David Duffy - Last to Fold

“First names?”

“Marko, Diodor.”

“Armed?”

“Revolvers.”

“Layout?”

He described a two-room apartment with a small kitchen and bath.

“Money there?”

He nodded.

“Maybe I’m going to give you another chance. Maybe.”

I went outside and called Foos again, with Nedelenko’s names. It took him less than ten minutes to come up with addresses and phone numbers, also in Manhattan Beach. One of the men, Marko, had a family. I got back in the van.

“We’re going back to the house. You’re going to take us in. Anything goes wrong, you die first. Understand?”

He nodded.

We left my car and drove the van back to Montgomery Street. Nedelenko had keys for the front door. He led us down a hallway with a dirty linoleum floor and yellowed, peeling paint to a single door in the back. The three of us stood to one side. He knocked twice and said his name before he put his key in the lock. As soon as he turned it, I pulled him back, Gayeff kicked open the door, and the brothers burst in. There were shouts of surprise and the pop of a silencer. After a minute, Maks said, “Okay.”

I brought in Nedelenko, which probably didn’t add any years to his life expectancy, but he should have chosen his business associates more wisely. Like he said, there were two men in the room, one on an old couch, the man from the parking lot, and one at a table with money on it. Next to the money was a revolver and a BlackBerry. The room was hardly any cooler than outside. An old air conditioner chugged away in the window, but to little effect. The man at the table, the other man in the hotel room, wore a tank top and held his bleeding shoulder. His skin was covered in tattoos. His eyes were darker and tougher than Nedelenko’s. They showed pain but not fear. The ringleader. The other man was scared. His eyes darted around the room. Sweat stained his shirt halfway down his rib cage.

Momentum was an ally. Don’t give them time to think. I went straight to the man at the table, picked up the gun, and poked the wound. He tried not to show the pain, but it was too much.

“Which one are you? Marko? Diodor?”

His eyes widened, but he said nothing. I nodded at Maks, who put his gun against the man’s cheek.

“Which?”

“Mar… Marko.”

“Good. Let me explain the situation. You are clumsy and you are stupid. You are operating on the Badger’s turf, which means you also have a death wish.” I took out my cell phone. “One call and—”

“No! Ratko said—” Marko caught himself. That name rang a vague bell, but I wanted to keep the pressure on.

“Ratko said what?”

Marko shook his head. I poked his wound again and he grimaced. I pushed harder and he cried out.

“Okay, okay, please. We know rules. We no break. Ratko said everything okay with the Badger. I swear.”

“You can swear to Barsukov. See if he believes you. Personally, I think you’re full of shit.”

“No! It’s truth!”

“Shut up. Listen. You have two problems. One is the Badger. The other is me. He already has men on their way to your home on Amherst Street. I can call them off—if you give me reason to.”

Marko started out of the chair. He was scared now. “No! You wouldn’t—”

I shoved him back, hitting his wounded shoulder. His face was filled with pain.

“You don’t think so? You are wrong. Listen to me. Where’s the girl?”

“Girl? What girl?”

I only had to feint in the direction of his shoulder before he screamed.

“No! Stop! Please! I… I don’t know girl. Ratko say pick up money. That’s all.”

“And he’d take care of Barsukov?”

“Yes! I told you…”

“I still think you’re full of shit. Let’s see what Lachko thinks.”

I took out my cell phone and walked into the bedroom. Marko wailed as I shut the door. I was all but certain they knew nothing of Eva. As expected, they were working for someone else—Ratko—and he might. I waited a few minutes, returned to the living room, and spoke quietly to Gayeff and Maks. I surveyed the three men, all of whom looked terrified.

“You,” I said, pointing to the man I hadn’t spoken with yet. “In there.”

I followed him to the bedroom, Raven in hand.

“Take off your clothes. Kneel on the bed, face forward.”

“Wait,” he cried. “Please…”

“Now!”

He did as he was told. I put the muzzle to the back of his head. “One chance. Where’s the girl?”

“No know! No girl! Please!”

“All right, where’s Ratko?”

“No know! No know! Marko—”

I moved the gun to the right and fired past his ear into the mattress. The crack was loud in the small space. The man fell forward sobbing. The room smelled of shit. I believed him.

The door opened, and Gayeff came in quickly. He leaned over the man on the bed and said in Russian, “My friend is kind. I am not. You make one noise, I will kill you.” He raked the man’s cheek with his pistol to make sure he understood. The man sobbed quietly.

I returned to the living room.

“You two! Clothes off! On your knees. Now! I gave your friend a chance to live. He didn’t take it.” I shrugged. “Maybe you are smarter.”

They looked at each other wide-eyed and then at me. I raised my gun hand as if to strike Marko, and he started to undress quickly. Nedelenko followed.

“Down, now!”

They dropped to their knees facing the wall.

I put the barrel of the gun to the back of Marko’s neck. “You’ve probably gathered by now the Badger doesn’t give a fuck what happens to you. Where do I find Ratko?”

Marko turned slightly to look at Nedelenko.

“You’re next, Nedelenko. Tell him to answer.”

“All right,” Marko said. “Don’t shoot. We only pick up money.”

“Where is he?”

“He has apartment. New York. Sixth Avenue, Twenty-first Street, new building.”

“What name?”

“What?”

“What name does he rent the apartment under?”

“His name. Rislyakov.”

“What do you think?” I said to Maks.

He spat on the floor.

“No! It’s truth! I swear. We no lie!”

I knocked on the bedroom door, and Gayeff came out.

“Get in there,” I said to the Ukrainians. “Don’t even think about coming out that door for an hour. My friend will shoot the first one who tries.”

Marko and Nedelenko shuffled into the bedroom. Cries of surprise turned to anger as Gayeff closed the door behind them. I put the money in the bag as Maks gathered up the clothes. I pocketed Marko’s BlackBerry and signaled the twins outside.

“Wait until they make a run for it. Forget Kalynych. Follow the other two and let me know where they go.”

I drove back to Manhattan, keeping the car at the speed limit while my mind raced. This was still America—New York, New Jersey—but the last few hours felt like I was back in Russia, more specifically the old Soviet Union. Terror, intimidation, fear know no boundaries. I’d used that to my advantage, thanks to the power of the Basilisk and the stupidity of the Ukrainians, but I wasn’t happy about it. I’d meant to leave that life behind. I slid back to it all too easily, and in a way, this was worse. In the old days, the law, however oppressive and corrupt, gave me the right. Tonight, I’d acted on my own—no law, no right, just a fake ID, a little information, and the ability to terrify.

I could tell myself it was the only way to find the girl, she could be in danger. Priorities.

That was a lie. I’d done what I’d done because I could. A bad habit to fall back into.

I pushed guilt aside and tried to focus on facts. The probability that Eva Mulholland had actually been kidnapped, never high, had fallen to near zero. The note was real, the photo faked, both most likely concocted by Ratko Rislyakov—I was still trying to place where I’d heard that name—and Eva Mulholland. The delivery instructions were accurate, except for the part about Eva. The Ukrainians were working for Ratko. Eva probably needed money for drugs, Ratko could have his own high-cost vices. It all made sense, except that the Ukrainians expected Ratko to clear things with Barsukov. That meant he had pull with the Badger. That opened up a host of other questions. Was Ratko aware of Eva’s real identity? Did Eva know Ratko was connected to her biological father? Did Eva know her biological father was in New York City? Was Polina aware of any of this? I could guess at the answers, but they’d be only that—guesses.