Countdown to Zero Hour Page 7
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the day when he stepped outside the house and back to the SUV. Opening the passenger door and rooting through the lockbox gave him an opportunity to steal glances at the house’s exterior and get a better sense of the layout.
Not only were there guards on the two prominent doors he could see, but there were also armed men wearing a slow path beneath the windows. Walkie-talkies linked them all together. Submachine guns, assault rifles. Nothing with a scope, so their range would be limited. The roof was too pitched for a sniper up top. The top-floor windows were the highest vantage.
He took Hayley’s phone from the lockbox and closed up the car. A lot of the house’s angles needed to be mapped. He’d have to take his time to avoid suspicion, but the clock on the operation was always ticking. It sounded in his head like the cylinder of a .357 spinning.
Back at the front door of the house, the shooter with the bad attitude didn’t even glance at him. Fuck it if Art wasn’t completely trusted. His goal wasn’t to move up in the organization. His involvement with the Orel Group ended when the last shot was fired and the bosses were either dead or being handed over to the appropriate authorities.
The men who controlled the empire, who ran the guns, the drugs, the girls and intimidated or killed anyone who stood in their way, were literally at the top of the house. Art climbed the stairs to the third floor. The uppermost landing revealed a broad room and bright windows to the right and a wall of five doors on the left. These were the bosses’ rooms.
It had already been arranged that Rolan would have the second door. As far as Art knew, only one other boss was there, Dernov. Three to go. When all five were in place, Art would call in and lead the strike.
He tapped on Rolan’s door and was told in Russian to enter.
The silver-haired man sat in a plush chair by a far window. The room was nicely furnished. King-size bed, couch, matching lamps. Rolan took off his reading glasses, folded his book and motioned Art forward.
“Has the cook settled in?” he asked in Russian.
Art knew Hayley would never be comfortable in the house. “She’s putting together the kitchen now.”
Rolan checked his heavy, expensive watch. “But not in time for lunch.”
“A bachelor’s lunch today.” Art held up Hayley’s phone. “Do you want to hold on to her phone, or should I?”
“Give it to Garin, Dernov’s man. They have a lockbox.” Rolan put his glasses back on. His ice-blue eyes peered at Art over the lenses. “There will be times we bring you into the room to talk about the Mexicans, in America and across the border. Don’t worry about the other bosses’ bloodlines. You have something to offer, and I vouch for you.”
“Thank you.” Art smiled proudly, like he’d been given a gift. He knew Rolan couldn’t see past the mask. If the boss could peer into the darkness within Art and see the black fury, he’d be screaming for the guards.
When the week was over, Art wouldn’t have to pretend to like any of these sons of bitches anymore. He wouldn’t have to give them slivers of information about the Latino population in San Diego. He wouldn’t have to spend any more time with Rolan or the organization that had murdered his father.
Not that any of them remembered Tony Diaz. The Russian mob had just been getting a foothold in San Diego and had been on a mission to wipe out any competition. Art’s mother had described Art’s father as the mayor of their little corner of the city. He’d probably been running some social drugs, maybe a couple of dice games, but it was neighborhood business. The economy of the street, for and with the locals. He hadn’t been a pusher and he hadn’t shaken people down. He’d been a father to a five-year-old son, hustling what he could to keep his family afloat. Tony had been eliminated in a simple drive-by. To the Russians it was business. To Art is was his mother crying on the phone, aunts and uncles showing up, and a pain he still hadn’t learned to understand.
Had Rolan pulled the trigger back then? Maybe he’d been the driver. They’d killed a lot of people to establish their power and continued to kill in order to hold on to it. And not just gangs and petty criminals. Business owners were beaten close to death if they didn’t cooperate. And ordinary people who were unfortunate enough to witness a crime were also taken out. It wasn’t until Art had been recruited by Automatik that he’d found out that the Orel Group was the organization that had eliminated his father.
“Just let me know when you need me.” Art held up Hayley’s phone again, indicating where he was headed.
Rolan nodded gracefully and resumed reading before Art had even turned away.
Art left silently and closed the door behind him.
Revenge would get him killed. This operation was tactical. Unemotional. The personal satisfaction would come when it was over and he’d chewed them up from the inside and broken their organization.
But emotions crept in. Hayley was already more than just a noncombatant. She was smart and fierce, and every damn minute he spent with her he learned new reasons he had to protect her.
The third-floor windows revealed additional miles of desert around the house. Past the cinder block wall were miles of dirt and rock and scrub. Far to the south, man-made shapes broke up the horizon. La Bota, the closest village. It was the nearest source for supplies, and it was the staging area for his strike team.
Somewhere between him and the team, invisible in the desert like a sidewinder snake, was Jackson. The former Navy SEAL pulled the rough assignment of relay man. Less than three hundred yards away from the house, he was positioned to receive Art’s text messages. The app they used relied on proximity, not a phone signal, so they could always get through.
