Frank Zafiro

And Every Man Has to Die

’Tis a hard winter when one wolf eats another.

— Russian Proverb

Part I

River City, Washington

July 1998

Tell lies, but become not tangled in lies.

— Russian Proverb

ONE

Friday, July 11th, 1998

2214 hours

Graveyard Shift

“Adam-122, on scene,” chirped Officer Katie MacLeod’s radio.

Adam-122 was the call sign for Officers Battaglia and O’Sullivan. Despite their joking demeanor, Katie was glad they were responding with her. The call came in as a violent domestic dispute in apartment seven of the Delilah Commons. The neighbor who called it in had reported crashing noises and screaming from inside. If there was a scrap going on, it’d be nice to have Sully and Batts at her side.

Katie guided the patrol cruiser along the curb, gliding to a stop. She took a quick look at the four-by-four-inch computer display in the console area. The devices were fairly new to the River City Police Department, though she knew they’d been in cars down in LA for almost a decade. The amber screen was so small that she had to page down twice to read the entire description of the call, including which apartment the witness lived in. Then she reached for her own microphone.

“Adam-116, on scene.”

“Copy, Adam-116.”

Katie glanced around and didn’t see another cruiser. Then she remembered that the Delilah Apartments had a rear entry, too. Battaglia and O’Sullivan had probably parked behind.

Katie grabbed her baton and stepped out of the vehicle. Out of habit, she eased the door shut instead of slamming it. She slid the metal PR-24 side-handle baton into the ring on her belt and made her way to the front door. The heavy sway and solid tap of the baton against her side gave her confidence. Most smaller officers preferred the straight wooden baton, but Katie stuck with the larger side-handle. While some complained that it was unwieldy, she liked the heft. More than that, it got the job done.

The front entrance to the apartment complex was supposed to be secure, but someone had used a softball-sized rock to prop the door open. Probably Sully. He was usually more thoughtful than Batts. A large, steep staircase awaited Katie on the left. On the right was a narrow hallway. A sign indicated that apartments six through ten resided upstairs on the second floor.

Katie started up the stairs toward number seven.

“Adam-122, start medics.” The slight elevation in Battaglia’s voice came through even over the radio. “I’ve got a conscious female, suffering from blows to the head.”

“Copy. Is she breathing?”

“I just said she’s conscious, didn’t I!”

“Copy, but medics need to know-”

The harsh buzz of multiple radio transmissions interrupted her.

“Other unit?” the dispatcher asked.

“22,” O’Sullivan said quickly. “The neighbor says the suspect is probably still in the building. He left less than thirty seconds ago.”

Katie quickened her steps as she neared the top of the steep staircase.

“Description?”

“He’s a white male,” O’Sullivan answered, “large build, wearing a white tank top.”

Katie reached the top of the stairs. She started to turn the corner to her left when a mountain in a sleeveless white T-shirt barreled toward her. He stopped short as soon as his chest brushed up against her, but his momentum jarred her backward. She grasped at the railing to regain her balance.

The man gave Katie an appraising look. She stared back at him resolutely. “Police,” she said in a firm voice, pointing at the top stair. “You need to have a seat right there.”

He stared at her with dark, flat eyes. Katie could see the gears working behind them. She sensed she didn’t have much time. She wrapped her left hand on her side-handle and depressed her radio mike with her right.

“Adam-116, I’ve got him here on the stairs. He’s-”

The man burst forward. He barreled into Katie, driving her backward. Panic flared in her stomach as she lost her balance, falling to the rear. The man’s huge hands clutched at her shoulders and upper arms, pulling her to the ground with him. The two tumbled down the narrow stairs in a heap. As they bounced and jostled awkwardly, the equipment on Katie’s duty belt dug into her sides, caught on the railing, twisted on her belt. Her baton caught in the fold of her knee, causing a twinge of pain.

Suddenly, a shot of piercing pain blazed through Katie’s left ankle. She imagined a piece of the banister had shattered and jabbed through the leather of her boot and into her flesh. She tried to suppress a cry, but could only dampen it to a painful grunt.

The pair flopped into the entryway. Katie landed on her back with his weight on top of her. The bullet-resistant vest softened the sharpness of her landing, but did nothing to blunt the force. Her breath whooshed out as her lungs collapsed. Frantically, she struggled for breath, her mind whirring.

Where’s backup?

What’s my next move?

Why can’t I breathe?

The large man let out a long, ragged grunt and pushed himself up. The sickening feeling of being unable to breathe began to fade as she gasped and labored to fill her lungs.

The man got his knees under him and started to rise, searching for an escape. Katie’s hand flashed out and clutched his wrist.

“You’re under arrest!” she tried to say, but could only wheeze out the final syllable.

His gaze snapped back to Katie. He stared at her a moment, his flat countenance revealing nothing. Katie took advantage of his hesitation to draw a shallow breath and repeated, “You’re under arrest. Stop resisting.” She sensed the ridiculousness of uttering those words while lying on her back beneath his powerful frame.

“Nyet,” the man grunted. He jerked his arm, breaking Katie’s grasp on his wrist.

Katie drove her left knee upward with as much force as she could muster, and his eyes bulged in surprised pain. The collision sent throbbing waves down her leg to her injured ankle. She did her best to ignore it.

Katie pushed at his chin. His large form moved slowly, then fell like a giant redwood. Katie scrambled into a sitting position, but the man recovered his senses before she could move to her knees. He drew back his left hand and threw a ham-sized fist at Katie’s head. Instinctively she tucked her chin and pulled up her shoulder. The blow landed square on her shoulder joint. Pain reverberated through her arm and chest. She let out a small cry of pain and anger.

He smiled and drew back his arm again.

Katie raised both arms to defend against the punch. She took the blow on the meaty part of her forearm and bit back a yelp, then rolled away to give herself some distance, bumping and clumping over the gear on her belt. As soon as she was facing him again, she pushed up to her knees.

He rose up like a grizzly bear in front of her, cold anger flashing in his eyes. He muttered something in guttural Russian. She didn’t know what the words meant, but she understood the sentiment.

Katie dropped her hand onto her radio and sought out the small, recessed red button that would tell every cop in the city she needed immediate help. He took a step forward before she could find it.

Katie rose to her feet to meet him, but as soon as she put weight on her left foot, a flood of pain thundered up her leg. She shifted her weight and struggled to remain standing.

A cruel smile formed on his lips as he moved toward her. His fists hung at his sides, clenched into massive, tight balls.

Katie felt strangely calm. She reached for her pistol, but her hand clutched at nothing. Her fingers searched wildly for a moment before she realized that her holster was empty.

Panic flared in the pit of her stomach, and the man was upon her. His palms exploded toward her, catching her full in the chest. The force drove her backward into a row of metal mailboxes along the wall. Something clipped her on the back of the head. A trickle of hot blood oozed out of the cut.

No gun. What now?

He started toward her again. His anger and arrogance beamed out at her, as if she was nothing more than something to toy with now.

Katie set her jaw.

“Fuck you,” she whispered, sliding her baton out of its holder and pulling it into a ready position.

He paused for a moment, watching as she brandished the metal tube. The smile on his lips spread, exposing his square, yellow teeth. “Fuck me?” he asked, his accent thick. He pointed at the baton. “I fuck you with that, suka.”

“You’re under arrest,” Katie repeated grimly.

He let out a short, barking laugh and started toward her again. He displayed no caution, no defense.

Katie loaded her weight on her good leg and turned to blade her body slightly. She cocked the baton near her body. As soon as he was within range, he lashed out suddenly with a hard right. Katie anticipated the move and launched forward, driving the tip of the baton directly toward his solar plexus, every bit of her weight behind the blow. His huge fist grazed past her ear as she slipped inside his range.

Half a moment later the baton struck and all of her energy combined with his forward motion seemed to impale him upon it. He let out a cry of pain, surprise, and anger. His sour, harsh breath washed over her as both of them toppled to the ground.

This time, Katie landed on top. She scrambled up his body until she straddled his chest. She slammed the tip of the baton into the floor next to his neck, then lowered the baton across his throat. She stopped short of applying anything more than token pressure. Her eyes blazed into his.

“You make one more move and I will crush your throat,” she growled at him. “You’ll choke to death on your own blood. You hear me?”

He stared back at her, saying nothing.

She nudged his throat slightly, causing him to wince. “Do you understand me?” she said, raising her voice.

He gave her a short nod.

“Good,” she said. “Now put your hands straight out to the side. Slowly.”

The man moved his arms in a slow motion until they were in position.

“Turn your palms to the ground,” Katie ordered, staring into his eyes but watching his hands in her peripheral vision.

Slowly, deliberately, he rolled his wrists until his palms were on the floor.

“Good,” Katie said again. “Now just lay there and don’t move.”

As if on cue, Katie heard the thundering sound of heavy boots on the stairway.

“MacLeod!” a male voice called out.

“Down here!” Katie yelled back.

The tramping boots came closer. A moment later, Sully reached the landing. He pulled up short and took in the scene.

“Jesus,” he whispered, then stepped forward and immobilized one of the suspect’s arms at the elbow and wrist, using his knee and one hand.

A moment later, Battaglia appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He took one look at the scene and also whispered, “Jesus.”

“Grab the other arm!” Sully ordered.

Battaglia did so. “You cuff,” he told Sully.

Katie kept her baton in place as Sully retrieved his cuffs from his belt, even though she knew that if the man chose to fight now, she would never use such a desperate technique. Not with Sully and Batts here. But, before, when she’d been alone…

The metallic sound of ratcheting cuffs broke into her thoughts. “Got him, Katie,” Sully said as he secured the suspect’s wrist. “You can move.”

Katie released her dominant position, then slid off the suspect. The adrenaline that had sustained her just thirty seconds ago was already beginning to fade. She could feel the warm, sticky blood in her hair. Her shoulder and arm throbbed with each pulsing beat of her heart. But it was the cold, cutting pain that lanced upward from her ankle that worried her the most.

She slid backward until she backed into the wall, this time below the mailboxes. Dimly aware of a second set of ratcheting sounds while the other two officers took her attacker into custody, she set her baton on the floor, reached down and pulled up her uniform pant leg. She fully expected to see a ragged cut, but was surprised that the boot remained intact. No cut.

Katie stared for a moment, then realized that if the cutting hadn’t occurred outside the boot, then the injury was all inside the boot. Which meant-

“You all right?” Sully’s voice halted her realization.

Katie glanced up at him. “What?”

“I said, are you all right?” Sully repeated, his face darkening with concern. “You look pale.”

Katie swallowed and nodded. “I’m fine.”

Sully gave her an appraising look. He opened his mouth to speak, but Katie cut him off.

“Just stuff him,” she said, her voice sharp. “We’ll talk after.”

Sully’s eyes widened slightly at her tone, but then he nodded in understanding.

“Let’s go, asshole,” Battaglia said, standing the suspect up. Sully took his other arm, and together they escorted him down the narrow hallway and out the rear door.

Katie let out a long sigh and looked down at her trembling hands. She knew that they’d have to walk him to the car in the rear, search him, and put him in the back seat. That gave her about two minutes. Two minutes to get her act together.

She forced herself to her feet, leaning heavily on her right leg. She half hopped, half shuffled toward the stairs, her eyes scanning the dimly lit landing. When she didn’t see anything, she moved to the bottom of the stairs and peered upward. Her eyes searched each step, but she saw nothing.

Katie pulled her small backup flashlight from her belt and flicked it on. She bathed every step with the wavering light, but there was still no sign of her gun. She turned and swept the light beam slowly around the landing. Her heart began to pound again, a different brand of fear growing in the pit of her stomach.

Any cop that loses her gun-

Then she saw it, tucked into the corner of the landing. It must have been torn from her holster as the two of them were tumbling down the stairs, then skittered across the landing into the corner.

Katie limped heavily to the corner, reached down and retrieved the pistol. A quick examination revealed no damage. She slid it into her holster with relief, then shuffled back to the foot of the stairs. The throbbing in her ankle now dwarfed the pain in her shoulder. She eased herself onto the third stair from the bottom and straightened her injured leg.

Katie took several deep breaths to calm herself. Even so, her hands still shook with the after-wash of adrenaline. She wanted to cry. Or scream in anger. Instead, she sat and waited.

A short time later, Sully appeared again. “He’s in the back of our patrol car,” he reported. “Now, are you okay?”

Katie swallowed. “I’m a little hurt. Did you get probable cause to arrest him up there at the apartment?”

Sully shrugged. “Close enough. I’ll need to finish my interview with the neighbor. The wife has a shiner and a split lip, but she’s not saying anything.”

“Well,” Katie said, “you can add assault on a law enforcement officer to whatever other charges you end up with.”

Sully’s eyebrows went up. “He hurt you?”

Katie nodded.

“Bad?”

She shrugged. The motion caused her to wince in pain. “Bad enough,” she said, trying to keep it together. “I probably need to see a doctor, anyway.”

“What happened?”

“I think I broke my ankle when we fell down the stairs.”

Sully looked up at the steep, narrow staircase and whistled. “I can see that happening easily enough. What else? Do you need anything?”

Katie took another deep breath. “I could use a ride to the hospital,” she half-joked.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Sully said.

“I don’t know if that’s necess-”

Sully raised his radio to his mouth. “Adam-122, I need an RA here for an injured officer. Conscious and breathing. Possible broken ankle.”

“Copy.”

“And start me a supervisor,” Sully added.

“Copy.”

Katie scowled. “Thanks, Sully. Now the whole world knows.”

He shrugged. “Everyone on the job is going to find out that you kicked the shit out of a guy three times your size anyway, MacLeod. So what’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is, I’m hurt. I don’t want everyone to know that.”

“Why?”

She didn’t answer the question. He wouldn’t understand, anyway. Instead, she said, “It’s not just cops, bonehead. Everyone with a scanner knows, too.”

Sully shrugged. “I still don’t see-”

“The asshole in the back of your car knows, too.” Tears rose in her eyes. She used the back of her hand to brush them away with annoyance. “I don’t want him knowing he hurt me, all right?”

“Okay,” Sully said.

“I mean, I know he’s going to find out eventually, once we charge him and everything,” Katie said, her words tumbling out. “He’ll see the report and we’ll go to court and all that. But I don’t want him to know now. I don’t want him to know how close-”

Sully reached out and rested his hand on her left shoulder. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Katie looked up and met his gaze. “Do you?”

Sully grinned and shrugged. “Kinda. But not really.”

Katie smiled through her tears. “You’re an asshole, Sully.”

“Aye, lass,” he whispered in his faux brogue. “’Tis true. But don’t worry about it. The dude in our car isn’t listening to anything except country music right now.” His eyes glinted. “Cranked-up country music, actually, since he looked like the heavy metal type.”

Katie let out a small chuckle. “All right. Good enough.”

Sully squeezed her shoulder gently. Then he raised his radio to his mouth again. “Adam-122 to Officer Battaglia.”

“Go ahead,” replied Battaglia. Katie heard a snatch of twanging guitar in the background.

“Go ahead and transport to jail,” Sully transmitted. “I’ll stay here and finish up.”

“Copy.”

Sully slid his radio back onto his belt. “He’ll be long gone before the ambulance gets here,” he told her.

“Thanks,” Katie said. Slight nausea crept into her stomach as the adrenaline faded further. She swallowed heavily.

Sully chuckled and shook his head. “Katie MacLeod, I’ve gotta hand it to ye,” he said. “Ye are the bomb, lass.”

Katie managed a weak smile but said nothing.

Together they waited for the sergeant and the ambulance.

2217 hours

Valeriy Aleksandrovich Romanov stood in the enclosed bus stop, smoking. He watched what he thought of as something akin to a street opera performance at the apartment complex across the street. When he had first arrived and seen the police car parked out front, he decided to wait a while and watch. His nephew, Pavel, had frowned at the prospect of delay, but Val simply told him, “A man that can be patient eventually finds his foe at his feet.”

The boy frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Val told him.

Pavel sighed. “You sound like my father.”

“I know,” Val answered.

And that is no accident. For more reasons than one.

He turned back to the opera before him. When he’d witnessed a struggle in the small foyer of the apartment building on the other side of the glass doors, he experienced no inclination to intervene. He could see that it was between a larger man and a smaller cop, but couldn’t make out faces. All he could see was the sleeveless white T-shirt that Ivan preferred and the dark blue uniform.

Val simply waited and smoked. If it wasn’t Ivan fighting with the cops, then all he had to do was wait for them to finish their business and leave. It didn’t concern him at all. After they left, he could attend to the purpose for which he’d come to these apartments. If, on the other hand, it was Ivan who was fighting with the cops, then it wouldn’t do Val any good to go running in and getting involved. Besides, Ivan was strong. He could win his own fights.

