Dale Brown - Puppet Master

Massina slid to his right, expecting the man to try again, this time closer to the edge, where he wouldn’t have to climb up so high. Sure enough, a hand appeared there. Massina kicked at it. This time the hand grabbed at his shoe and pulled. Massina kicked violently — the shoe flew off; the hand disappeared.

A moment later, a head popped up farther to the left. He was a big man.

“I’m going to throw you off the roof,” growled the man.

Massina backed up. The roof’s pitch was gentle, but otherwise it offered nothing to him — no cover, and no way down. The nearest building was a good fifty feet across the side street — no way he was jumping to that roof, even if it hadn’t been two stories higher.

One shoe on, one off, Massina calculated how he might fight the man. Most likely they would both roll off.

The man rose unsteadily at the edge of the roof. “I’m going to kill you,” he growled.

“Do it then,” said Massina. He lowered himself slightly, ready to shift his weight — if the man charged, he would slide out to the side, kick him in the face.

And pray.

“Arrrrrr!” yelled the man, as if he’d been a Viking berserker. He jerked forward, then fell flat on his face.

Massina hesitated a moment, unsure, then started forward to kick his antagonist in the face as he struggled to stay on the roof. Massina was still a few feet away when he realized someone else was behind the man, punching him in the back from the edge of the roof.

Johnny Givens.

Something inside Johnny exploded as his fist hit the man’s back. All of his frustration, all of his anger, flew into his muscles. He was a nor’easter, a monster, Godzilla come to life — the bastard who’d pursued Massina had no chance. As Johnny pounded the side of the man’s ribs, he felt them give way. More punches — it was like beating down cardboard for the recycling bin, and with as little conscience as that.

Terrible sounds came from the man — a howl first, then a groan, then a wheeze, then something like a plea, followed by a whimper.

What are you doing?

What are you doing?

Johnny heard his own voice echoing in the hollow of his head, coming from a long distance.

The man’s life was in his hands. He could throw him to the ground. He wanted to.

That’s not who I am.

He delivered one more punch, then pushed the bloodied, beaten man to the side. Behind him and below, a fire truck’s ladder was being quickly cranked upward. Police were shouting.

“Mr. Massina?” yelled Johnny. “Are you all right?”

“I’m here,” yelled Massina, farther up the roof. “I’m here.”

Chelsea had left Massina alone at the office, and when she couldn’t get him on his cell phone, she decided he must still be there and was in trouble. She rode her bike to Borya’s house, dropped it at the stoop, and ran up the steps to find the girl and the babysitter sitting in the living room with the security guard Beefy had left. No one there looked very comfortable.

But they were safe.

“I’m going over to the building,” she told them. “I think Mr. Massina’s there. I want to make sure he’s OK.”

“I’m going with you,” said Borya.

“That’s a really bad idea.”

“I am going. I’m part of the company.”

“Then we’re all going.”

Chelsea managed to convince the security officer to take them. Piling Chelsea’s bike into the back of the Jimmy, they drove over in time to find a pair of fire trucks maneuvering near the far end of the building.

Beefy was standing in a cluster of police officers, watching the trucks.

“What’s going on?” Chelsea asked. “Was there a fire, too?”

“Lou climbed up on the roof,” Bozzone told her. “He just about kicked one of the burglars down. Someone stopped him, though.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“God, it’s Johnny Givens,” said Chelsea, spotting him as he came down the ladder. “Our Johnny Givens.”

“The FBI guy?”

“Yeah, look. There’s Lou.”

Johnny waited for Massina as he came down off the fire truck. The police were lowering the intruder, who’d been handcuffed, on the other truck.

Chelsea ran to Massina and hugged him. “What were you doing on the roof, Lou?”

“I’m thinking of adding a patio,” said Massina.

Chelsea turned to Johnny. His shirt was smeared with sweat, black tar, and long streaks of blood.

“What were you doing?” she asked.

“Job interview,” said Johnny.

As his assistant had predicted, the deputy mayor was holding down his corner at the tavern where Tolevi had first found him. He was neither surprised to see Tolevi nor apologetic that he hadn’t met him at his office as planned.

“I talked to Olga at the prison,” Tolevi told him, sipping a vodka. “We have an arrangement. But her price is very high.”

“How much?”

“Forty percent.”

“Outrageous!”

“Yes. Half of it is in merchandise, at least. But I have to pay her ten thousand euros up front.”

“You should have waited for me. I could have driven a much better bargain.”

Tolevi shrugged. “If you can cut a better deal, it will go to your share. In the meantime, she will give us two prisoners we can charge for release. This way, I can recoup a little of my investment.”

“Ah, excellent idea. Which ones?”

“I have a man in mind. You can name the other.”

“Who is your man?”

“Olak Urum.”

The deputy mayor straightened, suddenly sober.

“Why do you want him?”

“I can get a good price. And he did me a favor before the war. Several, actually.”

“Olak Urum? He was involved in the rebellion. They won’t give you him.”

“I would think that’s a reason they would. He was one of theirs.”

“No. He betrayed the cause.”

“How?”

The deputy mayor shook his head.

“He will owe me and be of use then,” said Tolevi.

“You told Olga this?”

“Not yet.”

“She won’t agree. I guarantee.”

“Just get me another name. Someone who will pay at least fifteen thousand euros.”

“Fifteen thousand? Impossible. No one is worth that much. Not even your Olak.”

“Then name a friend if you want, someone who will owe us and be useful. There’s too much to do to haggle. We have real money to be made here.”

“How infamous is your brother?” Tolevi asked when they were all back in the car, heading toward Donetsk.

“He’s not.”

“Why is it that the deputy mayor doesn’t think I can get him out?”

“There was a falling out in the committee. Some people hate him. Some don’t.”

“What does the prison director, the deputy warden or whatever she is — what does she think?”

“I have no idea.”

Tolevi pondered this. “He’s in the most secure part of the prison.”

The brother scoffed. “The house? They have real beds there. Not like the rest.”

“How does he rate a bed?”

“Some of the guards like him.”

“Have you thought about bribing them yourself?”

“They may arrest me, too. For being his brother.”

Back in Donetsk two hours later, Tolevi bought three more phones. He realized now it was going to cost more than ten thousand euros to free Olak, but Tolevi had no doubt from his conversation with the warden that greed would win in the end. The only problem would be making the suitable connections and then ensuring follow-through.