But Art would have to wait until he was alone in his room before sending relevant information from his initial recon. Any trust from the other guards was already hard to come by. The smallest lapse in concentration would get him iced. And Hayley would be dead soon after as they cleaned house.
“Where’s Garin?” Art asked a lean goon in Russian as they passed on the stairway.
“Playing pool.” The man waved back down toward the second floor, and in doing so revealed the two shoulder holsters under his track jacket. He was good for at least thirty bullets.
Art found the pool table past the long hallway where he and the other guards were roomed. Only one man circled the green rectangle, stalking the balls and holding the cue like a hunting spear.
“Garin?” Art could feel the man’s attention on him, even though the thickly muscled guard stared at the table.
When he looked up, cold blue eyes tried to freeze Art. “I’m Garin.” He spoke in Russian. Close-cropped blond hair covered the square brick of his head.
“I’m Art. With Rolan.” Another standoff. Both men remained motionless, fifteen feet away and separated by the pool table.
“I know, denga.”
Art didn’t know the word. Garin used it like an insult, but it must’ve been an obscure one. He’d have to look it up.
Instead of getting bloody and sweaty trying to establish who was the alpha goon of the house, Art stuck to business. “I need to get into the lockbox.” He held up Hayley’s phone. “The cook’s.”
A nasty smile crossed Garin’s face. “The cook’s a tasty treat herself.”
Art reconsidered his hesitation to put his fist in Garin’s throat. “She’s not on the menu. She’s doing a job here, just like us.”
Garin carefully placed the cue on the table, not taking his gaze from Art. “You are not us, denga.”
“Take it up with Rolan.” The bosses were the last word, so if Garin didn’t like Art being there, it was Rolan’s business.
Garin blinked but maintained his confident, carnivorous grin. “The lockbox is in the conference room.” He walked, deliberately brushing past Art though there was plenty of space to get around.
The large, rectangular guard sauntered slowly toward the conference rooms, in control of the pace. His left shoulder was a bit lower than his right. Art imagined he’d broken a collarbone at some point. He wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows. Tattoos of horses and swords and old Russian cavalry riders covered his forearms, the black lines interrupted only by aging scars. Knife wounds. Art knew that sometimes you had to take a couple of slashes in order to finish the other guy with the knife.
The shirt was tucked into pressed slacks. Where was this guy’s gun?
Garin opened the door to the conference room with no windows and didn’t even check to see if Art followed as he walked inside. Low cabinets lined one wall, complete with booze and water bottles. The main space was dominated by a large table surrounded by five chairs. This was where the bosses would do their main business in the dim light, figuring out how to best slice up the world around them.
With the element of surprise, the strike team could overtake the room quickly. Breaching the door would trap anyone inside. But the timing would have to be perfect.
“Maybe I should take your phone, too.” Garin worked the combination lock on a four-foot safe that was built into the wall.
Without the phone, Art would be cut off from his team. “No signal out here anyway.”
“I’m a perfectionist.” Garin unlocked the safe and swung the thick door open. Inside were folders full of paper, two pistols, a magazine-fed automatic shotgun and a submachine gun. Extra ammo and other gear in a duffel were piled on a lower shelf.
Anyone hitting this room would have to hit fast and hard.
Art placed Hayley’s phone on the top shelf, away from any paperwork. But Garin didn’t close the door. He put his hand out, waiting.
“Phone, denga.” He maintained his mean smile.
“I need it for my music. Helps me sleep at night.” Art stayed balanced on his feet, cool in his head.
“Russian lullabies?” Garin chuckled, made his open hand into a fist.
“Mariachi.”
The smile flickered on Garin’s face. He clenched his jaw and muttered, “Peasant,” closed the safe and spun the lock.
The tension would only build if Art fed it. Instead, he turned from Garin and started out of the room.
The Russian’s voice stopped him. “Don’t think you have exclusive rights on the cook, denga.”
Art turned. An ugly and playful smile creased Garin’s face. They’d just met and there was already bad blood. The complications multiplied. Garin would be watching, waiting for an excuse to go after Art, making it harder to collect and communicate the intel he needed.
And this son of a bitch was a threat to Hayley. “Let her do her job in peace. Or there will be no peace for you.”
Garin’s eyes narrowed and he took a step toward Art, who stood his ground.
The goon laughed like a rusty razor blade. “I’m irresistible.” He waved Art away like shooing a fly.
Art grinned back, not giving Garin the anger he wanted. But there would be no smiles if the guard made a play for Hayley. It might just be an excuse to ice the asshole without breaking cover.
Without another word or threat, Art left the room. The tension remained. Guards milled around the second floor, and someone had taken up Garin’s abandoned pool game. Their eyes were diligent, though, checking out the windows for any threat. None of them knew the enemy was already in the house with them.