A minute later, two more cops appeared from upstairs. Val didn’t sigh, but he shifted his assessment of the situation. The likelihood now was that whoever was fighting with the cops was going to jail. Three against one were not good odds, even for Black Ivan.

And if Ivan went to jail, that might cause Val a little problem.

“Why are we still waiting?” Pavel asked, his tone impatient.

Val shushed him, handing him the newspaper. “Here. Make yourself useful,” he said. “Pretend to read this.”

Pavel glanced down at the River City Herald and frowned. “It’s in fucking English, Uncle,” he complained.

“Then only read the words you know,” Val snapped. “But stop staring across the street. Do you want the cops to notice us and come over here, too?”

Pavel paused, then nodded with understanding. He turned his attention to the newspaper, pretending to be thoroughly entranced by the city’s chronicle.

Val resisted shaking his head. The boy was brave enough, but he didn’t use his head. He only brought him along and tried to educate him out of respect for his sister.

Don’t lie to yourself, Valeriy.

He brought his cigarette up and took another drag in order to mask a small smile.

The thought was true enough, though. The other reason-probably the real reason-he brought Pavel along was because he was Sergey’s son. Sergey was married to Val’s sister, but more importantly, Sergey was the boss. Being brother to Sergey’s wife was a good connection to have, but being Pavel’s mentor only firmed up his position in the family.

His thoughts were broken when two cops emerged from the apartment entrance with Ivan between them. They marched him around the corner of the building, then disappeared behind it.

“That was Black Ivan,” Pavel murmured.

“Yes.”

“Where are they taking him?”

Valeriy shrugged. “Jail, I suppose.”

He masked his smile at the irony of his own comment. In the former Soviet Union, of course, the scene that just played out before him could have meant any number of things. A guy like Ivan could disappear into the bowels of the KGB building. He could end up floating in the Dnieper River. Or he could simply go to jail for a little while.

Of the three options, it was the third one that really represented the most danger for a man like Ivan. If one of their men came back from a light trip to jail, there was almost always the paranoid assumption that he was now working for the government as some sort of spy. He’d heard stories of-

“What if they find the packages?” Pavel asked, his voice laced with concern.

“Then they do,” Val answered. “Now shut up and read your paper.”

“I only know a few words,” Pavel complained. “It makes no sense.”

Val ignored the young man until he sighed and returned to the Herald. He watched one of the cops return to the foyer. The police car left with Ivan in the back seat. Another police car arrived, this one without overhead lights. A small Asian officer exited and went into the foyer. Eventually an ambulance arrived at the front of the apartment. Val watched and smoked his cigarette to the very end. He tossed the butt into the nearby can and lit another.

The medics brought the cop out of the apartment building on a gurney. Val frowned. That could mean even more trouble for Ivan. Although American cops didn’t take quite the same dim view that Kiev cops did when it came to an assault on one of their own, it did seem to be a crime that the courts actually punished people for.

That worried him. He didn’t want Ivan out of commission for long.

Val watched as the medics maneuvered the gurney near the rear of the ambulance. The cop’s head rose and glanced around. That’s when he noticed the feminine features.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Pavel lowered the newspaper. “What?” he asked, his voice once again urgent.

Val waved away his question. “Read,” he ordered, not even looking at the boy. Instead, he watched the medics load the female cop into the ambulance.

Black Ivan was beaten by a woman?

Val shook his head. No, that couldn’t be true. He must have been beating the woman cop until the other two arrived. That would explain why she was being taken to the hospital.

A few moments later, the Asian cop drove away. Now only one police car remained, the one parked in front of the building.

Val waited and watched. After about thirty minutes of smoking and listening to Pavel rustle the newspaper impatiently, the final cop exited the front of the apartment complex and made his way to the patrol car parked next to the curb. He fished in his pockets for his keys, trying a couple in the door before one worked.

“Is he the last one?” Pavel asked.

Val noticed that his nephew didn’t look up from the newspaper when he spoke. Maybe the boy could learn after all.

“I think so,” Val answered. He took another drag from his Marlboro as the patrol car pulled from the curb and jetted away southbound. “But there’s only one way to know for sure.”

Pavel smiled.

Val flicked his cigarette away; it caught the edge of the butt can and dropped inside. He made his way across the street at an angle, not bothering to use the crosswalk. Pavel stood and trotted to his side.

A red SUV slowed for them. The driver, a man in his forties with a goatee and a baseball cap on backwards, protested with a short beep of his horn.

Pavel’s head snapped to the left. “What the fuck are you honking at, son of bitch?” he yelled, taking two steps toward the truck.

“Leave it,” Val said, not even bothering to turn his head. “We have more important business.”

Pavel obeyed reluctantly, giving the driver a forceful middle finger and suggesting an activity the man could do with his mother. Then he followed Val to the opposite curb.

Val reached for the front door and pulled. The glass door shook but didn’t budge.

“You want me to try some of my door keys?” Pavel asked. “This looks pretty standard.”

Val shook his head. His finger traced over the listing of residents in the small apartment complex. Twelve of the fifteen were Russian surnames. He depressed the button for number fourteen.

After a moment, a female Russian voice answered. “Yes.”

“I forgot my keys,” Val said, his Russian coming in velvet tones. “Could you please buzz me in?”

“Of course,” she replied. A moment later the buzzer sounded and Pavel tugged on the door. It opened easily.

“Thank you,” Val said.

“You’re welcome.”

As they stepped inside, Val mused, “It is always good to be surrounded by countrymen.”

Pavel grinned, but his smile faltered when Val stopped in the foyer and stared at him with a cold, hard look until his nephew squirmed uncomfortably. Eventually he asked Val, “What is it?”

“That business with the truck,” Val said coldly.

“What? The bastard almost hit us.”

“No. He slowed down.”

Pavel looked down for a moment, then met Val’s gaze again. “Okay, fine, but he honked at us. He honked at you, Uncle. I can’t let someone disrespect you like that-”

“Don’t use me as an excuse for your lack of discipline, Pavel.” Val’s voice was iron. “We are on business. We have a purpose. Don’t let yourself be distracted over petty issues. Who cares what some idiot in an SUV thinks? All of that was over nothing, but if you’d pulled him out of his truck and beaten him senseless, then we would have something. Something bad. Something shit. And we would not have accomplished our goal here.”

Pavel hung his head. “I know. It’s just-”

“No!” Val snapped. “There is no ‘just.’ Discipline is what keeps us from ending up in jail or deported. Do you want to end up like Black Ivan? Hauled off in a police car?”

“No.”

“Then do not be so eager to prove your manhood to me. I know you are strong, Pavel. I know you are brave. You will have plenty of opportunities to show it. But keep the discipline.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Pavel mumbled, his tone contrite.

Val waited another moment for his words to sink in and hopefully resonate. Then he turned and headed upstairs to apartment seven.

At the door he gave a heavy rap. There was a short pause, then he heard the rattling of a chain. The door swung open. Elena Cherny’s hard glare appeared in the crack. Val immediately noticed her red, swollen eye and split lip.

“Where is Ivan?” he asked, testing her.

“Gone,” was all she said.

Val stepped forward. Elena made no move to step aside or allow him entry. Val paused. He smiled tightly. “Ivan was expecting us. I’m sure you want to be a gracious hostess, even if he isn’t home.” His words were coldly polite.

Elena considered. Her gaze flicked back and forth between Val and Pavel. After a moment she swallowed and nodded, moving aside and swinging the door wide.

Val entered with Pavel on his heels. His eyes scanned the simple, tidy apartment, but he found no sign of serious struggle. Either it hadn’t been that bad, or Elena had cleaned up.

“I can make coffee while you wait for his return,” Elena suggested, though her tone made it clear she didn’t want to make Val coffee or even want him in her home.

Val didn’t care. He had a task to perform, and perhaps a little bit extra to do as well. He shook his head at Elena’s offer and motioned to the kitchen table. “Too warm for coffee,” he said. “But perhaps we can sit?”

Elena nodded and both of them sat. Pavel stood nearby, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms menacingly.

The two of them sat in silence for a few moments. Val rested comfortably in the chair, one leg crossed over the other at the knee. He removed his silver Zippo and slowly rotated it through his fingers. The motion was fluid, like an experienced gambler with a betting chip. As the lighter flowed through his fingers, the gold-trimmed red lettering on one side flashed under the low hanging kitchen light. Elena, who sat with hunched shoulders and her hands in her lap, glanced at the dancing lighter. The letters-CCCP with a hammer and sickle emblazoned in the roundness of the p-would be familiar to her. While Val was no great fan of the government of the former Soviet Union, he knew that seeing the letters, along with the hammer and the sickle, served to remind his countrymen that some things do not change. Even in America.

“You know who I am?” he asked her finally.

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Then you know my business is always important?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Tell me, then, where did Ivan go?” he asked evenly.

Elena paused, then shrugged. “He does not tell me things.”

Val nodded slowly. “I see. We came to get a package from him. Do you know if he left it for us?”

Elena shook her head. “He doesn’t tell me his business. I cook, I clean. He does business.”

Val pressed his lips together. He stopped twirling the lighter and gave it a couple of sharp taps on the table top before sliding it into his pocket. Then he leaned forward. His jaw set, he gave Elena an icy stare.

“That is twice you’ve lied to me, Mrs. Cherny,” he growled. “Do not let there be a third, or the beating you took from your husband will seem a pleasant diversion.”

He watched for the fear to come into her eyes, but saw only a flicker. That both surprised and delighted him.

This woman is very brave. She is truly Russian.

“Shall we start again?” he asked, his voice pleasant once more.

Elena nodded. “Yes.”

“Good,” Val said. “Where is Ivan?”

“The police took him away.”

“Why?”

Elena gave him a look of disbelief, then motioned toward her face. “He did this.”

“Why did you call the police?”

“I didn’t,” she said forcefully. “One of the neighbors must have.”

Val shook his head. “No Russian would call. Only three names on the board downstairs are not Russian. Which of those three called?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you had to guess.”

Elena shrugged. “Probably the bookworm across the hall. She always looks at Ivan with disapproving eyes.”

“You’ll talk to her,” Val said. His inflection made it clear that it wasn’t a question.

“Of course.”

“Good. Now tell me, what did you do to deserve being hit?”

Elena gave him another brief look of barely contained anger, but suppressed it just as quickly as it appeared. “We argued,” she said in an abrupt tone.

“About what?”

“Husband and wife things,” she said shortly.

Val sighed. He glanced over at Pavel and nodded slightly. The young man stepped forward, reaching for Elena with eager hands. Her eyes flew wide and she shrank back in her chair. “No! Please!”

Pavel didn’t stop.

Val didn’t stop him.

The punch broke her nose, by the sound of it. The sickening splat was followed by her surprised grunt of pain. Before she could make another sound, Pavel slapped his hand over her mouth. Blood flowed freely from her nose and over his fingers. With his free hand he grabbed a fistful of hair. He jerked her head back and drew his face close to hers.

“Hurts?” he asked, his question ending in a hiss.

Val watched dispassionately while she struggled to free herself from Pavel’s grasp. He knew that the blood from her nose was coursing into her throat, making it difficult to breathe. Panic would set in shortly.

Pavel turned to him for further instruction. He tipped his head slightly to the left. Pavel let go of the woman’s head and gave her a shove. She took a wet, ragged breath, then bit back a sob. Pavel ignored her, reaching for a kitchen towel and using it to clean her blood off his hand.

Val let her compose herself for a few moments. Then he said, “You see, I don’t like being lied to. It wastes my time. But more than that, it is an insult.”

Elena pinched her nose shut with a wince.

Val lifted his chin toward her. “That is as good as it gets. What I have to offer you, if you lie again, is considerably worse.”

Elena wiped her lips and glanced down at the blood on her fingers. Then she met Val’s eyes and nodded.

“Good,” Val said. “Now, tell me why Ivan hit you.”

She swallowed thickly. Pavel handed her the dishtowel. She wiped her hands and held the towel to her nose. “I asked him to get a different job,” she said, her voice muffled by the cloth.

Val nodded, motioning for her to continue.

She pulled the towel away and stared at the bright red blood, then pressed it back to her nose. “I found the package on the counter. Both packages.”

“He separated them?”

She nodded.

“All right,” Val said. “But why did you concern yourself with your husband’s business?”

Her eyes flashed sullenly, but she didn’t reply. Instead she pulled the towel away and took another look at the blood there.

“It’s clotting already,” Val said. “You have a warrior’s blood.”

She folded the dishtowel in half and wiped away the remaining blood from her mouth and nose. “I found the packages. I told Ivan I was frightened for him. These things bring trouble. Trouble from the police and even more trouble from-”

“That is none of your concern,” Val told her. “Ivan is a good soldier. He is smart. There would have been no police here at all if you hadn’t argued and forced him to discipline you.”

Once again he saw the flash of anger in her eyes and the set of her jaw. He found himself liking this new wife of Ivan more and more, even if she might be difficult.

“We argued,” she said. “He hit me. The neighbor called. Now you know everything.”

Val leaned back in his chair, considering. Then he said, “Not everything. Where is the package now? Do the police have it?”

“No. I hid it before I answered the door.”

“Where was Ivan?”

“He left as soon as we saw the car in the back lot.” She pointed at the smoky glass window on the other side of the living room. “He had to hide on the third floor until the police were out of the hallway. But they found him, because the officer told me that they were taking him to jail.”

Val removed his lighter and stared down at it. “He may have charges to face because he fought with the police,” he said quietly, “but I suspect he will face no charges for striking his wife. Am I right?”

Elena drew herself up in her seat. “I did not call the police. I will not cooperate.”

“Excellent,” Val said. “Now, bring me the packages.”

Elena stood and left the room. Val glanced at Pavel and made a gun with his thumb and forefinger. Pavel nodded in understanding. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small.25 auto. It wasn’t a very powerful gun, but it would do the job if Elena decided to come back with anything other than Ivan’s packages.

Val heard some rustling in the bedroom, then the sliding sound of a drawer being opened and slammed shut. Elena reappeared in the kitchen with two parcels. One was the shape of a small brick, wrapped tightly in brown paper. The other was a white cloth bag tinged with oil marks. She dropped both on the table. The brown paper brick made a heavy, slapping thud. The bag gave out a metallic rattle.

Val didn’t bother to check the packages. They would be right or he would return to deal with Elena Cherny. She knew this and would not be foolish enough to double-cross him. Instead he asked, “Do you have a grocery bag?”

Elena stared at him a moment, then turned toward the counter. She motioned for Pavel to step aside, then opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a brown paper bag. She put it onto the table next to the two packages.

“Open the bag,” Val instructed.

Elena clenched her jaw but said nothing. She took hold of the paper bag and gave it a single, violent downward shake to open it, then set it on the table. She placed both packages inside the bag and pushed it toward Val.

Val rose from his seat. He closed the bag carefully and rolled the top down. He handed the bag to Pavel, who had slipped the gun back into his pocket as soon as Elena arrived with the packages.

“Don’t forget to talk to your neighbor,” Val said to Elena.

“I will take care of it.”

Val nodded, then turned and left the apartment. Pavel trailed behind him, the brown paper grocery bag clutched in his hand.

TWO

Saturday, July 12th

2058 hours

Graveyard Shift

Officer Thomas Chisolm sat quietly at the Adam Sector roll call table. The large conference room had three tables, one for each of the three sectors. Adam and Baker covered the north side of River City, while Charlie sector covered the more affluent, usually quieter south side. A lectern, currently empty, stood at the head of the tables. Rows upon rows of mailboxes perched on the back wall like pigeon nests, some bare and others stuffed with paperwork that might date back as far as the assigned officer’s rookie year.

He glanced up from his own timeworn hands to the woman seated across from him. She was new to the platoon and tonight was her first shift. Her blue nametag, designating her as a probationer, read B.J. Carson. Chisolm knew it stood for “Billie Jo,” but wondered how much adolescent ribbing she’d suffered as a result of those unfortunate initials.

Carson seemed to sense his glance. She flashed Chisolm a shy smile. He saw strains of confidence in that smile, but he recognized other traits, too. Traits he wasn’t entirely comfortable with in a new cop, whether he saw them in a man or a woman. She was worried about proving herself.

Chisolm’s own rookie campaign was eighteen years in the past, though he could recall that rite of passage in great detail. Of course, it had been different for him than most new cops these days. He’d walked in with significant military experience, including his two tours in Vietnam with Special Forces. Police work wasn’t a tremendous adaptation for him, whereas most of the rookies he saw coming on now had to transition from civilian life into the quasi-military world of police work.

