Brad Thor - State Of The Union

Popov had an engraver give the Pit Bull on the pistol’s slide a huge set of balls. Then, carved right in front of the animal, was the outline of a naked woman on her hands and knees with a huge set of tits covered by the letters O.G. for original gangster. What Popov lacked in class, he definitely made up for in creativity.

As he pulled back the slide of his Pit Bull to chamber a round, Popov made a mental note to invoice Stavropol for this recent purchase of custom ammunition. After all, it was a legitimate expense, one which Popov couldn’t imagine conducting his business without. The armor-piercing rounds were made from hardened machined steel that had been hand-dipped in Teflon. With his enemies relying more and more on heavily armored cars and bulletproof vests, complete with titanium trauma plates over their hearts, he needed every advantage he could get.

The armor piercing rounds had become his signature and though they did seem a bit of an overkill for what he was about to do, he had modeled his career on the old Russian proverb,while fame travels slowly, at least notoriety travels fast. The runaway orphan from Nizhnevartovsk had learned much during his short time in this world.

The missing general had been easier to find than Popov had expected-though he wouldn’t inform his current benefactor of that fact. No, he would let the famous General Sergei Olegovich Stavropol believe that he had moved heaven and earth to track down his quarry. In reality, it had been as simple as driving to certain shops in and around Zvenigorod, making inquiries.

After having examined the empty grave at the hunting lodge, Popov had decided to operate under the assumption that General Anatoly Karganov was indeed wounded, but not dead. Either he had escaped under his own power, or someone had helped him. Under the circumstances, Karganov would not have been able to return home. It would have been too dangerous. In fact, if his injuries were serious enough, he might not have been able to travel very far at all.

At the very least, Karganov probably would have needed some sort of medical attention. With this in mind, Popov had visited not only every physician, but also every veterinarian within a fifty-kilometer radius. Popov had a way of making most people, especially hardworking law-abiding citizens, feel uncomfortable around him. Maybe it was his slightly repugnant, street-savvy demeanor or the way his eyes held you in their gaze and never let go that made most people automatically assume he was a special investigator or some other State law enforcement officer. Not one soul bothered to ask him for identification. His suit alone, hell, even his shoes, cost more than what most of the people in the Odinstovo area saw in an entire year. Whoever he was, Milesch Popov was important and conveyed the distinct impression that failing to cooperate with him brought with it a slew of undesirable consequences.

When the physician and veterinarian trail went cold, Popov moved to the next item on his checklist-stores that sold any type of medical supplies. He left no stone unturned. If a shop carried anything that even remotely resembled what he was looking for, he paid them a visit.

It was at the end of a very long day, when most of the shops were preparing to close, that his efforts appeared to be finally paying off. “Dobri vyechyer,” he said in an officious tone to the aging shopkeeper, as he scanned the provincial pharmacy’s scantily stocked shelves. “Do you sell bandages?”

“Da,” replied the old man, pointing to where the bandages were.

“And antibiotics?”

“Da,” repeated the old man as he came around the counter to help direct his wealthy young customer.

“How about antiseptic?”

“We’re all out,” said the man as he shook his headno.

When Popov asked him why he didn’t have any antiseptic on hand, the shopkeeper explained that a young woman had come in and bought all that he had. She had also bought several boxes of bandages, and a healthy amount of antibiotics.

Immediately, Popov’s interest was piqued and his questions began flowing.Did the shopkeeper recognize her? No, he didn’t.Was she local? No, she was definitely not local.What did she need the medical supplies for? She didn’t say.Do you know where she is staying? No, but he did direct her to the market around the corner where she could buy food and order firewood.

And, without so much as a ‘spaseeba,’ Popov was out the door and headed toward the localriynak.

The woman who ran the market prided herself on being well informed on everything that happened in their small village. In other words, she was an insufferable gossip. It took very little for Milesch Popov to coax out of her the location of the dacha where the old woman’s son had delivered the order of firewood. It was only three kilometers away.

Popov hid his car up the road and picked his way by foot through scrawny trees with bare, claw-like branches to the dilapidated house. Above the poorly shingled roof, small tendrils of smoke rose into the sky from a rusting stovepipe. In the driveway sat a lone Lada hatchback. As Popov approached it, he withdrew his stiletto and slashed both of the Lada’s front tires. Returning the knife to his coat pocket, Popov maneuvered himself closer to one of the dacha’s rear windows to get a good look inside.

In his thin, Italian calfskin loafers, his feet were beyond freezing, but when he saw the man propped upright in a small metal-framed bed with his head wrapped turban style in a long white bandage, Popov was suddenly infused with a surge of warmth.

He crept a safe distance away from the house, withdrew his cell phone and dialed. Stavropol answered on the third ring.

“I have found your package,” said Popov.

“Where?” asked Stavropol, the moan of a ship’s horn discernable in the near distance.

“Out in the countryside.”

“I knew it,” purred Stavropol. “Listen carefully. I’m going to give you an address. I want you to put the body into the trunk of your car and drive it-”

“There’s a small problem.”

“I paid you to find a body, not problems. Now I want you to put him in your-”

“He’s alive,” interrupted Popov.

“What do you mean,he’s alive?”

“Alive -as innot dead.”

“That’s impossible,” snarled Stavropol.

“I was just looking at him. He’s got a bandage around his head and he’s sitting upright in a bed.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Would I be calling you if I wasn’t? He looks just like the picture you sent me, so either it’s him, or he’s got a double with a very bad head wound.”

“Head wound,” reflected Stavropol. “Damn it. Is he alone?”

“I don’t know. I only took a quick look through the window. I think there might be a woman in there with him,” replied Popov.

“I want you to find out for sure and then kill them both.”

“Kill them both?”

“Don’t act so unsettled, Milesch. I know you’ve killed before. That’s why I chose you.”

“Our deal was only that I find him,” responded Popov.

“That’s when we thought he was already dead.”

“Well, killing him and anyone else who’s with him is going to cost you more.”

“How much more?” asked Stavropol, not surprised that Popov was asking for more money. Had Stavropol been closer, he would have done the job himself, but he couldn’t risk losing Karganov in the time it would take him to get there. Stavropol waited longer than he should have for Popov to respond and when he didn’t, he said, “Popov, are you there or not? What’s going on?”

Alexandra Ivanova pressed the silencer of her nine-millimeter Walther P4 hard against the spot where Milesch Popov’s left ear met his skull. The steel tube felt like ice to him, but that was only part of what made him freeze. He was absolutely amazed that anyone could have snuck up behind him. He had been so careful. Or so he had thought.