie low for a brief time until he was ready to exact his vengeance, but flee like a coward? Never.

He didn’t think Oleg was a coward, either. He would want revenge for those three beloved bodies that burned up in his home. How best to accomplish that?

Val stared out his window as the businesses on Nevada Street flashed past. Several blocks of mini strip malls were filled with niche businesses from ceramics to used music to pet grooming. He smiled as they passed a small Russian grocery store. The bold lettering of the Cyrillic alphabet on the red sign above the door gave him some measure of satisfaction.

We are gaining a true foothold here, he thought. We are making it home.

Oleg may not have been a coward, but he was no soldier, either. There was no way he could successfully come after Sergey with guns and force. Oleg was smart. He had to know that wasn’t possible. So how best to exact his revenge?

Val resisted a sigh. He’d known the answer instinctively all along, but had wished it weren’t true. He’d hoped that even though Oleg had betrayed Sergey, he wouldn’t go so far as to betray his entire people. But his hope had been a vain one. There were no other possibilities. Oleg had gone to the police.

Val supposed that this made things easier, in a way. He could focus his efforts on finding information, casting his nets around the police station instead of a wider area. But it also accelerated matters. He had to find a way to get to Oleg before the bookkeeper gave them too much. Every hour counted.

Pavel signaled and pulled into the small parking lot outside the Russian bakery. He turned off the car and released his seat belt. Val reached across and stopped him. “Wait here.”

Pavel scowled. “But I’m hungry.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“Maybe I want to see my father,” Pavel suggested.

Val turned a cold, hard glare onto his nephew. “Then stay home for dinner tonight instead of running around with your imbecile friends. But for now, you wait in the car.”

Pavel pouted but said nothing.

Val went inside. Sergey was seated in the corner with a newspaper, sipping coffee and nibbling a pastry. He didn’t look up when Val sat across from him. Val checked the masthead of the newspaper. It was the local paper of record, the River City Herald . The much smaller Russian-language weekly sat at his elbow.

A young girl that Val knew to be the baker’s daughter appeared at the table. “Coffee?” she asked.

Val glanced at Sergey’s cup. “Do you have Turkish?”

She shook her head. “But I have beans from Turkey. I can make an espresso.”

Val waved her suggestion away. “Never mind. Just bring me another of these pastries. To go.”

After she left, Sergey lowered the newspaper. “To go? You are in some kind of hurry today, brother?”

“The pastry is for Pavel. He is driving me today and he is hungry.”

“He doesn’t come in to pay his respects to his father?”

Val shook his head. “He should not hear what we speak about this morning.”

Sergey raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Of course. But someday, he must learn it all.”

“Someday,” Val said. “But not today.”

“No,” Sergey said. “I suppose it is too soon for him.”

“His time will come.”

Sergey watched him for a few moments, then motioned to the newspaper. “It never surprises me,” he said.

“What is that?”

“These Americans,” Sergey said. “They love the violent movies. The Godfather movies, the Rambo . But then a few criminals get shot, men that they would like to see go far away anyway, and what do they do?” He flicked the newspaper with his fingers. “They cry and wring their hands like women. I don’t understand it.”

Val shrugged. “Americans are different.”

Sergey snorted. “They are weak.”

Val didn’t agree, but he was not going to argue with Sergey. Americans had their soft spots, but it would never do to underestimate them. Throughout history, they’d always seemed to have the snarl when their backs were put to the wall. Maybe the 1990s generation would be different, but Val doubted it.

“Anyway,” Sergey continued, reaching for his coffee, “tell me what you are here to tell me.” He sipped his coffee and watched Val.

“Your main operation is moving forward perfectly,” Val told him. “It is the other complication that I am worried about.”

“The bookkeeper,” Sergey grunted. He tore off a piece of his pastry and tossed it into his mouth. “When we find him, I would like him taken apart a piece at a time.”

“I believe he has gone to the police,” Val said. “In fact, I see no other option for him.”

Sergey pressed his lips together. “Then we have very little time.”

“True.”

“This is bad, Valeriy.”

“I agree.”

“He knows too much.”

“I know,” Val answered. “But that may work in our favor.”

Sergey scowled. “How?”

“It may give us a little time.”

Sergey plucked another piece of his pastry. “I am afraid I don’t understand, little brother,” he said.

“Oleg wants revenge,” Val explained. “But he is not stupid. That is why he went to the police. It was his best opportunity for revenge.”

“I know that,” Sergey snapped. “Tell me how this may help us.”