In Chisolm’s mind, it was a good thing if a new recruit wanted to prove himself. That was how he eventually fit in-by proving he could do this job. There were a lot of areas where the new guy was required to prove himself, too. Snagging calls for service, writing a ton of paper, and showing that he could talk to all kinds of people in all kinds of situations were all on that list. The final exam, though, was being willing to jump into a fight when it happened. Prove you could hold your mud when things got dirty.

Wanting to prove yourself, to Chisolm, was a good thing. Worrying about being able to was quite another. And he saw a little bit of that in B.J. Carson.

He flashed back to the last recruit he’d trained who didn’t have what it took to be a cop. Four years ago, he tried to teach Maurice Payne what he needed to know in order to make it on the streets, but he’d ultimately failed. Payne could do the softer side of the job, but failed utterly when it came to pressure or violence. Even though it took another training officer to sign off on Chisolm’s evaluation-thanks to that self-righteous prick, Lieutenant Alan Hart-the department eventually let Payne go. Chisolm took very little joy in seeing that happen, and none of it at the expense of Payne. He hoped the young man landed on his feet somewhere more appropriate for his skill set. The satisfaction for Chisolm was in showing the arrogant Lieutenant Hart that he’d been right, in spite of the shiny gold bar that Hart wore on his collar.

Since training Payne, none of the recruits that rode in Chisolm’s car had failed to make probation, a fact of which he was quite proud. More than that, he hoped that he instilled in this new, younger breed of cop what it meant to enter law enforcement. Almost all of them were untested by warfare and some hadn’t even suffered some of life’s hard knocks. Yet Chisolm had to teach them how to be a warrior in peacetime, which was one of the most difficult jobs in the world.

Chisolm didn’t avert his eyes from Carson after her shy smile, but she averted hers. She was a beautiful woman. It might have made some things in life easier for her up to now. If anything, though, now it was going to make things more difficult for her rather than less. From the cops and the criminals.

Chisolm’s gaze shifted to Anthony Battaglia. Batts was watching Carson. His face was mostly expressionless, but Chisolm detected the faintest bit of hunger in the Italian’s dark eyes.

Battaglia seemed to sense Chisolm’s attention. He turned his eyes to the older officer and tipped him a wink. “Another night beatin’ down crime. Right, Tom?”

Chisolm nodded. “You said it.”

Battaglia flashed him a toothy grin. “Fuckin’ scumbags won’t know what hit ’em.”

That forced a smile to Chisolm’s lips. “Probably not.”

“You know it,” Battaglia said. He turned to O’Sullivan. “Hey, asshole, are you done with that yet?”

“If I was done, lad,” Sully shot back, “I would nae be looking at it anymore.”

“You know, you’re not supposed move your lips when you read,” Battaglia observed, his thick Brooklyn accent clashing with Sully’s Irish lilt.

“Like you know anyt’ing about reading.”

“I know it takes you for-fuckin’-evah.”

“Oh, fer the love of Saint Francis,” Sully sighed. He slid the binder across the table toward Battaglia. “Here. All you want to do is look at the pictures anyway.”

“Ohh, yeahhhh,” Battaglia said, smiling broadly. He flipped open the flyer and peered down in mock lust. “Ooh, hot. You know, methamphetamine really does wonders for a woman’s looks.”

“Aye,” Sully replied. “Vitamin M is the new wonder drug.”

Chisolm watched the exchange silently. It was nearly the same every night. Sometimes, if veteran officer James Kahn was in a grumpy mood, he might berate the two of them for their antics, but that usually only fueled their act. Once in a while Katie MacLeod got involved in their exchanges. Chisolm smiled. In most cases she bested the both of them at their own game, something that Chisolm believed only made the brothers like her even more.

Katie. Chisolm noticed her seat was empty. He assumed that she’d taken a vacation day, since it wasn’t her regular day off.

The only other person missing from the table was Matt Westboard. The quiet, solid officer was on his days off.

Chisolm returned his gaze to his own hands. Every day, he took stock of the men and women at the table around him. It was a habit he’d learned from his commanding officer in Vietnam, Captain Mack Greene. “Know your people,” the grizzled Green Beret leader told him repeatedly. “And know them again every single day.”

Of course, they weren’t technically Chisolm’s people. He didn’t command them. He was one of them. Sergeant Shen ran the platoon and Lieutenant Saylor commanded the shift. Even so, as an eighteen-year vet who remained on graveyard shift by choice, Chisolm knew that a lot of the team members looked to him for leadership. And he would not disappoint. Ever.

That was his burden in life, and he knew it. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted such a responsibility, but rather that he knew he could handle it. Not many others could, even among his fellow cops. So it fell to him to do so. He had the knowledge and the experience.

The door to the roll call room swung open. Lieutenant Robert Saylor led the way in, the red clipboard full of announcements tucked under his arm. Sergeant Miyamoto Shen followed behind him and took a seat at the head of the Adam Sector table. His gaze swept the table, his features impassive.

“Listen up,” Lieutenant Saylor rumbled from the lectern. He waited for a moment until the chatter dwindled to silence. “There’s a couple of new stolens on the board tonight,” he began, rattling off the license plates of the stolen vehicles. Then he flicked the page. “Let’s do some prowl checks at the River City Arena over the next few nights. The circus is coming to town and our Criminal Intelligence Unit believes that the animal rights groups might be active in some form of protest.”

“Hell,” Kahn muttered, “the circus is in town all year. It’s down on mahogany row, starting in the chief’s office.”

Saylor glanced up from the hot board, fixing his eyes on Kahn. “Did you have something to add?” he asked.

Kahn cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Do the intel guys have anything more specific than that?”

Saylor shook his head. “Just what I read.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

Saylor smiled slightly. “I’ll forward your dissatisfaction, Officer Kahn. I’m sure they’ll be happy for the feedback.”

Kahn shrugged. “I doubt they could figure it out, sir.”

A general rumble of low laughter filled the room. Chisolm smiled himself. He’d had more than his fair share of issues with intelligence units, beginning with the frequently inaccurate ramblings of military intelligence during the war.

Saylor didn’t reply right away. Then he said, “I’m sure they’ll get their cryptologists on it right away. Meanwhile, it actually makes some sense that these animal rights whack jobs might try something funny at the arena while the circus is in town, so let’s give it some frequent drive-bys, huh?”

Kahn nodded.

Saylor moved on. “We have a new member of the graveyard team tonight, over in Adam Sector.” He swept his hand toward that table. “Officer Carson, would you mind standing up?”

Carson’s cheeks blossomed with a tinge of red. She pushed a long lock of hair behind her ear and stood.

“Welcome to the shift, Officer,” Saylor said, putting his hands together in a light clap. The rest of the assembled officers followed suit, resembling a lackluster golf clap after a routine putt. Chisolm also heard a mild, murmuring undercurrent that he recognized as half a dozen male officers making comments on her figure that her police uniform and gear couldn’t hide. Or her initials.

“Thanks,” Carson said, then hurriedly sat down, no doubt aware of the appraisal.

Saylor set the hot board down on the lectern. “That’s it for new announcements. Does anyone have anything for the shift?” Saylor waited a moment, then turned the meeting over to the sergeants at their respective tables.

Sergeant Shen addressed the Adam Sector table. “I’d also like to welcome Officer Carson. She’s going to finish up her probationary year on our team now that she’s finished with the training car. I’m sure you all remember her from when she was assigned to Officer MacLeod.”

“Let’s hope she’s learned something since then,” Battaglia joked.

Carson appeared momentarily stricken, though she tried hard to hide it.

“I’m sure she has,” Shen said with a light smile. “That was her first rotation in the training car, wasn’t it? Fresh out of the academy?”

“Yes, sir,” Carson said. “I was brand new.”

“It didn’t show,” Battaglia said, his voice full of sarcasm. He winked at Carson and smiled. Her features softened once she realized he was teasing her.

And so it begins, Chisolm thought. Every new cop put up with the ruthless teasing, so that was nothing new. But he sensed something more in Battaglia’s jest. Something more along the lines of James Kahn’s barely concealed lust. He filed his concern away, determined to watch and wait.

“How is Katie?” Sully asked.

Chisolm’s ears pricked up.

“She’s out of the hospital,” Shen replied, “and resting at home.”

“Hospital?” Chisolm snapped. “What happened?”

Shen raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t hear?”

“I was off yesterday.”

Shen nodded. “She got into a fight with a guy on a DV call over at the Delilah apartments. They fell down the stairs during his arrest. Her ankle was broken.”

Chisolm scowled. Why was she in there without any backup?

“Ah, tell the story right, Sarge,” Sully said, dropping his faux accent. “She didn’t just get into a fight. She kicked this guy’s ass.”

“Big Russian guy,” Battaglia added.

Sully nodded. “Yeah. Huge guy. And she took care of his business by herself.”

“Where were you two jokers?” Kahn asked snidely.

Sully waved his comment away. “We were upstairs at the apartment. The guy was trying to sneak out of the apartment building when Katie found him. She really-”

“How bad’s the ankle?” Chisolm interrupted.

Shen shrugged. “The doctor said that the swelling would have to go down some more before they could determine whether it would require an operation or not. It was broken in two places.”

“So she’s out for a while,” Chisolm concluded.

“Six to eight weeks, minimum.” Shen motioned at Carson. “That’s why we got Officer Carson here instead of swing shift snagging her.”

“Good trade,” muttered Kahn.

Chisolm shot him a dark look, but the veteran officer ignored him.

“Anyway, that’s all I have tonight,” Shen said. “If no one else has anything, let’s hit the street.”

There was a pause that no one filled. After a few moments, the officers collectively pushed their chairs back and filed out of the room, headed to the basement where swing shift would probably be waiting with their cars.

Chisolm fumed as he picked up his patrol bag in the hallway and swung it onto his shoulder. Maybe Sully and Batts should have been with MacLeod and maybe not, but Kahn’s comment was completely out of line. Making a derisive comment about MacLeod or anyone else in Adam Sector was bad for morale and divisive for the platoon. Moreover, in making that comparison to MacLeod, Kahn put pressure on Carson to somehow measure up to a veteran officer. And he was pretty sure that something about both officers being women was lurking in the undercurrent of Kahn’s comment, though he hadn’t come out and said it. Kahn’s use for a woman diminished to zero if he couldn’t sleep with her.

As far as Chisolm was concerned, Kahn was a complete asshole, even if he was a good cop.

He pushed the thoughts aside as he checked his car into service and rolled out of the basement. Instead he focused his mind on the mission ahead, which was, as Battaglia colorfully put it, beating down crime.

2209 hours

Valeriy pulled his green BMW into the nearly empty elementary school parking lot. He spotted Evgeniy’s Honda Prelude among the few cars in the lot. It was easy enough, since it was the only car with the cherry coal of cigarette glowing inside. Val glided along the driver’s side, stopping once their windows were lined up.

“Is it done?” he asked, getting straight to business.

Evgeniy nodded as he let out a long, steady stream of smoke.

“No trouble?”

“No trouble. Everyone was gone. It was easy as cake.”

“Pie,” Val corrected, reaching for a cigarette of his own. He slid the Marlboro between his lips and struck his Soviet Zippo. “In America, they say ‘easy as pie,’ Evgeniy.”

The other man shrugged. “Maybe I am not so American.”

Val drew in a deep lungful of smoke and let it billow out. “Perhaps not. But everything is ready to go?”

Evgeniy nodded. “As I said. Is all finished.”

“Did you use a remote trigger?”

Evgeniy shook his head. “I put it on a timer.”

Val frowned. “That isn’t as reliable.”

“No, not as much as a manual trigger, but it is safer for us. And I wired two, so there is a contingency in case one fails.” Evgeniy took another drag. He blew the smoke onto the glowing end of his cigarette, contemplating the redness. “Who could imagine it would come to this, my friend?”

Val narrowed his eyes. “What kind of question is that for a soldier to ask?”

Evgeniy shrugged. “I am not the same soldier I once was, Valeriy. And this is a different kind of war.”

“War is war,” Val said dismissively. “And soldiers obey.”

“Yes,” Evgeniy agreed. “And I did obey. I always will. But I am just…”

“Just what?”

Evgeniy sighed, his voice sincere. “I am just unsettled by this, is all.”

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t like the battles we fought in military. Not even like the struggles we had in Kiev against others in this life. This is against our own.” He paused, taking a short drag on his cigarette and letting it out in a wavering breath. When he spoke again, his voice broke with emotion. “This is also children.”

Val paused, examining the face of the man across from him. As a technician, Evgeniy’s skill was unrivaled. But if he couldn’t be trusted…

Val adjusted his position in his seat, tapping ash from his cigarette to help disguise the movement. He slid his.45 Colt 1911 from his belt and held it against his leg.

Evgeniy didn’t seem to notice. He took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes far away. After a few moments he shook himself from his reverie and turned to face Val. “It is difficult, that is all.”

Val nodded slowly. “There is no punishment harsh enough for betrayal,” he reminded Evgeniy.

“No,” Evgeniy agreed, shaking his head. “There isn’t. That’s true.”

“And the sins of the fathers…” Val began.

“Reside in the sons,” Evgeniy finished. “Yes, Valeriy Aleksandrovich, you are correct. I regret that there is some sentimentality creeping into my soul in my old age.”

“No regrets,” Val said. “Now, tell me about the timers.”

“They’re made of soft plastic with only a few tiny metal parts,” Evgeniy said. “The entire device will melt except for the metal. Those pieces shouldn’t be detectable.”

“The police will suspect?”

“No.” Evgeniy shook his head. “It will look like an electrical short, and the house is old. The police will not suspect a thing.”

“Good,” Val said. “Then you’ve done well.”

“We shall see,” Evgeniy answered with a sigh.

Val smiled slightly. Despite his skill, Evgeniy was always nervous until everything had passed. “Very well,” Val said, his tone dismissive. “Then I will meet with you tomorrow for coffee.”

“Do svidanija,” Evgeniy said. He nodded at his superior, started his engine, and drove away.

Only after the technician’s taillights had disappeared did Val replace his pistol inside his belt. Then he dropped his BMW into gear and headed toward Sergey’s house.

As he drove, he let his thoughts drift over all of the events that were in motion. For someone less focused, so many things might be overwhelming. After all, he had his own plans to tutor young Pavel. Sergey had his plans for the organization, most of which Val took an active part in developing. They had to find a way to deal with the rival gangs in River City, most of whom were blacks from California. The single Hispanic gang would need some attention, too, at some point in the near future.

The direction that they wanted to take required careful consideration as well. Drugs and prostitution were lucrative, but high risk, so they stayed only marginally involved in those endeavors. Cars were more labor intensive and required more organization, but the payoff was still significant. Particularly with the connections that he and Sergey had maintained in Europe.

And now they had to deal with the traitor, too. This fucking musor. Betrayal was bad enough, but for it to be someone like Oleg was that much worse. A key player like him turning on them risked everything, for everyone.

And so the price to be paid was high.

Val didn’t feel any of Evgeniy’s reticence or regret for the course they’d chosen. The choice was logical and just. Evgeniy had a daughter of his own, so that was probably the reason for his sentimentality, more so than the technician’s age. That was another reason Val remained unencumbered. He had women on occasion, but they meant little to him. He regarded them in much the same way he regarded food and drink, as something to be consumed when the need arose and forgotten once he was sated.

He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Val had his own plans, which he kept to himself. Every move he made for Sergey, for Pavel, for the organization-all ultimately served his own designs.

Val smiled coldly as he drove. One of the first Western books he had read was a battered paperback called Dune. After he read the science-fiction epic, Val thought that the author could very well have been a Russian. The plot was suffused with political intrigue, which captivated Val. It was there he first read the words, “Plans within plans within plans,” and realized the wisdom of that sentiment. The book became an educational text for him. He read it over again once a year, studying the nuances carefully. When his English proficiency allowed, he read the book in the original language, finding still more intriguing subtleties. When he eventually read Machiavelli’s The Prince, he found it weak in comparison.

Val knew that the actions of his organization had to be attracting the attention of the police. When he had told Sergey, the boss agreed with him but didn’t seem concerned. “American police are weak,” he’d told Val. “Their jails are like having a dacha in the country.”

Sergey was right. But police attention would eventually hamper their operation. So Val devised a plan.

So did Sergey. “Don’t buy the house,” he’d told Val, “buy the neighborhood. We need to expand, Valeriy. Beat down our rivals and take control of this city.”

Val turned onto Sergey’s street, his cold smile still in place. He’d embraced Sergey’s plan and they’d discussed how to make it happen. They had planned deep into the night for better than a week, mapping out their moves like chess masters. When they’d finished, both men were certain that they’d be successful.

And Val was well pleased, for Sergey’s plans fit his own. Plans within plans within plans.

