Christopher Reich - The First Billion

Then he saw the battered truck parked behind the main building, and his spirits crashed to earth. The pickup’s fender was dented, the windshield cracked. Whoever had driven through the fence hadn’t gotten far.

The SUV lumbered to a halt in front of a large cabin. Gavallan spotted the bars and knew he would have to act fast. Once inside, they’d be locked up and then he’d have no chance for surprise. He imagined that the day’s agenda called for interrogation and torture, followed sometime in the afternoon by death. Call it the Russian trinity. He’d have to hit someone before he got locked up. He swallowed hard, steeling himself to the task. He’d never killed anyone, not with his hands. He was a pilot. Tell him to drop a couple bombs from twenty thousand feet and he was your man. Ask him to shove a three-inch blade into a man’s belly and he’d say, “No thanks, that’s the next guy’s job.” Except today there wasn’t a next guy. Today there was him and Cate and five Russian thugs with at least two Uzis and a couple of handguns between them. He looked at the driver and at Boris. Who would be first? It didn’t matter so long as he had one of the machine guns. That’s what he needed. From then on out it would be a crapshoot.

“We are arrived,” said Boris.

Gavallan descended slowly, pushing his stomach out to keep pressure on the shank, make sure it remained inside his waistband. The air was dry and dusty, hinting of resin and mint. He looked around, his eyes making a desperate survey of the compound. Besides the main building, there were three smaller cabins, shacks, really. Two stood to his left, fifty yards away. A third was closer, more a shed, constructed from pale birch wood. Gavallan thought he saw something move inside it. He looked closer. He could see the fingers of two hands extended through gaps in the wall, grasping the wood.

Graf.

His heart beat with a violent resolve.

The second Suburban pulled into the clearing and stopped. Tatiana jumped from the car, and a moment later Cate appeared. Behind them, Boris’s cronies had formed a small welcoming committee. The Uzis were out, and not just for show.

Gavallan walked over to Cate. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said, taking her hand.

“No, Jett,” she said. “It’s not.”

They stood in the clearing in front of the cabin waiting for Boris to open the door, a vacation party anxious to get into their summer rental. Gavallan held Cate’s hand, every bit as much for his comfort as hers.

“You okay?” he asked.

Cate nodded, shifting her head toward him. “We have to talk.”

The blunt nose of an Uzi jabbed Gavallan’s back before he could reply. “Quiet. No speak.”

“Take it easy, bud,” said Gavallan. Irritated, he turned to face his newly appointed guardian angel, all two hundred and forty pounds of him. He wanted to shove the guy, gun or no gun. “We’re not going anywhere. Give us a break.”

“Fuck you.” The guard had white blond hair done in a burr cut, dull blue eyes, and pitted cheeks that had fought a losing battle against teenage acne. He feinted with the Uzi and Gavallan jumped back, drawing a bored chortle from the spectators.

The drivers lolled against the doors of their Suburbans, arms crossed, smoking and chatting up Tatiana, who was dressed like a California teenager in Levi’s, cowboy boots, and a black tank top. Her shoulder holster and pearl-handled.357 Magnum were strictly adult fare, though, and christened her the flat tops’ dream date. She responded to their catcalls desultorily, her voice flat, her eyes glued to the cabin, to Gavallan and Cate.

She was a pro, Gavallan decided. She was trouble.

Shifting his eyes around the clearing, he took in the trees that stood stiff as sentries, the furrowed track that had brought them here, the twin fences, and the ruined gate. The entry to a storm cellar could be seen a ways off, next to a depleted woodpile. In the same direction were two smaller cabins, one with an antenna, the other a crude smokestack. But Gavallan’s interest was first and foremost on the shed. He took a step toward it, pointing. “Is Mr. Byrnes in there?”

No one answered.

“Boris, is Mr. Byrnes in there?” The Uzi stabbed his back and Gavallan spun rapidly, knocking it away. “Hit me again with that thing and I’ll ram it sideways up your ass.”

Finished unlocking the cabin, Boris hurried back toward Gavallan. “Why you no shut up? We ask you once, twice. Still, you talk.”

“You can’t just—”

Boris fired a fist into his jaw, knocking Gavallan to a knee. “Shut up. Ponimayu?”

“Jett!” Cate jumped to his side and Boris picked her up kicking and struggling and carried her back a step or two. Setting her down, he rattled off a barrage of words at her. Cate relaxed again. She stood rock-still, her eyes glued to Boris. She was playing the obedient schoolgirl, and Gavallan was glad for it.

A little longer, my girl. Play along a little longer.

Slowly, Gavallan found his way to his legs. He hadn’t been hit like that in a long time. It didn’t hurt so much as make him want to give Boris one right back. Brushing the pine needles off his pants, he checked for the butt of his shank. It was still in place. I owe you one, buddy, he promised himself, meeting Boris’s eye. Payback. And it’s coming sooner than you think.

“My father forbids you to talk,” Cate explained a moment later. “To me or to anyone. Graf is in the shed. He says if you want the same punishment as him, all you have to do is keep speaking.”

“Ponimayu?” Boris repeated, firing two fingers into his chest. “You understand now?”

“Loud and clear.”

Boris jumped onto the porch and waved his arm for them to follow. “Inside.”

The Uzi nipped at Gavallan’s back and he took a step forward, bending to help Cate with her bag. “I’ll get it,” he said. He needed the bag every bit as much as the shank that was cutting into his waist. The bag was his decoy. A prop to buy him time.

“Thanks,” she whispered, her smile a present.

Gavallan crossed the threshold and looked around. The floor was wooden, swept clean and covered with a sisal throw rug. Four battered desk chairs were scattered about the place. A trestle table took up one wall. On it was a propane-fueled heating ring, a few dishes, and a tray of cutlery. A portable Honda generator sat in a corner, along with a space heater and two jerry cans he presumed were filled with gasoline. A pile of dirty magazines littered another corner. Man’s fundamental needs had been reduced to heat, food, and jerking off.

“Nice place,” said Gavallan. “Tell me, is it a time-share or do you own it outright?”

“You will only stay a few days,” said Boris.

“We shouldn’t be staying here at all. You know your boss is in trouble. Come on, Boris, it’s time to call it quits. Let’s all get back into the cars and go back to Moscow. I’ll buy you a drink at the Kempinski.”

Gavallan waited for him to say “Shut up,” to throw another punch. But this time Boris merely laughed. “You think I should quit? And do what?”

“You’ve got a good head for the market. Use it. With your knowledge, I bet you could find a job as a broker in no time.”

“With you? With Black Jet?”

“Why not? It’s better than staying with Kirov. Where do you want to start? San Francisco? New York? Let’s get Mr. Byrnes and head back to town.”

“New York, eh?” Boris hummed a few bars of “On Broadway.” Un Brod-vey. Abruptly, his gaze darkened. “Mr. Kirov is not in trouble. You are in trouble, Mr. Jett. Go with Ivan. He show you to your room.”

“Boris, listen to me—”

“Shut up, Mr. Jett.”

All trace of the Russian’s former good nature had vanished. Gavallan knew why: He was steeling himself for the job ahead. Putting on his armor. As Ivan led the way down the hall, Gavallan grabbed Cate’s hand. “Hang in there,” he said.