David Golemon - Primeval

"Don't worry, my friend; a few answers for my employer and you will soon be set free."

Chavez didn't relax one bit at the reassurance. Even though no names had been exchanged, he knew who it was that was holding him. Sagli and Deonovich were widely known in criminal circles for their ability to find and acquire matchless antiquity and were also known to have the steely nerves to go after whole collections at a time. Jewels, icons, paintings, sculpture — the two Russian mobsters had taken them all, sometimes quietly, sometimes the hard way. They were especially good at the hard way as his former employer had warned him on many occasions and as he'd just witnessed.

The bedroom door opened and a large man with severely short cropped hair stepped inside the room. Through the glaring lights, Chavez saw that he was eating a hamburger. The wrapper held snug around the buns, he stepped up to his prisoner, taking a bite of the large burger. The man wore a black T-shirt under a black sport coat. In all aspects, he looked like any other Southern California business man, except for the eyes. The large brown eyes held not one ounce of humanity as he took in the sight of Chavez sitting before him. He took one last bite of the yellow-wrapped hamburger and then handed it to the man who had spoken a moment before. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and slowly wiped his mouth.

"Dispose of this garbage," he said as he was relieved of his burden. He looked down and then leaned into the face of Chavez. "You Americans, no wonder you are becoming a fat country, a man cannot find a decent meal in all of Los Angeles." He smiled. "Fast food is a fast death in my opinion."

As Chavez swallowed, he saw the man straighten and then he held out his hand. Something was in his outstretched fingers and then before Chavez knew what was happening, a searing pain raked across his right cheek. He screamed out, more because of the pressure and fast motion than the pain, which was slow in coming. However, it did come and along with that pain was a steady flow of blood.

"That was to get your attention," the man said in passable English as he stepped back to admire his handiwork. "Right now, the scar that I have left you could be well taken as a dueling scar across your cheek, my friend; at one point in European history that was known as a badge of honor. If you answer my inquiries, you can skip through your life telling your friends that you received your scar in battle with evil men. Answer me not, and the local county coroner will have a most difficult time sewing you back together so those same friends can view your remains at your funeral."

Chavez opened his eyes against the pain in his cheek. Knowing his skin had been laid open to the bone, he tried desperately to focus on the man standing in front of him with the open straight razor, which now gleamed in the bright lights.

"My name is Gregori Deonovich. My partner and I are in search of something that is in your possession. I speak of the Petrov Diary, or the portions of it that has survived history that is. We understand that it was you who pulled off the robbery at the Denver Museum of Natural History, am I correct?"

"I don't have the diary, it was—"

The flash of the straight razor advertized the split-second warning that Chavez had answered the question the wrong way. The blade struck him just above the right eyebrow, slicing through the thick skin until the razor actually cut into bone. Chavez screamed and grabbed for his face.

Deonovich stepped back and holding out the razor, he flicked twice to get the dripping blood off of it, and then he nodded his head to the right. The smaller man stepped forward and wiped Juan's face, then he made the thief take the small towel and hold it against the two wounds.

"The cost of failure is high; the next time it will be your throat, comrade."

As Chavez pressed the towel to staunch the flow of his blood, he knew he had to answer with the right words.

"The diary was given to the man who set up the theft — a man who paid me and my men for it and a few of the other items."

"The name of your employer?" Deonovich asked as he stepped forward, his face set in a mask of anger.

"At the time he was using the name Ellison, but a few years back he used an alias of Tomlinson; before that another name."

"You are not being very forthcoming," Deonovich said as he raised his right hand to strike Chavez again.

"Wait — wait!"

"Quickly," the Russian said, becoming angrier by the second.

"Listen, my employer, the man who originally wanted the journal, he went missing. He never showed up to give us the payment he owed us… so… so I burned the journal."

Deonovich wanted to laugh out loud. "You want me to believe you went through all of that trouble to steal this item from a secure museum, and then knowing this journal may lead to a vast treasure, you destroyed it out of anger for not getting paid for the job?"

"How in the hell did I know what the journal said, it was written in Russian."

"Then the journal is destroyed?"

"Yes, so you may as well let me go," Chavez whimpered.

"Yes, we may as well," Deonovich said as he nodded for the small man standing behind Chavez to finish up.

Chavez never really saw the shadow as it fell over him. The next sensation was of cold steel as it sank deep into his throat from behind. The razor severed his airway and his jugular vein in a practiced move perfected in the highlands of Afghanistan many years before.

Deonovich nodded as Chavez fell from the chair. As he lay on the floor, he continued to hold the towel to his face even as he wondered why he was no longer able to move. The large Russian stepped away from the quickly spreading pool of blood and removed the cell phone from his jacket; at the same time he held out his free hand and snapped his fingers. The smaller assassin understood and handed him the cheeseburger he had been given minutes before.

Deonovich took a bite of the burger and waited for the phone to ring on the other side of the country.

"Our friend Mr. Chavez turned out to be most helpful. It seems he was working for an outside contractor when he stole the journal from the Denver Museum. When this mysterious employer never showed to pay Chavez and his crew for the heist, the idiot burned it," Deonovich said with a laugh, almost choking on the cheeseburger. He looked at his right hand and then tossed the greasy burger onto the finally still corpse of the Mexican thief.

"Yes," the Russian said into the phone. "It turns out we wasted a lot of time and killed a few police officers just to confirm the man didn't have what we thought he did. Well, we live and we learn. At least we have closed that end of the loop; now no one besides ourselves can find the area we are seeking. You will pass this along to our associate. Thank you, Dmitri, I'll be back in a few hours."

Deonovich closed his cell phone and then looked at the corpse of Chavez.

"At least no one can follow us using what you have stolen," he snickered and then turned for the door. "Diamonds and gold — such small-minded people. Take his body to the sea and throw him in, then meet us at the Los Angeles Airport, you know where."

Deonovich turned and gave Chavez one last look and smiled. "Yes, they won't follow us from what you may have known."

Deonovich knew they would find the man's body in the next few hours, but that was to be a calling card of sorts warning that they were to be left alone, and Chavez would be a record of their seriousness. There would be shock and anger, but by then he, Sagli and their strike-and-recovery team would be well north of the border, and on the trail of their richest prize yet.

Gregori Sagli closed his cell phone and then eased the basement door open, and saw Lynn Simpson sitting in the dark. She didn't move or respond to the creaking sound of the door opening, nor when it closed. Sagli smiled and then trotted up the stairs. He went to the kitchen table where a few of his men were sitting and eating sandwiches. He reached over and lifted his small briefcase from the end of the table and walked over to the kitchen counter. Opening the combination lock, he lifted the lid and pulled out a large plastic protector that held Xerox copies of the items sent to them by their associate who had planned everything from beginning to end, and thus far, this person had been perfect in that planning.