Sergey’s driveway was full. The boss’s black Lincoln and Pavel’s tricked-out Honda were nestled side by side, so Val found an open spot along the curb and parked. As he stepped up the walkway he flicked away his cigarette butt. The warm night air was full of that clean freshness that Val attributed to all the trees that grew within the city. Only the barest wisp of a faraway barbecue disturbed the unpolluted essence of the breath he drew deep into his lungs. Only in the winter after a hard snow had the Kiev air ever seemed so clean.

Val knocked quietly at the door. After a few moments his sister appeared in her robe. Marina Aleksandrovna Markov smiled at her brother and swung open the door. “Valera! Come in.”

Val stepped inside, brushing a kiss across his sister’s cheek as he did so. Marina’s exuberance always overwhelmed him. He had long held that their parents’ genetics had bestowed all of their calculation and reason to him, the eldest son, and all of their love and joy upon their daughter, Marina.

“Can I pour you something?” Marina asked him, sliding her arm through his and putting her head on his shoulder.

“What is Sergey having?”

“He is upstairs, just coming out of the shower. But he opened a bottle of red wine before he went upstairs.”

“Red wine needs to breathe,” Val said.

“I see,” Marina said, teasing. “Aren’t my two men just the worldliest men there is?”

Val smiled in spite of himself. “I’ll have the wine, sestra.”

Marina squeezed his arm and moved toward the kitchen. Val settled into a chair near the fireplace, leaving Sergey’s favorite chair empty. He glanced around the simple room adorned with a couple of paintings and several family photographs. The photographs included some black and white shots of his parents and grandparents back in the old country. The house was nice. It was comfortable. No one would ever suspect that the head of the Russian Mafia in River City resided there.

Val scratched his arm absently. Of course, the truth of the matter was that their organization wasn’t the powerhouse here that it had once been in Kiev. Even as a second-tier power, they’d held considerable sway over their territory. It’d been almost three years since they’d come to America, arriving in Seattle and migrating east across the Cascades to River City. Marina had joked that they were the opposite of American pioneers, who had gone west to discover their fortune.

Fortune, Valeriy mused. They’d chosen the Pacific Northwest to avoid the epicenter of Russian organized crime in Brighton Beach, New York. Those Russians were largely Muscovites who had emigrated in the 1970s, using their Jewish ethnicity as a pretext to request asylum. Of course, Brezhnev had only been too glad to rid the Soviet Union of them. Valeriy wasn’t sure if that was more because they were criminals or because they were Jews, but he supposed it didn’t matter. They’d done well in America, but they were a tight group. Once the Soviet Union disintegrated, so did some of the solidarity within the criminal networks. Now it mattered if you were Russian, Ukrainian, or Georgian. So they came instead to the Pacific Northwest, away from the established families. Someplace not as grand, but unspoiled. There was plenty of opportunity in River City, but no one had made a fortune yet. That was going to change, and soon.

Marina emerged from the kitchen with a pair of wine glasses. She handed the half-full one to Val, keeping the glass with just a splash inside it for herself. “I’m going to bed soon,” she explained. “A little wine helps me sleep. A lot gives me terrible dreams.”

“What could you have to dream terrible about?” Val asked. “You have a wonderful life.”

“Yes,” Marina agreed, dropping into Sergey’s seat, “and my bad dreams are about losing it.”

Val turned up his mouth and shrugged. “Very little chance of that,” he told her.

“I didn’t say it was a rational fear,” Marina answered playfully.

Val raised the wine to his nose and sniffed. One of the things he had learned from Sergey was to appreciate the beautiful things in life. Val refused to dwell on hedonistic thoughts during most of his life, but between Sergey and his sister, he’d slowly learned to appreciate certain things in the moment. Wine was one of those things.

“What do you smell?” Marina asked.

“I’m not sure,” Val said. “Black cherry? And a little vanilla, perhaps.”

She smiled and sipped her own wine.

Val did the same. He was rewarded with a rich, velvety sensation. Black cherries and a hint of vanilla exploded across his palate. He swallowed and held the wine up to the light.

“It has a nice color, doesn’t it?” Sergey’s voice came from the doorway. He held a glass of his own and wore a thick blue robe. He walked toward his seat, which Marina vacated only to slide onto his lap after he sat down. “It’s a pinot noir,” he explained, “from right here in Washington.”

Val nodded slowly. “Perhaps we should invest in a winery someday.”

“Perhaps someday,” Sergey agreed.

The threesome fell silent, sipping quietly and enjoying the easy presence of each other. After Marina finished the last of her wine, she rose and kissed Sergey on the corner of his mouth, whispering something into his ear.

“I will,” Sergey answered.

Marina crossed to Val and kissed him on the cheek. “Pavel loves spending time with you, Valera. Thank you for being such a wonderful uncle.”

“It’s my honor,” Val answered. “He’s a fine young man.”

Marina gave his arm a squeeze, bid them both good night, and left the room.

Once she was out of earshot, Sergey eyed Val. “It is a bit late, little brother.” The chide was softened by the term of affection.

“Too late for family,” Val agreed, “but not for business.”

Sergey chuckled. “Very well. What is the business?”

“I spoke with the technician. Everything is in place.”

Sergey’s chuckle faded. His mouth tightened. “So the bookkeeper will be taken care of.”

“Yes.”

“Good. When a man begins to have doubts, that is bad enough. But for him to steal from his own people? His family? The ones who stand shoulder to shoulder with him?” Sergey shook his head in disgust. “Stukatch. No death is hard enough for such a man.”

“I believe you will find this a hard death,” Val said quietly.

“As it should be. And what is the danger to us?”

“Evgeniy says there will be none,” Val answered. “Of course, every one of our people will know what truly happened. It will send quite a message, Sergey.”

“Beat your own and others will fear you,” Sergey said, quoting a Russian proverb.

Val shrugged, conceding the point. Sergey liked to use proverbs to make his point, but Val had to admit that he was usually right. Sergey was an excellent tactician. Fortunately for Val, he was not such a wonderful strategist.

“Is that the only news?”

“No,” Val replied. “I gave Dmitri the parts for the Kalashnikovs. He is making the transition on them now.”

“Good. I had heard that Black Ivan was arrested, though. How were you able to get the parts?”

“His wife gave them to me.”

“What did they arrest him for?”

Val suppressed a smile. He knew that Sergey was fully aware of everything that had happened at Ivan’s apartment, including the charges against the man. This was merely a ploy to see how well informed Val kept himself. Sergey made sure to test his lieutenant every so often.

“Spousal assault,” Val answered. “But that charge won’t hold. Elena is refusing to cooperate. The more serious charge is for assaulting the woman police officer who responded.”

“How is it that he was arrested?”

“Two more cops came to her rescue,” Val said. “Three against one.” He considered a moment. “Well, two.”

“I’m surprised Ivan lost that fight,” Sergey said, taking a healthy sip of his wine. “He is very strong.”

“I think perhaps he gave up in order to avoid further problems. But I won’t know until he is released.”

“Perhaps,” Sergey answered, staring at the glass of wine. “What about the other package?”

“I was able to get that from Elena, as well. It is already in distribution.”

“Who is handling that?”

“Andrei.”

Sergey nodded his approval. “Then all is well, little brother.”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“And here we sit in the calm before the storm.” Sergey sipped again.

“Yes.”

“It’s a peaceful feeling, isn’t it?” Sergey asked. “To know what is going to happen next? It is comforting.”

“Yes,” Val agreed, “it is.” He smiled and raised his glass. “To the coming storm.”

Sergey raised his own glass, and they drank.

Valeriy leaned back in his chair, enjoying the calm, the wine, and his own secret knowledge.

Plans within plans within plans.

Sunday, July 13th

0117 hours

“Let’s get a burrito before they close,” Battaglia suggested.

“Taco Shack is open twenty-four hours, goombah,” Sully told him.

Batts made a face. “Taco Puke? No, I mean Guillermo’s.”

It was Sully’s turn to make a face. “You want to talk about smell? That place used to be a Chinese restaurant. You know that, don’t you?”

“So?”

“So, I can still smell the Szechuan in there. The tortillas taste like soy sauce.”

“You’re dreaming,” Battaglia said. “Guillermo’s has the best burrito in town.”

“Every time we go there, three things happen.”

“One thing happens,” Battaglia said. “I get a good burrito and ain’t hungry anymore.”

Sully shook his head. He removed his right hand from the wheel and held up a single finger. “One, you eat one of those huge freakin’ burritos.”

“Duh. That’s why I go.”

Sully raised a second finger. “Two, as soon as we get back in the car, you crash in the passenger seat and fall asleep.”

“Like anyone gets any sleep on graveyard anymore,” Battaglia argued. “This isn’t the ’60s.”

“Three,” Sully said, ignoring him and flicking a third finger upward, “you get horrible gas and fart up the car like crazy.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s true. It ends up reeking like your ass in here.”

“That’s complete bullshit.”

“How would you know? You’re asleep when it happens.”

“More bullshit,” Battaglia said, shaking his head. “How do you live with yourself, making up all this stuff about people?”

“Adam-122?” chirped the radio.

Sully smiled. “Here comes a call.”

“Shit,” Battaglia muttered. “I’m starving.”

“You going to get that?”

Battaglia shook his head. “You’ve got a free hand there with your magic counting fingers. You answer it.”

“I’m driving.”

“What, Irishmen can’t multitask?”

“Adam-122?” the dispatcher repeated, slower and with more force. There was a brief battle of wills, then Sully reached for the mike. Battaglia snatched it off the holder first.

“Adam-122, go ahead,” Battaglia said, smirking at Sully.

“Feckin’ guinea,” Sully said.

Battaglia shot him the bird.

“Adam-122, respond to 1409 West Grace. The fire department is on scene with a structure fire, requesting traffic control.”

“Wonderful,” Battaglia groused before raising the microphone to his lips. “Copy.”

Sully slowed, checked front and rear, and swung a U-turn.

“Just what we need tonight,” Battaglia complained, replacing the mike on its holder. “Perimeter duty while the fire mopes save another foundation.”

“And no time for Guillermo’s,” Sully added.

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I can swing through the Taco Shack on the way, if you want.”

“Shut up.”

“Really. It’s right on the way.”

“Just drive, bogtrotter.”

Sully smiled and cruised up Monroe. He hung a left on Northwest Boulevard. Battaglia rolled his window down and lifted his nose in the air. “It must be a good one. I can smell the smoke already.”

As he spoke, the unmistakable odor of a burning structure wafted in. “I’ll bet the hose jockeys are beside themselves,” Sully said. “A real working fire.”

The two remained silent until Sully guided the car onto Grace Street. Mid-block, a house was fully engulfed in orange flame. Firemen blasted the fire from two different directions, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.

“Damn,” Battaglia mumbled, staring at the burning home.

“No kidding,” Sully said. He took a deep breath and said, “I’ll drop you here. Why don’t you grab some of the cones and block off the street. I’ll take the car around to the other end of the block and park it there. That ought to keep things under control, traffic-wise.”

Battaglia nodded absently, then got out of the car. Sully popped the trunk and waited while his partner retrieved a small stack of orange traffic cones. Once Batts slammed the hood, he pulled away, drove his car around the block, and parked at the opposite end of Grace Street. He sat in the car for a few minutes, watching the fire from there. Firemen scrambled about the scene, though he didn’t entirely understand what they were up to. He figured it was the same with them watching police work.

Leaving his overhead rotators on, he got out of the car and wandered closer to the fire. Near one of the pumper trucks he encountered Battaglia staring down at the grass. Sully opened his mouth to tease his partner about abandoning his post. Then he followed Battaglia’s gaze and stopped short.

Lying on the grass, bathed in the flashing blue, red, and white light, were three still figures. Sully stared at them dumbly as his mind digested the scene. The largest of the figures was clearly an adult. Given the petite bone structure, Sully guessed her to be female. The two figures beside her were much smaller, clearly children. The tiniest one wore a diaper. Dark streaks covered all three bodies. The woman’s mouth hung open in a slack, silent cry.

Sully felt a stab in his chest. He took a deep, unsteady breath and glanced over at Battaglia. The dark-haired man stood stock-still, his gaze locked on the three bodies. “The children,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “They look almost like little dolls, don’t they?”

Sully’s mind flashed to Battaglia’s children: his daughter, Maggie, and baby son, Anthony Junior, were very close in age to the two on the grass. Sully reached out and clasped Batts on the shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze.

Without meeting Sully’s eyes, Battaglia reached up with his own hand and clasped Sully’s. His eyes glistened in the darkness as the flashing emergency lights splashed across his face. “Life’s so goddamn short to begin with,” he said, “and theirs just barely got started.”

There was nothing for Sully to say.

The two officers stood watch over the three still forms long after the flames burned themselves out, long after Sergeant Shen arrived, his normally impassive face shaded in sadness, and even after Lieutenant Saylor came on scene, his mouth a tight line. They stood by until the fire department’s arson investigator arrived and took control of the scene. Even then, the pair strode back to the patrol car reluctantly, as if somehow they were abandoning the tiny dolls on the lawn.

THREE

Monday, July 14th

0907 hours

Renee straightened her skirt for the third time in the last minute, then adjusted her short stack of paperwork so that the corners lined up exactly. She glanced up at the clock on the wall, which told her the same thing it had the last time she looked. As usual, the new chief of police was running late.

She took a deep, tai chi cleansing breath and let it out. She hated that presentations like this made her so nervous. She was confident in her information, her analysis, and her conclusions. So why did making a formal presentation get her so worked up?

The chief’s secretary, Charlotte, appeared in the doorway to mahogany row. A pleasant, dark-haired woman with bright eyes, Charlotte flashed a smile at Renee. “The chief is ready for you now,” she said.

Renee stood, tucking her small stack of papers under her arm. “Thanks.”

Charlotte nodded and motioned her forward. “I love your skirt,” she said as Renee walked past. “Is it new?”

Renee shook her head. “God, no.” She couldn’t remember the last time she bought something new. “I only wear it when I need to feel confident. And I’m not feeling very confident right now.” She smoothed the fabric, more to dry her clammy palms than to erase any wrinkles. “I’ve heard the new chief is a yeller,” she added in a whisper.

Charlotte chuckled and took Renee’s arm. “Well, his career in the army probably made him a bit rougher around the edges than we’re used to. But he’s fair. Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

Charlotte smiled. “Just give him what he needs to know. And remember that he’s used to people calling him ‘sir.’” At the closed door to the chief’s office, she paused and gave Renee another smile. “You’ll do fine,” she whispered.

Before Renee could thank her, Charlotte rapped twice on the door, paused a moment, and turned the knob. Then she stepped aside so that Renee could enter.

Renee walked into the office for the first time since the new occupant had moved in. She’d become quite comfortable with the former chief, a pleasant, contemplative man who’d always given her a ready ear. He’d kept his office decorated with a variety of personal and professional items, all of which had served to give the room a sense of who he was.

The stark emptiness of the office now surprised her. Aside from a couple of framed certificates on the wall behind him and a photograph of a young child on his desk, there were no other decorations to speak of. A few stock items, such as the US and Washington State flags and the department seal, kept the walls from being entirely bare.

The new chief sat behind his large mahogany desk, the only remnant of the office’s former tenant. His features were swarthy, reminding Renee once again of the first thought she’d had when she saw his photograph during the selection process. She’d grown up a Tolkien fan, reading The Lord of the Rings at least once a year from the time she was twelve until… well, she still read the trilogy every few years.

The new chief’s appearance was, unquestionably, an orc.

For a moment Renee didn’t know whether that revelation should make her laugh or frighten her. After all, if he was as mean as he looked-

“Are you my crime analyst?” the chief asked, his voice not quite as gruff as she had expected, but not exactly silky, either.

“One of them,” she answered. She crossed to his desk and held out her hand. “I’m Renee. Right now, I’m assigned to emerging trends.”

“Emerging trends?” the chief repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” Renee answered. “I collect data citywide and collate it, looking for-”

“Emerging trends,” the chief finished for her. “I get it.” He pointed to the other men in the room. “I’m sure you know Captain Reott, commander of the Patrol Division?”

“Of course,” Renee answered, giving Reott a nod.

“And Lieutenant Crawford, who is the unit commander for-”

“Major Crimes,” Renee finished.

The chief’s eyes narrowed slightly in irritation. Renee pretended not to notice. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve invited them to be part of this briefing so that you don’t have to give it more than once.”

“Thank you, sir,” Renee said. She handed the chief a small packet of papers, then gave one to Crawford and Reott. “This is my report, in case you need to refer to it again at a later date.”

The chief scanned the sheet before him. He gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”

Renee lowered herself into the chair, sitting stiffly upright. She waited while the three men read. After several moments, the chief looked up at her, his expression tinged with impatience. “You had a presentation of some sort?”

Renee cleared her throat. “Of course. Well, I know you’re busy, so I’ll cut to the heart of the matter. I believe we have some significant organized crime activity here in River City.”