Art closed himself in his small room and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled his pistol from its holster and felt the comforting grip in his hand. Secrets, guns, mob bosses, Garin, knives and Hayley. Art was at the center of it all. The only people he could trust were a text message away, and he had tons of intelligence to gather before he could pull the trigger.
This was the bleeding edge of his mission. But whose blood would be spilled?
* * *
Lunch brought a steady progression of rough and cruel-looking men into Hayley’s kitchen. She alternated between restocking the sandwich fixings and bowls of chips, and washing the brand-new pots and pans for her real cooking.
Most of the men eyed her, the usual leering assessment. It didn’t matter if she was a waitress, a cook or a chef. Too many men had thought if she was working, she was available. She stared back at some of the more brazen guards, telling them she wasn’t an easy target. A couple of them met her challenge with aggressive confidence. The other men blinked away and preoccupied themselves with the food and paper plates.
Art’s boss, Rolan, arrived and all the other men took a step back so he could go to the front of the line. He assembled his sandwich, gingerly picking up the meat with a fork like he wasn’t used to doing any labor of his own. Hayley came over to the other side of the counter and took over, putting together a generous meal for the man who was overpaying her with untraceable cash.
“Spacibo.” He nodded with the grace of a pope. “This—” he waved his finger in a circle, indicating the kitchen, “—okay?”
“Ideal’nyy,” she replied, remembering how proud she would be when her aunt would use that word about her cooking.
“Good.” Rolan gave her a light pat on the hand. Even his magnanimous gesture felt sinister.
She’d experienced the violence around him. He may not have participated, but it was his world and it felt like the underlying tension in the house could be unleashed if he gave the order.
Did he control Art that way? It didn’t seem as if anyone could tell that man what to do, yet he followed the orders of his boss.
Art had been curiously absent during lunch. Part of her had been glad to be free from the dizzying spin he always produced around her. She’d focused on the work and less on the insane circumstances around her. But she also missed his presence and that sense that he was watching out for her, even though he was the one who got her into this.
Once Rolan’s plate was complete, he moved out of the kitchen, and the steady flow of the guards resumed. It wasn’t until the last one had built his meal that Art showed up. Relief and trepidation mixed through her, charged by the electric rush that Art always brought.
She stood by the counter while he assembled a sandwich. “The code of the lunch room?” she asked. “Art eats last.”
He barely shrugged. “Some of them love to hate me. Some don’t care. I keep to my business.”
But she didn’t understand that business. He wasn’t just a ruthless bodyguard. Not like the others. She’d seen his brutality, but also his care. Was he as trapped as she was?
With a whisper, she ventured, “What are you doing here?”
His answer was in his eyes. On the surface, his look said, “Don’t ask,” but beyond it there was a history of pain and determination. Battles fought and won, and deeper battles still ongoing.
“I’m here for lunch.” He piled additional food on his plate and carried it out of the kitchen.
Instead of being shut down, though, she needed to know more. That was the real danger. If she continued to push, to seek, what truth about Art would she find? And what would he do if she discovered him?
Pulling away from the electrified chain that bound her to Art, she focused her attention back on the kitchen. Lunch was over, and dinner prep had to begin.
The new pots and pans were organized as they dried. She collected the ingredients for an adaptation of a stuffed carp recipe she’d learned from her aunt. But instead of carp, she was using fresh salmon steak she’d brought.
A few guards returned from lunch with piles of paper plates and other trash. Art wasn’t with them. She pointed to where it should go and continued org
anizing the foreign kitchen.
Dried mushrooms were submerged in hot water. They’d come out two hours later. Meanwhile, she could work on the side salad of carrots and cucumbers. It was uninspired labor, but she was happy to have a familiar task she could throw herself into. Cooking had defined her for so long. She relied on that amid the questions and danger.
But her concentration was broken by a man entering her kitchen.
He smiled, but didn’t look happy. His blue eyes were chilling. Broad and muscled, he seemed to block out the rest of the house from the kitchen. He put his hand out slowly, palm up. His forearm was drawn all over in tattoos. Rough skulls amid what looked like oil paintings. He glanced at her hand, then his, trying to direct her.
The last thing she wanted to do was touch him. His fingers would close like a trap.
“There’s more lunch in the fridge.” She busied herself measuring out cups of dry buckwheat.
Did he understand? The blond man didn’t seem to care. “Dessert.” His Russian accent was thick. He licked his lips. His hand remained outstretched and he flicked his gaze there, as if enticing her.
She picked up the large metal spoon she’d used to submerge the dried mushrooms and pointed with it to a large bowl of apples. “Sladkoye.”
His smile shrank to a thin line. He lowered his hand and took a step toward her.
Goddamn it. The son of a bitch wasn’t going to quit. He’d played his power game, but had to take it further. But how far?
Another step closer, and she tried to blockade him with a stern, “No.”
But this only made the smile reappear. His game. His rules, and he was loving it too much. Acid filled her stomach.