“Significant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And is that an emerging trend?”

“No,” Renee said, wondering if he was being sarcastic. “We’ve had an influx of black gangs since the late 1980s. Those gangs tended to fuel their income by selling crack, which has never really developed a substantial foothold here as it did in Los Angeles. They seem to sell enough to keep themselves in business, but that and some prostitution seem to be their only real criminal enterprises.

“Beyond that, we have some organized methamphetamine sellers, based mostly in the motorcycle gangs. Locally, the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross runs the show, though it has proven nearly impossible to break into that inner circle. They deal mostly in large quantities, selling to smaller independents who break up the bricks and distribute it further.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” the chief said crisply, “but the detective sergeant in Narcotics already gave me this information. I was told you had something new to add?”

“I do,” Renee said, keeping her tone even. “It involves the Russians.”

A sarcastic smile spread over the chief’s face. “I’m pretty sure the Cold War is over,” he said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure we won.” He gave Renee an appraising look. “Are you sure you’re a crime analyst and not a CIA analyst?”

Are you sure you’re a police chief and not a donkey?

“Yes, sir,” Renee answered. “This is a serious crime problem.”

The chief paused a moment. Then he nodded and motioned for her to continue.

“Since the fall of the Soviet Union in December of 1991, there has been a steady flow of immigrants from those republics,” Renee began. “Russia and the Ukraine have been the primary source of new immigrants into River City. Most of them immigrated to the United States via Seattle and then found their way over here. Once there was a small community of Russians established, it seemed to attract more immigrants every year.”

“How many Russians live in River City now?”

“Well, the last official census was in 1990, so those numbers are way off. But based on other databases, I’d estimate between twelve and fifteen thousand.”

The chief’s eyebrows shot up. “Out of two hundred thousand? That’s a significant minority.”

Renee nodded. “Yes, sir, I know. That’s my point.”

“Is there someplace they all live?” the chief asked.

“Sir?”

“Is there someplace here in River City like Russia Town or Little Moscow or something?”

Renee scowled slightly. “No, not exactly. There are a number of neighborhoods with a significant Russian population, but-”

“I figured as much,” the chief grumbled. “They all huddle together.”

Renee shrugged. “It’s the same way when every new ethnic group immigrates in large numbers. That’s simply our history. The Irish did it in the 1850s, the Italians in the early twentieth century, Southeast Asians in the 1970s. The Russians are no different.”

“The hell they’re not,” the chief said, his voice rising. “Listen, I spent twenty years in Uncle Sam’s Green Machine from 1971 to 1991. I retired once it was clear Communism was beaten. And you can thank Ronald Reagan for that accomplishment, by the way.”

Renee was unsure where he was going with this. She’d voted for Reagan, but didn’t see how that-

“I trained to fight those Commie bastards every day for twenty years,” the chief said, “so don’t try to tell me that they’re no different.”

“Well, sir,” Renee said, “you may be right. But I believe they are very different in one respect.”

“And what’s that?”

“They’re organized. And because the bulk of the Russians here are still first generation, they enjoy considerable capitulation amongst community members.”

The chief eyed her doubtfully. “Organized, you say?”

Renee nodded. “I believe that a splinter group of Russian organized crime is operating here in River City.”

The chief stared at her for a few moments. Then a smile spread over his face. “The Russian Mafia? You’re kidding.”

“No,” Renee said, shaking her head. “Though I wouldn’t say Mafia, necessarily. But yes, organized crime from Russia. If you analyze the data-”

“Who are these gangsters?”

Renee pressed her lips together. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It’s hard to pin down, because all of them are new to the country. Interpol is slow to process requests, and as I mentioned, the people in the community won’t supply information to the police.”

“So how do you know they exist?”

“It’s a conclusion I’ve drawn,” Renee explained, “based on all the data.”

“What is some of that data?”

“There’s been a spike in the number of auto thefts over the past year. The percentage of those vehicles that are never recovered has more than tripled. That indicates someone is either shipping them for resale elsewhere or running a chop shop and parting them out.”

The chief shrugged, unimpressed. “Auto theft doesn’t equal Russians,” he said.

“No,” Renee conceded, “but it is one of their favorite criminal enterprises. Besides that, we’ve had a 550 % increase in drug delivery arrests involving males with a Russian surname since 1996. And two of the five massage parlors in the city have changed their names from an Asian theme to an Eastern European theme. The employee lists contains almost exclusively Russian surnames.”

The chief shrugged again. “So the Russkies are tearing off a small piece for themselves. Why should I care? Beyond asking the patrol captain to stomp on them a little bit, that is.”

“Because they are highly organized,” Renee said, forcing herself to keep an even tone of voice. “This exactly mirrors their operations back in Russia. Their criminal organization over there was incredibly diversified and very secretive. They still believe in the concept of Omerta, the code of silence.”

The chief shook his head. “I still don’t see-”

“Sir, they clearly have a foothold now,” Renee interjected, speaking rapidly. “But because they aren’t focused on just one revenue source, they can grow quickly. And there’s something else. Probably the most important thing, actually.”

The chief scowled. “Well, if it was the most important thing, you should have started with it. What is it?”

“They’re ruthless,” Renee said, her voice flat.

The chief stared at her again, then looked up at Reott and Crawford. “Is she for real?” he asked them, motioning toward Renee. When neither man answered, he turned his attention back to her. “Ruthless? Like all gangsters aren’t?”

“They’re not like other gangsters, sir. They operate in a different way. They have a completely different frame of mind.”

“They’re criminals,” the chief said.

“They’re ruthless,” Renee repeated. “They’ve been known to assassinate entire families in horrible ways in order to make their point, both to their enemies and the people in the community. And, for this generation at least, the community will listen to them and understand.”

“So I’ve got fifteen thousand ruthless Reds to worry about?” the chief asked. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No. The vast majority of the Russian immigrants here are hardworking, law-abiding people.”

“Then how many are criminals?”

Renee shrugged. “I don’t know. A few hundred, at most. And I would speculate that perhaps thirty or so are directly involved in organized crime.”

“But those thirty are ruthless, according to you.”

“Yes,” Renee said, “they are. And they have tentacles that reach deep into that community of fifteen thousand.”

The chief sighed. “All right. Thank you for the briefing… Renee, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I still don’t see why I should be so worried, but thank you.”

Renee made no move to leave her seat. “You should be worried, sir, because this is a group of men that were able to function under the oppressive Soviet government. Not only function, but thrive. Now, here in America, they are unfettered by that iron grip. The freedom of our country gives them virtually unbridled opportunity. Our laws don’t matter to them. Our jails don’t frighten them. And our police don’t worry them one little bit.”

The chief sat in his seat for a long moment, staring at Renee. She held his gaze, her chest afire. Finally the chief said, “Don’t think you can come in here and educate me about the world. I spent twenty years preparing to go to war with these people. Are they tough? Yes. But they were also disorganized and inefficient, while quite capable of deceiving themselves of that very fact. Their soldiers were sloppy and lazy and served under duress, not willingly. That is the type of warrior that country produced. I don’t believe that they’d produce a criminal who was very much different. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment in ten minutes.”

He turned his attention to the notepad on his desk and tossed her briefing paper haphazardly onto a loose stack on the corner of his desk.

Renee sat in shocked silence for a moment, then rose. She met the eyes of Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford, giving each of them a stunned nod before turning and leaving the office. She closed the door behind her and walked down the short hall. When she passed Charlotte’s desk, the secretary raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“Can we send him back to the army?” Renee asked.

1146 hours

Detective Ray Browning set down the telephone receiver just as Detective John Tower poked his head around the corner of his desk.

“You want to grab some lunch, Ray?”

Tower was the newest member of Major Crimes, having pulled duty in the Sexual Assault unit previously. Browning had worked with him in the past and knew him to be a good detective, if a bit emotionally driven. Since being transferred-some would say promoted-to Major Crimes, he’d been adrift in a new environment.

Browning understood why. Homicide detectives were somewhat clannish to begin with. On top of that, there was the natural confidence-some would say arrogance-that came with being a first-string player. And then there was the hierarchy. Detectives Finch and Elias were partnered up, but most of the detectives flew solo. Lieutenant Crawford threw together ad hoc partnerships when cases merited it, but ever since the Crime Scene Forensics Unit took over processing the evidence, the age-old practice of automatically putting two detectives on every case went by the wayside.

“Ray?” Tower repeated. “Lunch?”

Browning smiled and shook his head. He rarely ate out. Instead, he brought a brown bag lunch and stored it in the small refrigerator near the coffeepot. Some days he made his lunch, other days his wife surprised him and did it. On those days, he usually found a note tucked away somewhere in the bag, signed by his Veronica.

“Brown bagging it again?” Tower asked. “Don’t you ever get tired of the same old thing?”

Browning shook his head. “No. Besides, where do you go when you eat out? The same old places?”

Tower shrugged. “I suppose.”

“You wait until you’re married,” Browning told him. “You might start bringing a brown bag lunch, too.”

“So I can save money for my future?” Tower asked, teasing.

“Nope,” Browning answered. “So you can bring a little piece of home with you to work.”

Tower paused, considering. “I guess that’s why Stephanie’s picture is on my desk.”

“Could be. When’s the big day?”

Tower smiled hugely. “One week.”

“Getting close. How’re you feeling about being a married man?”

“Great,” Tower said. “I feel great. She’s wonderful. She understands what this job can do to you, too.”

“That’s a rare thing, man or woman.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Tower shrugged again and turned to go. “Well, anyway, I gotta get something to eat.”

“Where?”

Tower paused. “Why? You change your mind about coming along?”

“Sort of. I just got off the phone with the arson investigator, Art Hoagland. You know him?”

Tower shook his head.

“He’s a longtime fireman,” Browning said, “but new at the investigator gig. Sometimes he likes to bounce an idea or two off of me.”

“So?”

“So,” Browning continued, “I figured you might like to come along. We can meet Hoagland for some lunch at whatever trendy location you young detectives are eating at nowadays.”

Tower gave him a curious look. “I wouldn’t ever have figured that the only way I’d get you to go out for lunch would be invite along a second responder.”

Browning shrugged. “You don’t have to come.”

“No, I’m in,” Tower said.

“All right.” Browning stood and reached for his jacket. “Wait a second. Second responder?”

Tower grinned. “You’re familiar with the term ‘first responder,’ right?”

“Sure. Police, fire, medics.”

“Well,” Tower explained, “the guys on patrol decided that should be amended, on account of how every time they’re called to a scene, fire is standing off, waiting for the cops to check things out and make them safe. So instead of calling them first responders, they’re-”

“Second responders,” Browning said, a smile playing on his lips in spite of his effort not to let on that it was funny. “Well, he’s a brother investigator now, so let’s say we give him some help.”

Tower shrugged. “Sure. But since it’s his case we’re running, he’s buying, right?”

1204 hours

Valeriy walked into the poorly lit coffee shop and found a seat near the window. A dowdy waitress appeared at his table after several minutes. He ordered a Turkish coffee from her, then pulled a Marlboro out and lit it.

As the smoke curled upward from his cigarette, he stared out the window at the street beyond. His thoughts strayed to the streets of Kiev and his hardscrabble teenage years there. He imagined that he might have died in some street fight if he hadn’t found his way into the army at sixteen. There, his ability to control his emotions and to focus had served him well. He’d found himself part of the elite forces, the Spetsnaz, before he would have been old enough to legally drink in America.

Val smiled at that. Even more ironic, when he finished his term of service he elected to leave the military and found himself right back on those same Kiev streets he’d left only a few short years before. Of course, things were different for him by that time. He had learned to organize, to weigh risks and to act decisively. It wasn’t long before he was a leader in the black market groups.

He drew in the tobacco smoke, held it, and let it whoosh out as the waitress clattered a tiny cup of Turkish coffee in front of him. He eyed her coldly, but she ignored him and waddled away.

Val didn’t touch the coffee right away. Sergey’s words from Saturday night stuck in his mind. “The calm before the storm,” he’d said. Valeriy knew his boss was right, even though Sergey didn’t realize everything that was in play. His ambition was grand. Too grand, in Val’s eyes. There was plenty of opportunity here in America, if a man were careful and not too greedy.

I will let the big man’s ambition exceed his grasp, Val thought. They would expand and expand until everyone decided the Russian Mafia was a huge problem for these American police. Sergey would not stop before that happened, Val knew. It was inevitable, so he chose to embrace the fact and make it work for him. They would rise up like a great civilization, and then, when they were eventually seen as a threat and the police focused on them and beat them back? Well, they would simply retreat. But that retreat would only go so far. Their operation would still be well beyond where they’d started. But because they would have been so prevalent before the retreat, the police would forget them. Bigger fish would catch their attention while Val and his operation continued to swim, mostly unseen.

Of course, Val knew that would never happen as long as Sergey was in charge. Always a gangster, never a soldier, Sergey didn’t understand what it took to be a true leader. It must be Val who took charge. But how? How to do it right?

For all his plans, that was one thing Val did not have an answer for yet. He wondered if it was because he knew he had to be very careful, or if he was hesitant because Sergey was married to Marina. Was he allowing sentiment and emotion to interfere with his decision?

Val stubbed out his cigarette and cast a mildly irritated glance at the door. Dmitri was late.

The momentary diversion didn’t dispel his self-doubt. The question hung in his mind’s eye, flashing in red. Val reached down and lifted the small cup to his lips and sipped the strong, bitter brew. He let his mind mull over the question, poking and prodding at his heart.

It took another sip before he reached his conclusion. It wasn’t Sergey. It was Marina. He did not want her to feel any pain. She was his sister and he loved her. But Sergey would have to go.

The two propositions seemed mutually exclusive. If Sergey left this world, Marina would feel pain. But Sergey would eventually have to be eliminated for Val’s plan to work.

He sat in the chair and examined the problem from every angle, as if it were cold marble pieces on a black and white checkered board and not people of flesh and blood and hearts. He was so engrossed in his thinking that he didn’t hear the front door to the coffee shop open.

Dmitri appeared at his table, gasping and out of breath. “I’m sorry, Valeriy,” he wheezed, his fat face red with exertion. Huge droplets of sweat rolled down his cheeks. “I ran into a problem with-”

Val held up a palm. After a moment, he swung the palm downward into an invitation for Dmitri to sit down. The corpulent man gratefully squeezed into the seat across from Val.

“Have a coffee,” Val suggested. “It’s Turkish, and very good here. The service is horrible, but the grind is delicious.”

“Oh, no thank you,” Dmitri said. “I am not really-”

“Have a coffee,” Val repeated.

His voice held no more of an edge than his first suggestion. If anything, the second time Val spoke in a quieter voice, but Dmitri read the danger and the intensity there.

“Of course I will,” Dmitri said. He swallowed thickly and raised his hand to get the waitress’s attention. She looked annoyed, but took his order. Dmitri thanked her but she turned and strode away.

“I wonder what her problem is?” Dmitri mused.

“She’s fat and disgusting,” Val pointed out.

Dmitri cleared his throat. Then he said, “I don’t know, Valeriy. I’m very fat, too, but I am not unhappy like that.”

“It is different for a woman,” Val told him.

Dmitri raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Ah, yes, I suppose it is.”

The two men sat quietly until the waitress plopped Dmitri’s coffee in front of him. He immediately picked it up and tasted it. Val watched as Dmitri first grimaced, then smiled and raised the tiny cup in his direction. “Thank you for suggesting it. It is very good.”

“Do you know what the Turks say about coffee, Dmitri?”

The fat man shook his head.

“They say it is black as hell, strong as death, sweet as love.”

Dmitri nodded. “True enough, I suppose.”

Val grunted and took another sip of his own. He was already weary of Dmitri’s sycophantic ways, though he was glad to command such respect from the people in the organization. He knew that much of it was transference of their respect for Sergey, but Val was working hard to ensure that those loyalties slowly migrated to him.

“Were the parts I gave you the correct ones?” he asked Dmitri.

The round-faced Russian nodded quickly and repeatedly while taking another sip. “Yes, yes. They were exactly what was needed. Where did you find them?”

Val waved away his question. “Don’t worry about that. Have you begun the conversion?”

“Yes.”

“How long until all of the rifles are converted?”

Dmitri’s expression grew pensive. “It took me a while to do the first one, but now that I see how it works, the rest should follow quickly. I believe I can have all ten finished in a couple of days. Perhaps sooner.”

Val nodded. “Excellent. Good work, Dmitri.”

Dmitri smiled at the praise. “Thank you. You’ll tell Sergey who did this job, yes?”

Val gave him a contemplative look. After a few moments, he said, “Of course I will.”

“Thank you. It is always an honor to be of service.”

“If you complete this task on time, I will be very grateful,” Val told him, choosing his words carefully for full effect. “And I won’t forget your service.”

Dmitri nodded his thanks again. Val could tell that the fat armorer didn’t yet understand what he had meant, but that was exactly Val’s intent. When the time came, words like the ones he just spoke would resonate with the people who’d heard them.

“I trust the pay is sufficient?” Val asked him.

“Oh yes!” Dmitri said, bobbing his head. “Very generous. Thank you.”

“Very well.” Val raised his cup and finished his coffee. Dmitri mirrored his actions, trying and failing to suppress a grimace at the harsh brew. “I will meet you here again tomorrow,” he told Dmitri. “If you’ve finished the project, we’ll make arrangements for delivery.”

“All right,” Dmitri said. “Should I call you?”

Val shook his head. “Whenever possible, don’t use the telephone.”

Dmitri shrugged. “Yes, Valeriy. I understand.”

“Good,” Val said. “Now, I will see you here tomorrow.”

Dmitri rose and reached for his wallet.

Val waved his money away. “Please,” he said. “It is my pleasure.”

Dmitri offered his hand. Val shook it. The larger man’s palm was cold and clammy. “Thank you,” he told Val before turning and leaving.

Val watched him go, absently wiping his hand on a napkin. As much as the man presented himself as a bumbler, he was the finest armorer Val had ever known. If he said he could have the rifles ready in two days, then he’d probably finish in one. And that meant-

“Sir?”

Val glanced up. An older man with a round belly and thick black mustache stood in an apron next to his table. “Yes?”

The man pointed to the recently vacated chair. “May I sit?”

Val nodded.

The man lowered himself into the seat. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table top. “I have a problem, sir,” he said.

Val said nothing. He watched and waited.

The man cleared his throat. “This is my place,” he began, motioning with his hands. “I start it up when I come here to America almost two years ago.”

“You are Ukrainian?” Val asked.

“Georgian,” the man answered. He held out his hand. “Pyotr,” he said.

Val shook his hand without saying his own name. Either the man knew who he was or he didn’t. “What is your problem?” he asked.

Pyotr lowered his eyes. “It started with my daughter,” he explained. “She does not listen to me like she should, much to my shame. She has become all too American.” He shook his head sadly. “And then she took up with these black boys who drive the cars with all the thumping music. You know the ones? They wear the baggy clothing, too.”

“I know them,” Val said. “But many young men behave that way.”

Pyotr nodded. “Yes, but these boys… these chernozhopyi… they are more than just young troublemakers.”

“How so?”

Pyotr glanced around the empty coffee shop, then leaned forward. “Two of them came to me three days ago. One of them, he is the one who my daughter calls her boyfriend, he tells me that I must pay protection for this business. He acts like he will help me somehow, but all he wants is money.”

“How much did he ask for?”

Pyotr named a figure.

Val shrugged. “Every week? That is not so much. Maybe you should pay. That way, you keep your business and your daughter is happy.”

Pyotr’s eyes widened and flashed with anger. “I do not want my daughter to be happy with this black ass.” He shook his head. “No, I will not pay. A penny that they demand today will become a dollar tomorrow.”

“Then you have a problem,” Val commented. Inside, he felt a tickle of anger at these gangsters trying to move into what they should have easily recognized was not their domain. But they’d be dealt with shortly. Perhaps, though, he could find a way to profit more fully from the plans that he and Sergey had already set into motion.

“I know I have a problem,” Pyotr said. “That is why I am sitting here with you.”

“What can I do?” Val asked.

Pyotr smiled and leaned back, turning his palms up. “I am not a young man, Valeriy Aleksandrovich Romanov. Not a foolish one, either. I know the power that you wield in our world. I would like your help.”

Val showed no sign of surprise or interest. “Again, I ask-what can I do?”

Pyotr leaned forward again. “I can pay you instead. You can protect my business.”

Val pretended to consider momentarily, then shook his head. “I cannot.”

“Why?”

“It isn’t enough money,” Val said. “It isn’t worth doing battle with those types of people.”

Pyotr licked his lips nervously. “I… I can pay more. How much would-”

“We are not interested in such smalltime activities,” Val told him. “They tend to be very costly.”

“But-”

Val pushed back his chair as if to stand. “I am sorry, my friend. But you are on your own.”

Pyotr stared at him in surprise. “You would abandon your countryman to these jackals?”

Val returned his stare for a long moment. He thought about pointing out that the Ukraine and Georgia were not the same nation, but he knew what Pyotr was driving at. They had spent long enough under the same flag to be considered countrymen. Especially here in America.

He pulled his chair forward. “No. When you put it that way, I see your point.”

“Thank you,” Pyotr said.

“But we are not in the business of protection,” Val continued. “We are in the business of business.”

Pyotr nodded as if he understood, then stopped suddenly. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Val said, “that I will protect this business from those black gangsters and any other threats because it will be my business.” He gave Pyotr a penetrating stare.

Pyotr was aghast. Then anger seeped into his expression. He began shaking his head, stammering, “No, no, I won’t-that isn’t why I-how can you-?”

Val held up his hand, silencing the older man. “You have asked me for something. I have granted it. I would be very insulted if you were to retract your request now.” He leaned forward himself and asked, “Do you want to insult me, Pyotr? Since you know my name so well, I can only imagine you know about me just as well. You know that those blacks are nothing to fear in comparison.”

“No,” Pyotr croaked. “I know that.”

“Good.”

“But sir…,” Pyotr pleaded, “this business… it is all I have. It is how I feed my family.”

“And it will continue to feed your family,” Val said.

Pyotr looked at him, a mixture of doubt and gratitude in his eyes.

Val gave him a rare smile. “You asked if I could abandon a countryman to the jackals. I cannot. Nor can I make a man destitute. This coffee shop will feed you and your family, Pyotr.”

“I… I believe you,” Pyotr said, unconvinced. “But how do you mean?”

“I will buy the place from you,” Val told him. “It will be a secret arrangement. You will remain the owner as far as the rest of the world is concerned. You may draw a salary for yourself. We’ll discuss it later and decide what is fair. You can even hire some of your family members to work here, if you want.”

Pyotr nodded sadly, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Don’t worry about the books,” Val instructed. “I’ll hire an accountant who will take care of everything. You just run the place, play the part of owner, and take care of your family. Is that acceptable?”

Pyotr stared down at the table between them for a long while. Val waited patiently. He knew the man had no choice at this point. If he refused, the black gangs would squeeze him. Worse yet, he would face Val’s wrath, which would be a hundred times greater. If he accepted, he would have some financial security, but he would be surrendering his dream. And he wasn’t foolish enough not to know that Val would funnel dirty money through the business to launder it. If it ever came down to the police or the IRS poking around, he’d be on the hook.

Val waited. He knew what the man’s answer would be.

Eventually, Pyotr raised his eyes to Val’s and nodded. “Yes,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Thank you.”

“You are a countryman,” Val said. “You do not need to thank me. Now, I want you to think of a price over the next few days. When we talk again, we’ll work out how much I will pay you for the business and what your salary will be. All right?”

Pyotr nodded his head, then stood woodenly and walked away from the table. His slumping shoulders and shuffling gait were those of a broken man.

Val stopped him after a few steps. “Pyotr?”

The man turned to face him.

“What is the name of the fat waitress?”

“Olga,” he answered.

“Fire her today,” Val said.

Pyotr’s eyebrows shot up. “But she’s my sister-in-law.”

“She’s a horrible waitress,” Val said. “Fire her today. I’ll send you a couple of girls who are young and beautiful. That will bring more customers in here.”

“She’s my sister-in-law,” Pyotr repeated weakly.

Val didn’t answer.

After a moment, Pyotr sighed. He raised his hands questioningly. “Will these young girls know how to do this job?” he asked.

“Anyone could do better than Olga,” Val said.

Pyotr didn’t reply. He gave Val a resigned nod, turned, and headed to the back of the coffee shop.

Val watched him go. He felt no remorse for the deal he’d just struck. The man had asked for it. Besides, Val had needed a good business to launder the earnings from the chop shops. Largely a cash business, a coffee shop could enjoy fluctuations in income without drawing any suspicion. It was perfect.

Not so perfect for Pyotr the Georgian, Val mused. He’d keep his word on the man’s salary. In fact, he’d make sure it was a generous one. But he had no intention of buying the business from Pyotr. No, he’d take away the books and pay the man a stipend, but that’d be the end of it.

He was pretty sure Pyotr knew it, too.

Val had been prepared to leave the shop after his meeting with Dmitri and move on to his next duty. But now he took a few extra moments to sit in silence and look around. The coffee shop was dark but clean. Brighter lights and prettier girls would make a difference, he decided. All was quiet except for hushed voices in the back, followed by some sobbing. Val didn’t let those noises intrude upon his enjoyment as he sat in his new business and planned.

1243 hours

Detective Tower took a huge bite of his sandwich and chewed appreciatively. Browning watched him attack the sub and resisted the urge to sigh and shake his head. He thought about warning Tower that he wasn’t always going to be able to eat like that, but he wasn’t sure if his motivation was for Tower’s well-being or his own envy of Tower’s metabolism. Despite an obviously voracious appetite, Tower remained slender and appeared as hard as whipcord.

He probably doesn’t even work out, Browning mused.

Tower glanced up at him as if he’d heard the older man’s thoughts. “What?” He shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

“Apparently.”

Tower motioned toward Browning’s half sub, still untouched. “Eat your alfalfa sprouts and tofu. You’ll feel better.”

Browning narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to bluff Tower into thinking he’d struck a chord with him. But the younger detective just flashed him a grin and took another huge bite.

Arson Investigator Art Hoagland looked up from his meatball sandwich. “Uh, you guys have some kind of a food issue or something?”

“Not me,” Tower said, taking another bite.

Browning let out the sigh he’d been holding in. “No issue, Art. Thanks for buying.”

“Yeah,” Tower said through a mouthful of food. “Thanks.”

“No problem. It’s the least I could do to pick your brain.”

“What’s on your mind?” Browning asked.

Hoagland set his sandwich down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Well, being an investigator is a completely different gig,” he said. “And it’s got my head spinning a little bit. Especially on this most recent case.”

“How so?” Browning asked. “Trouble interpreting the evidence?”

“No. That’s not a problem. Fire leaves very distinct evidence. And I know fire.”

“What’s that evidence tell you?”

“That there was faulty wiring, which started the fire.”

“No evidence to the contrary?”

Hoagland shook his head. “None that I could see.”

“And the size of the fire supports that? The way it developed?”

“Yes. All of the physical evidence at the scene points directly to old electrical wiring being the cause. The burn pattern from that point on is consistent. There’s nothing suspicious.”

“But we’re here,” Tower observed, putting the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “Eating on your dime.”

Hoagland nodded but said nothing.

“Was this an older house, Art?” Browning asked.

“Yes.”

“Original wiring?”

“Yes.”

“So it makes sense?”

“The fire makes sense,” Hoagland admitted. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

“How so?”

Hoagland leaned forward. “I guess my problem is the people end of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“A dead woman,” Hoagland said. “And two dead kids. Burnt up.”

Browning nodded knowingly. “It’s always tough to see the victims in the crimes that we investigate. And burning is a horrible way to die. But for me, all of that becomes a stronger motivation to do right by those victims. To solve the case, no matter what.”

“I understand that,” Hoagland said. “But that’s not my point. My point is, who was missing?”

Browning cocked his head. “What’s that?”

“Who wasn’t there?” Hoagland repeated.

“The husband,” Tower said. “The man of the house.”

Browning’s eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. “There’s a husband? And he lives there?”

Hoagland nodded. “Yeah, though it wasn’t easy to verify. None of the Russian neighbors would confirm it.”

“We sometimes have that problem, too. That entire community is reluctant to talk to the police. I think it’s a holdover from the old country. It’ll change with time.”

“We hope,” Tower added.

Hoagland went on. “The neighbors further up the street weren’t sure if there was a husband who lived there or not. I guess that’s a result of our neighborhoods not being as tight-knit as they used to be. But the little old lady across the street was certain.”

“So you got a solid witness.”

“Not really. She was also certain that this was 1983 and that Richard Nixon was president.”

“Oh.” Browning considered for a moment, then asked, “Was it a rental?”

“No.” Hoagland shook his head. “Owned. And in the wife’s name.”

Browning and Tower exchanged a glance.

Hoagland looked from one to the other, then asked, “What? What’s that mean?”

Tower pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. “Give me the address of your fire,” he said.

“1409 West Grace,” Hoagland told him.

Tower scratched out the address on a napkin, then rose and walked to the counter.

“What’s he doing?” Hoagland asked.

“Checking something,” Browning told him.

“Checking what?”

“Maybe nothing. We’ll see in a minute.”

Hoagland gave Browning a look of exasperation.

Browning smiled slightly and leaned forward. “Listen, Art,” he said. “Russian society is still very patriarchal. Not to an extreme, but it is still a major component in the social order. I’m sure that’ll break down as they acclimate to American life, but for now, that’s the way it is.”

“You mean, the father rules with an iron fist.”

“Probably not that extreme, but along those lines. There’s a long history of this for the Russian people. Even their middle names are a variation of their father’s first name, regardless of whether the child is a son or daughter.”

“I understand, but how does this fit in with my arson?”

“It fits like this,” Browning said. “If there was a husband, he’d be the head of the family. The mother would be the center, but he’d be the head. So if they owned a house, not only would it be in his name, it would most likely be only in his name. The wife’s name wouldn’t even be on the paperwork at all.”

“So you’re saying there probably wasn’t a husband.”

“Maybe not,” Browning said. “But there’s another possibility.”

“Which is?”

“Let me put it to you this way. When we first started encountering California gangs up here in River City, we rarely found guns or drugs on the older, ranking gang members. You know who had the guns and the dope?”

“Who?”

“The juveniles in the gang. See, they all knew that a fifteen-year-old risked a significantly lighter sentence in Juvenile Court for having a gun or drugs, as opposed to a twenty-three-year-old.”

“That makes sense.”

“You know who else held for the gangsters? Particularly their guns?”

Hoagland shook his head. “No.”

“Their girlfriends. Because they knew the females were less likely to be searched and probably wouldn’t be searched as thoroughly by male officers.”

“Okay, I can see why they’d think that, but-”

“Do you know how the Italian Mafia used to hide assets?”

Hoagland held up his hands. “Enough questions, Ray,” he said. “I asked you for your advice.”

Browning smiled. “Art, the best thing one investigator can do for another is ask a lot of questions. Maybe one of the questions will get you thinking about something you overlooked or thinking about some piece of evidence in a different light.”

Hoagland considered, then shrugged. “All right. I see your point. Sorry. It’s just that this is my first major case. And people have died.”

“I understand,” Browning said. “Believe me.”

Hoagland picked up his drink and took a pull from the straw. “Okay, go on. You were saying something about the Godfather?”

“Sort of. The Italian Mafia used to put property in the name of their wives or parents, even their children. Some of the California gangs have done it, too.”

“Why?”

“It helps hide the gangster from the IRS, for one. Plus, it makes the paper trail harder for law enforcement if a RICO case ever comes down. They also figure that if they get busted, there’ll be something there to take care of the family.”

“That’s noble enough, I suppose. I mean, for a crook.”

“There might be some nobility in it somewhere,” Browning said, “but mostly it was about covering their own backsides.”

Hoagland nodded. Both men remained silent for a moment. Then realization crept into Hoagland’s eyes. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that the husband might be a gangster?”

“It’s possible.”

“And we have a Russian gang problem here?”

Browning smiled. “Last I heard, we had ten or fifteen thousand Russian, Ukrainian, and Georgian immigrants here in River City. Now, unless they are an extraordinarily virtuous people, there are going to be a hundred or more criminals in a population that size. And if that many criminals are operating in a city like ours, some of them are going to get very organized.”

“But that’s all theory, right?”

Browning shrugged. “We don’t have anything solid, no. But we’re pretty sure there’s an organized group operating here in River City.”

“Why would you think this husband, if he exists, is one of them?”

“I don’t,” Browning said. “Not necessarily. But follow the logic. One possibility is that there is no husband. But if there is a husband, why wouldn’t his name be on the deed? Especially in such a patriarchal culture?”

Hoagland pursed his lips in thought, but said nothing.

“You see,” Browning continued, “our role as investigators is to read the evidence, imagine probabilities, and then eliminate them. If there’s no husband, you’ve reached the end of that particular road. If there is…” He trailed off.

“If there is,” Hoagland finished, “then I’ve got some more digging to do.”

“Exactly.” Browning picked up his sandwich and took a bite.

Tower returned to the table and sat down. He pushed the napkin across the table toward Hoagland. “Oleg Tretiak,” he announced.

Hoagland looked down at the name, then up at Tower. “Who’s he?”

“According to the Department of Licensing computer, he’s a guy who calls 1409 West Grace home,” Tower said, his tone slightly smug. “And I’ll bet that Tretiak is the same last name as your other three victims, right?”

Hoagland nodded.

Browning swallowed his food and gave Hoagland a long look. “So now you’ve got yourself a little mystery, don’t you?”

Hoagland nodded again, his eyes glazed over in thought. “I need to find out who Oleg Tretiak is.”

Tower shook his head. “No, you know who he is. You need to find out where he is.”

Hoagland sighed heavily. “And how am I supposed to do that? I mean, I know I can check for him in our computer system, but-”

“Already done,” Tower announced.

Both Browning and Hoagland turned their eyes toward him. Browning waited while Tower let Hoagland squirm a little. Then the younger detective smiled and said, “He’s flagged with a 629 code.”

Hoagland let his chin flop forward onto his chest. “Please. In English. Cop talk is about as foreign to the fireman here as Russian.”

“It’s an FBI flag,” Browning explained. “It means that anyone who comes into contact with this person has to report it to the FBI immediately.”

“So if I find the guy, I have to call the FBI?”

Browning nodded. “Yes. But if this guy is in the wind, it might be worth giving the local office a call anyway. Just to touch base. Maybe they know something that will help you out.”

“Yeah,” Tower said sarcastically. “They’re really good about sharing information.”

Browning chuckled. “Touche. But you never know. It’s worth a phone call.”

Hoagland nodded. “All right. I will. In fact, I’ll go do that now.” He rose from his chair and extended his hand to Tower. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime,” Tower said, and shook it.

Hoagland reached for Browning’s hand. Browning gave him a firm shake. “You’ve got a good gut for this, Art,” he said.

“How so?”

“The physical evidence told you this was accidental. Maybe it was. But something on the people side didn’t add up, so you’re following out the lead.” Browning smiled. “That’s what a good investigator does. So keep it up.”

“Thanks.” Hoagland gave Browning’s hand one final, short pump, then released it. “See you later.” He turned on his heel and left the sandwich shop.

Tower watched him go. “Not bad for a hose hauler,” he admitted.

Browning nodded. “Not bad at all.”

2212 hours

Officer Katie MacLeod sat on her couch with her leg propped up on pillows. She stared at the television, watching a hospital drama but not really paying attention. She wondered if the writers took as much dramatic license with the medical profession as they did with hers. Mostly she didn’t care.

She glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes after ten.

What she cared about, mostly, was that her platoon mates were already out on the street, patrolling River City. Which is where she belonged. Not sitting on her couch, half doped-up on pain meds and with an ankle the size of a volleyball.

“This sucks,” she said.

She wasn’t surprised that she missed being at work. What did surprise her was how much she missed it. She missed the feel and smell of her wool uniform and the leather of her belt. She missed the reassuring weight of her gear on her waist. The anticipation of the possibilities that awaited her on each shift. The opportunity to make a difference. The uncertainty. The chance for action.

More than that, she missed the camaraderie of roll call. Saylor’s confident leadership. Chisolm’s steady presence. The twins cracking wise in their terrible accents. Matt Westboard’s quiet diligence. Hell, she even missed Kahn’s gruffness.

She looked down at her swollen, discolored foot. Six to eight weeks, minimum. That’s what the doctor told her. And that was if they didn’t have to operate. If she didn’t need a pin or two to hold things together.

Katie frowned. She didn’t belong on the couch. She belonged in a police cruiser.

On the television, a crew of doctors and nurses rushed to the bedside of a dying patient. They worked feverishly, the actors spouting jargon that Katie didn’t understand. But the sense of purpose and the unity of action that the entire team exhibited only made her feel worse.

She reached for the remote and changed the channel. Maybe there was some sappy romantic comedy on one of the movie channels. At least there was nothing in her life she could compare that to.

Katie MacLeod flipped through her cable stations, wondering how there could be a hundred and seven channels and nothing on.

2304 hours

Graveyard Shift

The belch came out as a wet, flapping croak. Battaglia glanced over at Sully, his gaze a mixture of concern and disgust. “You feeling all right?”

Sully shook his head. “My stomach is bugging me.”

Battaglia sniffed the air. “Whew. Now it’s bugging me. Roll down your window.”

Sully hit the power switch and slid his window down halfway.

“You want me to drive?” Battaglia asked.

Sully shook his head. “No, I’m okay.”

“What you most certainly are not, brother, is okay. What’d you eat?”

“Lasagna,” Sully answered.

Battaglia scowled. “What?”

“I had lasagna,” Sully repeated.

“And you’re sayin’ that’s why your stomach hurts?”

“Probably. Why?”

Battaglia frowned. “You can blame it on my people’s food all you want. I think it has more to do with your delicate Irish tummy than anything wrong with the lasagna.”

“It’s the lasagna,” Sully said, and belched again. His face pinched in discomfort. “That’s all I had tonight.”

“Yeah, well, it was probably some cheap microwave dinner made by a Polish guy in Cleveland or something. Not real Italian lasagna.”

Sully didn’t reply. For one thing, he was fighting down the nausea. For another, the lasagna had been leftovers that Battaglia’s wife, Rebecca, had sent home with him two weeks ago. It had smelled fine, but-

“You sure you didn’t have any haggis?”

Sully shook his head. “I told you this before, you stupid guinea. Haggis is Scottish, not Irish.”

“Close enough.”

“Not even close. It’d be like me calling you Sicilian.”

Battaglia’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, there’s no need to get nasty.”

“See? No fun to get miscast, is it?”

“My people are from Tuscany,” Battaglia said, indignant. “We are not Sicilian animale.”

Sully smiled in spite of his stomach. “You want to talk about close? You know how many miles it is from the Italian mainland to the Sicilian coast?”

“About a million,” Battaglia said.

Sully opened his mouth to educate Batts, then clamped it shut again as another wave of nausea rolled over him.

“You all right, Sully?”

Sully shook his head rapidly.

“Adam-122, a burglary report,” chirped the radio between them.

Sully turned the wheel hard, whipping the patrol car to the curb. He stomped the brakes, lurching the vehicle to a stop. The sway of the car as it came to rest made the nausea worse.

“Dude, do not puke in this car,” Battaglia warned. “We’ll never get the smell out and-”

Sully pushed open the driver’s door and tried to lean outward. His seatbelt caught him, jerking him to a stop and keeping him upright. The belt released as if by magic. He leaned forward and vomited. A solid spray of red liquid interspersed with white chunks of noodles splattered onto the asphalt.

A moment later he heaved again. This time less came out, but the contraction hurt his stomach more. He let loose with a third round that was largely spittle. He felt Battaglia’s hand patting him on the back through his protective vest as he remained in place, spitting and letting out a small groan.

After a few moments, Sully leaned back into the car. He glanced over at Battaglia, realizing now that it had been his partner who popped the seatbelt loose for him.

“Adam-122?” the dispatcher called again.

Battaglia grabbed the microphone and told her to go ahead with the call. Sully watched as Batts scrolled down the tiny orange screen, reading the details as the dispatcher recited them. Then he copied the call and looked up at Sully.

“You all right?”

Sully shrugged. “You got any gum?”

“Nope. But you’ve got toothpaste in your locker at the station, which is where I’m taking you. Pull forward.”

“Huh?”

“Pull forward,” Battaglia told him.

“Why?”

“We’re changing spots and I don’t want to have to walk in your used microwave lasagna to get into the driver’s seat, that’s why.”

Sully shook his head. “I’m okay. I just need some gum.”

“You got some bad food. You need to go home.”

“I can make it through the shift.”

“That’s another seven hours.”

“I can do it.”

“So you’re feeling better, then?”

Sully started to nod yes, but another surge of nausea hit him. He blinked and fought it down. Without a word, he dropped the patrol car into gear and rolled forward several yards.

“Switch,” was all Battaglia said.

Sully eased himself out of the driver’s seat and walked around the front of the car. He was amazed at how weak his limbs felt. By the time he made it to the passenger side and flopped back into the seat, Battaglia was perched behind the wheel. He goosed the accelerator and the patrol car leapt forward.

“Easy there, crazy,” Sully said. Then he added, “This isn’t Rome.”

“I hope it was the haggis,” Battaglia said. “I hope what you’ve got isn’t catching.”

Sully smiled weakly. “Just don’t let the lasagna sit in the fridge too long,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” Sully said. “Just take me to the station before I puke again, goombah.”

“You should stick to corned beef and cabbage, Sully.” Battaglia glanced over at him. “Seriously.”

Sully’s stomach clenched again. He closed his eyes and groaned.

“Tell Sergeant Shen I went home sick,” he told Battaglia.

“Duh.”

“Don’t forget.”

“Double duh.”

“I mean it. I don’t want him to think I went AWOL or something.”

“Hey, who are you talking to here?” Battaglia affected a look of indignation. “One thing we Italians are good for is taking care of our family.”

“Aye,” Sully replied, barely able to summon any brogue. “’Tis true.”

Station, he thought, then home.

Tuesday, July 15th

0211 hours

Officer B.J. Carson pulled carefully onto Monroe Street from Rowan and headed south. After four months of driving with a field training officer in the passenger seat observing her every move, it felt both strange and liberating for her to be on her own. She knew she was still under observation-perhaps even more so than before, with an entire platoon sitting in judgment-but she felt like she could relax a little bit now that she was alone in her patrol car.

She still wore the blue nametag of a rookie, too. The one with “B.J.” emblazoned in bright white letters. Carson had loved having initials for a name when she was young enough to wear pigtails. It set her apart. But by the time she reached junior high, the obvious sexual connotation became a plague. High school was even worse, as her initials became an excuse for boys to believe she was more likely to be promiscuous and girls to assume the same. And maybe it was even a little true, but she didn’t like people just assuming it. In her junior year she changed to a different high school, where she became just Billie. That helped her finally get free of the B.J. curse.

Or so she thought. The day she graduated the academy, they handed her a dark blue River City Police nametag with her initials, and her stomach fell. Then she figured that since she was an adult now, working with other adults, the initials wouldn’t matter anymore. Maybe she could even be B.J. again, and like it.

Not hardly. The police department was an older, grayer version of high school, which was, after all, just a crueler version of junior high. Whenever a male officer saw or heard her initials, she saw in his eyes exactly where his mind went.

As she cruised down Monroe, she pushed away those thoughts and took stock of her platoon mates, instead. Some were easier to figure out than others. She was accustomed to the hard-sell come-ons of a guy like James Kahn. Since she was on probation and trying to fit in, she endured his clumsy, overbearing efforts. She had him figured for a guy who wouldn’t give up unless he ran into a hard stop, so she guessed that she would need to manufacture a fictional boyfriend soon in order to keep him at bay. It wasn’t a perfect solution but it was a better choice than some she’d made regarding male coworkers before.

That’s in the past, she thought.Before I became a cop. Things are different now. I’m different.

Being a cop. Already it was a job full of adrenaline and stress and powerful personalities. Inevitably, that led to a sexually charged environment.

How did Katie MacLeod handle it? Since the rotation with MacLeod had been Carson’s first, they’d focused on much more basic things than the finer arts of dealing with men in the workplace. Still, while the men around the police department cast MacLeod an appreciative glance once in a while, they seemed to genuinely respect her as an officer.

Of course, Carson knew the stories. MacLeod had exchanged gunfire with the Scarface robber several years ago. Another time, she faced a no-win situation on the Post Street bridge with a crazy man and his infant son. And there was her near-fatal encounter with the Rainy Day Rapist about two years ago. The story of how the suspect attacked her in her own home was told to her academy class during the Officer Safety course as an example of why awareness and precautions both on and off duty were so important.

She’s almost a legend, Carson realized. And since that legend was the only other woman on the platoon, she knew very well what the benchmark would be for her, and she felt both admiration and resentment when she considered this.

Still, MacLeod had been a good teacher when they’d ridden together. She’d shown patience and let Carson stretch her limits. Unlike the three male training officers she’d been assigned to, she never felt like she was being protected or that someone was waiting for her to fail. That was an attitude she’d encountered a lot since being hired. She’d hoped it would end as she made it through the field training phase, but she could tell that it wasn’t. She’d need to prove herself further.

Take Chisolm, for instance. His flat, appraising gaze made her nervous. It wasn’t like he was waiting for her to fail, though. It was more like he simply expected she would.

She wasn’t sure why he looked at her that way, but it wasn’t like Chisolm hadn’t earned the right if he wanted to. If MacLeod was almost a legend, Chisolm most certainly was a legend. He was the man who took down the Scarface robber, for one thing. His steely, steady gaze was supposed to give officers confidence and make criminals worry. It had an entirely different impact on Carson, though. It made her nervous.

Carson touched her brake pedal lightly as she coasted down the Monroe Street hill, a short serpentine stretch that dropped from the upper north side of River City into the wide valley that extended north from the Looking Glass River. When she neared the bottom, she turned on Mona Street without thinking about it. A moment later, she realized why-this was where MacLeod had been attacked by the Rainy Day Rapist while acting as a decoy.

She slowed to a crawl and scanned the sparsely populated block, wondering exactly where it happened.

About two-thirds of the way down the block she spotted a long stretch of wooded area with no house. She slowed to a stop and stared at the ill-maintained sidewalk and the thick brush just off the roadway. She had visions of a goblinesque attacker leaping out of the bushes with a knife. She knew it was silly; she’d seen pictures of the Rainy Day Rapist after he’d been arrested. He looked normal enough, even with the sensational newspaper headlines above his photo.

It had been that news story about Katie MacLeod that spurred her to apply to be a police officer. She distinctly remembered sitting on her couch, balled-up tissues in one hand and a vodka cran in the other, watching the news. The news station gave almost ten minutes to the piece, describing the attack and showing a photograph of a confident, smiling Katie MacLeod in her police uniform.

Carson wanted to be that. The next day, she went down to civil service and filled out an application. Becoming a cop was going to be a complete reinvention for her. She could become a confident, skilled professional, just like Katie. She could leave her old life behind.

Carson stared out the window and wondered what the attack had been like. She wondered how Katie handled it, how she bounced back from all of the things she’d encountered on the job. She wondered if she could do it herself now that she was on the job. Was her transformation complete, or-

She heard the racing engine before she saw the approaching car. A small gold Honda flashed past the intersection, southbound on Post Street. There was no way she could estimate the speed in the brief glimpse of the vehicle, but it was well above the thirty mile an hour speed limit.

Carson punched the gas. The V-8 engine of the Crown Victoria gave a throaty roar and surged forward. She hooked a quick right onto Post and buried her accelerator to try and catch the speeder. The taillights were already approaching the light at Buckeye.

“Good God,” she muttered. “He’s flying.”

She knew she should reach for the microphone and advise radio she was trying to catch up to a speeder, but she hesitated. What if the car got away from her? It already had a sizable head start.

Carson gripped the wheel and swallowed hard. Adrenaline coursed through her body. She glanced down at the speedometer.

Seventy.

If she crashed her car right now, it would be lights out for her career. She was still on probation. They’d fire her, no question.

It’s only a speeder, she thought. But losing a car on her first night out on her own was not the way to make her bones. Carson clenched her jaw and maintained her speed.To hell with that.

The taillights went straight at Buckeye. Carson had the green light and zipped through the intersection, bouncing heavily on an uneven patch of pavement. She held her speed and quickly closed the gap. He must have been doing around fifty miles an hour.

With half a block between them, Carson hit her overhead lights. For a long moment there was no reaction. She wondered if this might turn into a vehicle pursuit, something she hadn’t been involved in yet. Another shot of adrenaline kicked in, causing her fingers to tingle.

Then the brake lights flashed twice, then came on steady. The car pulled to the right and stopped.

Carson grabbed the microphone. “Adam-128, a traffic stop.”

“Go ahead, Adam-128.”

“Post and Knox with William Young Zebra Seven Seven Nine,” she recited, reading the license plate in front of her.

“Copy.Adam-122?”

Anthony Battaglia’s deep voice responded. “Adam-122, copy.Division and Buckeye.”

Carson hung the microphone on its holder. Battaglia was close. Good. Looking at the three heads in the car silhouetted by her headlights, she was grateful for the backup.

She scrambled to set her spotlight on the vehicle and grab her flashlight. Cautiously, but trying to project confidence, she approached the car. The driver appeared to be in his early twenties with closely cropped hair. His two passengers also wore their hair short. All of them watched her with flat, appraising eyes. The backseat passenger spoke into a cell phone.

She motioned for the driver to roll down the window by twirling her finger. He complied, but stopped the window halfway down.

“Sir, I’m Officer Carson, River City Police,” she began. “I need to see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance.”

The driver looked at her coldly for a moment, then asked, “What for you stop me?”

Carson recognized his thick accent. She’d only encountered Russians once before, on a traffic stop in her second training car. The elderly woman had been exceptionally nice, smiling the entire time, but she hadn’t understood a word of English. Carson received high marks from her training officer for managing to communicate via show and tell and body language, eventually letting her go with a warning.

“I stopped you for speeding,” Carson told this driver. “Now, I need your driver’s license-”

“I not speeding,” the driver interrupted.

Carson paused. She’d been trained not to get into arguments with violators. Simply write them the ticket and let the merits be argued in court. “I need to see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance,” she repeated firmly.

The driver shook his head. “No. I not speeding, so you have no right.”

“Whether you think you were speeding or not,” Carson told him, reciting the traffic code that she had memorized from flash cards in the academy, “you are required to provide these documents upon request from a law enforcement officer.”

“This bullshit,” the driver said.

“You’re welcome to think so. But I need to see your documents.”

“Or vaht?” the driver sneered.

“Or you’ll be arrested,” Carson answered.

The driver laughed. “You? Little girl like you take me to jail?” He shook his head and said something in Russian. The three of them laughed.

Carson considered her options. She wanted to rip the driver out his window, slap handcuffs on him, and take him to jail. See if that wiped the sneer off his face. But she wasn’t sure she could manage that one on one, much less if his two friends decided to jump in.

She could demand the documents again, but it was pretty plain he wasn’t going to give them up to her.

What she didn’t want to do was continue standing at the driver’s door like an idiot, so she mustered the firmest tone she could and said, “Wait here.”

He snorted, but made no move to pull away.

Carson walked back to her patrol car to get the driver’s name off the vehicle registration. As she reached her door, another patrol car cruised up next to her. The driver engaged his overhead take-down lights and aimed his spotlight on the gold Honda. The passenger window descended. Carson leaned in and was surprised to see that Battaglia was alone.

He must have read the question in her eyes, because he immediately said, “Sully got sick and went home.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s Irish,” Battaglia said with a shrug, as if that should explain everything. “Whattaya got?”

Carson motioned toward the Russian driver. “He’s being difficult.”

Battaglia’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”

She nodded. “He won’t give me his name, reg, or insurance. Says he wasn’t speeding, so I don’t have the right to ask.”

Battaglia pursed his lips and said nothing.

Carson swallowed and spoke quickly. “Of course, I know he has to, but instead of getting into a fight right away, I figured I’d check the registration and see if that turns up his name. Maybe once he knows I already know, he’ll be more cooperative.”

“Maybe,” Battaglia said doubtfully.

“If not, he’s going to jail,” Carson said.

“Yeah, huh?” Battaglia gave her an approving nod. “Not taking any shit? Good for you.”

Carson felt a twinge of gratitude for the support.

“You want another car here?” he asked.

Good officer safety tactics clearly dictated that Carson should have a third officer present, just in case the passengers got squirrely. But she also knew that there was the academy way and there was the way it rolled on the street. She’d never lose respect doing things the academy way, but she’d never make her bones, either.

“I think we’ll be fine,” she told Battaglia. She tried to appear casual, but she was glad that he’d let her make the call.

Battaglia shrugged. He turned his attention to the threesome in the car. Carson left his window and slid into her driver’s seat. A message was waiting on the mobile data terminal on the console. She pushed the “read” button and a message from the dispatcher appeared, consisting solely of the vehicle registration.

Carson smiled. One thing she’d learned early on about the dispatchers was that they definitely took care of their officers, in large ways and small. She scrolled down the registration information; the legal and registered owner was William J. Bryan, with an address in nearby Cheney. She scowled. Bryan didn’t sound much like a Russian name, but maybe-

She scrolled down a little further and saw the words “report of sale,” followed by the date of June 10.

She sighed. That meant Mr. Bryan sold the car back in June and notified the Department of Licensing of that sale. Unfortunately, the new owner hadn’t transferred the registration into his own name yet. Carson scoured her memory. How long did he have to do that? It was one of those two-tiered statutes that had some sort of grace period, after which there was a fine. Was that fifteen days? And when did the second time limit expire, making it a criminal offense for failure to transfer ownership?

She shot a quick glance over at Battaglia, but the veteran officer remained intent on the car in front of them. That was his job as the cover officer and she knew that they took their roles seriously on this shift.

She reached for her ticket book and removed her cheat sheet. She ran her finger over the codes, searching for the particular charge regarding ownership transfer. When she reached the bottom of the page she flipped it over and scanned the back as well.

Nothing.

Carson scowled. It had to be there. She must have missed it. She turned the paper to the front and checked once again, this time more slowly. Two thirds of the way down, she found the listing. It was an infraction after fifteen days, a misdemeanor crime after forty-five. She sighed. That meant it was only a ticket, not an arrest.

Carson stepped out of the car and leaned in Battaglia’s window. “The car has a report of sale,” she told him.

“Over forty-five days?”

She shook her head.

Battaglia shrugged. “So we pull him out and you write him some tickets, then.”

“Yeah,” Carson said. Somehow, she didn’t think it was going to be that easy.

Battaglia exited his patrol car and stood by, waiting for her to take the lead. Carson didn’t hesitate. She strode back up to the car and shined her flashlight on the sneering driver’s face.

“Step out of the car,” she said forcefully. “Now.”

The driver muttered something in Russian, but surprised her by opening the car door. Carson took a step back to allow him room. She motioned for him to follow her back to the front of the patrol car. He paused, casting her a disdainful look, but eventually followed.

Carson maneuvered into position at the side of her car while he stood at the nose. Battaglia positioned himself at the front of his own car, within two easy strides of the suspect driver.

The driver stared at Carson with cold, hard eyes.

She opened her notebook. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Why I have to tell you?” he shot back. “I no do nothing wrong.”

“Answer her,” Battaglia rumbled, “or you’re going to jail.”

The driver met Battaglia’s gaze with an unimpressed stare of his own. The two men locked into a brief battle of wills while Carson stood by, realizing that control of this stop-her stop-was slipping away from her.

She opened her mouth to ask the driver for his name again, but the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut cut her off. Recognition, followed by a wide smile, spread slowly across the driver’s face. He shouted something in Russian that sounded like a greeting.

The two passengers in the suspect vehicle exited and began walking calmly toward the driver.

“Get back in the car!” Carson called to them, but they ignored her.

She glanced at Battaglia, but he’d followed the driver’s gaze to the rear of their patrol cars.

Five white males walked toward them, approaching in a loose semicircle. A shot of fear exploded in Carson’s stomach and reverberated up into her chest. Her breath quickened.

The driver said something in Russian and one of the approaching men grunted in return. Then he turned his attention to Carson. “I still going to jail, suka?”

Carson swallowed, then nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice wavering. She winced inwardly at how weak it sounded. “You’re under arrest for failure to cooperate. Turn around and put your hands on your head.”

The driver laughed, that same sneer plastered on his face. “I think we leave now.” He turned away.

Fear pulsed through Carson’s veins, but a small patch of anger bubbled up from the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was the police. People were supposed to listen to what she said, and do it. She was the one with the badge and the-

Carson drew her pistol and stepped toward the driver. She leveled it at his face, her jaw set. “Don’t move!” she said. “You are under arrest!”

The man blinked at her, no fear registering on his flat mien. Carson could feel the tension ratcheting up. Battaglia stood absolutely still.

“Take him into custody,” she directed.

Battaglia took a step toward the driver. Almost as a single creature, the surrounding men took a step forward as well.

Battaglia stopped. The driver smiled at Carson. “So maybe you can to see now?”

Carson licked her lips and swallowed, but she held her gun steady at the man’s chest. “Don’t move,” she said again.

“Or vaht?” he said. “You will shoot me for speeding ticket? I not think so.”

Carson stared at him, struggling to think what to do. The driver stepped toward her until his chest pressed the muzzle of her gun. “Shoot,” he urged her quietly. “Shoot me, you little suka.”

Carson’s finger twitched, but she knew she couldn’t do it. Her mind raced for options. All of this over a traffic ticket?

Battaglia’s hand moved to his radio. The driver fixed Battaglia with a deadly stare. “You call for more police?” he asked, then shook his head. “You do that, they no get here soon enough. Not for you two.”

Battaglia lowered his hand.

“Good,” the Russian said. “Bad for you to end up in hell tonight.”

Battaglia drew his gun and held it to his side. “So how many of you fucks are coming with me?” he growled.

The driver chuckled. “None, I think. Not tonight.” He turned away and walked back to his gold Honda.

Carson tracked his movement with her gun, but kept her finger off the trigger.

He’s right, she thought. I can’t shoot him for a speeding ticket.

All of the other men fell back and got into their respective cars. A moment later, the two cars pulled away and sped up the road, the taillights dwindling in the distance.

Carson stood still for a moment. The whirring of her patrol car’s rotator lights and the clacking of Battaglia’s flashers filled her ears. Then her hands began to shake. She put her gun back into her holster carefully, snapping the security clasps into place with trembling fingers.

Battaglia stood bathed in the red, white, and blue of their emergency lights, his pistol still clenched in his hand at his side.

Carson turned away and turned off the emergency equipment. When she looked again, she saw that Battaglia had done the same. He slid into the driver’s seat of his car.

“Clear your stop,” he said abruptly, “and meet me in the church parking lot two blocks south.” Then he goosed the accelerator and sped away down Post.

Carson nodded. She was unsure if he was angry at her or at the situation. She got back into her car and typed the appropriate clearance code into her mobile data terminal. Then she dropped the car into gear and followed Battaglia.

His car was in the center of the empty church parking lot. His headlights were off, but the parking lights were on. She glided in next to him, putting their windows right next to each other.

Battaglia’s eyes burned. “Are you okay?” he asked her.

Carson started to nod, then half-shrugged. The beginnings of tears prickled at her eyes and she tried to force the emotion aside.

“Scared?” he asked.

She nodded.

He nodded back. “Holy shit. Me, too.”

“It didn’t show,” she said, remembering his bold statement.

So how many of you fucks are coming with me?

He took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah, well, you can never let that show. Not ever.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Son of a bitch. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Never?”

He met her eyes, then shook his head resolutely. “No. Do you know what just happened there?”

Carson swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just what I said. Do you know what the situation was?”

She didn’t sense any frustration in his voice. “I think,” she said, “that if we would have forced the issue by arresting the driver, his friends would have jumped in.”

Battaglia nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m sure of it. Only I don’t know if all they would have done is jump in. I think that there were guns that we just didn’t see yet.”

“So we did the right thing?” Carson asked.

“Yeah,” Battaglia whispered. “We did the smart thing. It was either let them go or get into a gun fight over a traffic ticket.” He paused. “Fuck!”

“Should we call a sergeant?” She figured Sergeant Shen would want to know about this. Plus, other officers should be aware.

“No!” Battaglia snapped.

The force of his voice made her jump. The shock broke loose her pent-up emotions. The tears of fear and anger welled up in her eyes, burst, and flowed down her cheeks. She looked away in shame.

“I’m… I’m sorry, B.J.,” Battaglia said, his voice softer.

She turned back to face him. “Why don’t we call a sergeant?”

Battaglia sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe we do. But if people hear about this, we’re going to get Monday morning quarterbacked to death. Everyone is going to wonder how we just let those two cars drive away like that.”

“But it’s like you said,” Carson argued. “It was either that or-”

“It doesn’t matter. Cops are critical. They’ll eat us alive.”

“I still don’t see-”

“Just trust me,” Battaglia said. “I’ve got enough juice to maybe survive this kind of hit to my reputation, but you’re…”

He paused.

“I’m a rookie,” Carson finished for him.

“Yeah,” Battaglia answered, but she could see there was more.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Plus you’re a woman.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What, you want to live in make-believe land where that particular fact doesn’t matter? You know exactly what I mean. It’s why you didn’t ask for a third car.”

Carson didn’t reply.

“We have to sit on this,” Battaglia said. “We have to keep it a secret.”

“I don’t know…”

Battaglia shot her a hard glare. “What’s to know? You want this for your rep?”

“No,” she answered. “But don’t we have a responsibility to the other cops out here? So they know what might happen?”

“Yeah,” Battaglia said. “We do.”

“Then we have to tell a sergeant so that-”

“You just let me worry about that part, okay, rookie?”

Carson stopped short. Battaglia’s words should have seemed cutting, but there was a softness to the tone. She hesitated, taking a deep breath and running her fingers through her hair. She didn’t want people on the job to think she was weak. She couldn’t afford that. But what could she have done differently? What could any of them have done?

She knew Battaglia was right. Away from the actual event, most of them would come up with a solution. They’d feel superior to her. And they’d think badly of her. After all, if she couldn’t even control a simple traffic stop, what good was she as a cop?

“I’ll take care of it, B.J.,” Battaglia said quietly.

She believed him.

“Trust me,” he whispered.

“Okay,” she whispered back.

FOUR

0844 hours

Day Shift

Renee scanned field interview reports while sipping her coffee. After she read each one she quickly entered the salient parts into her computer database, then set the actual report aside for later filing. She was nearly through the stack when she came upon an interesting FI from Officer Battaglia on graveyard shift.

Spoke with confidential informant (CI). Stated Russian gangs are directing members to disobey officers on traffic stops. Driver will stall while passenger uses cell to call for assistance. Once the group outnumbers officers, members are directed to push matters to a head by refusing to allow anyone to be arrested. Warned not to do anything that would warrant officers using deadly force. Just disobey and walk away. CI usually pretty reliable.

Renee read the brief report again. This was exactly the kind of thing she’d been trying to warn the chief about. It needed to go into the daily intelligence flyer so that officers could be aware of this possibility; she set the report aside from the rest for that purpose.

River City was growing. There’d been a time when the population was easily ninety percent white. Since she’d come to work for the police department in the late 1980s, though, the city had begun to diversify. Small populations of numerous racial and ethnic groups had filtered in and slowly grown little neighborhoods across the patchwork town. She guessed the vast majority of about two hundred thousand residents was still Caucasian-say seventy percent or so-but even in that category, they had a variety of cultural groups. Like the Russians she’d just read about.

Renee reached for her coffee. She didn’t identify much with any particular group, and while that probably took away from being able to have any sense of cultural pride, it also made her appreciate all of the cultures that were out there. In her off time, she liked to frequent different bars and restaurants, particularly those run by some sort of ethnic owner. She enjoyed getting to know more about all of them-Italian, Greek, Russian, Polish, Turkish, Chinese, Vietnamese, Mexican, you name it. What she found was that her favorite motto was almost always true: People are just people, everywhere.

That sentiment sat well with her, especially since the people she spent her days reading about and analyzing were almost exclusively bad people. If she hadn’t had some of those nice experiences all around town, she’d start to get a little bit jaded about some people.

Which brought her back to the Russians. Somewhere between twelve and fifteen thousand lived in River City. Several hundred were clearly involved in crime. That was pretty much on par with every other group she took the time to look at. It didn’t change her concern, though. And with Battaglia’s report, she was all that much more worried.

“Renee?”

She looked up to see Charlotte at her door. “Yes?”

“The chief would like to see you.”

“Now?”

Charlotte smiled, but Renee saw the strain in her face.

She set aside her coffee cup. “Do you know what it’s about?”

Charlotte shook her head. “All I know is that there’s an FBI agent in there with him.”

Renee raised an eyebrow. “FBI?”

Charlotte nodded.

Renee glanced down at the dress pants and purple blouse she was wearing. “Do these look like confident clothes?” she asked.

Charlotte’s smile warmed. “They do. The little bit of lace does the trick.”

“Good.” Renee grabbed a pen and a legal pad.

“All the same,” Charlotte continued, “I wouldn’t make any jokes like that while you’re in there. He appears to take himself very seriously.”

“Thinks he’s pretty important, huh?”

“Exactly.”

“I think I still have a power suit from the eighties in my closet,” Renee said. “You know, the ones with the shoulder pads in them. Should I run home and change?”

The two women laughed. After a moment, both collected themselves and walked to the chief’s office, where Charlotte rapped on the door.

“Come!” a loud voice bellowed.

“Good luck,” Charlotte whispered.

Renee steeled herself and went inside.

The chief of police sat behind his desk, his fingers interlaced and his elbows on the arms of his chair. Directly across from him sat a sandy-haired man in a dark blue suit. Both men looked up at her as she approached.

“Renee,” the chief said, “this is Special Agent Maurice Payne. He’s with the FBI organized crime unit.”

Renee held out her hand. Payne gave her a perfunctory, loose-gripped shake.

“Renee is one of our crime analysts, focusing on emerging trends,” the chief explained. He gestured for her to sit in the empty chair next to Agent Payne. “She’s been following the emergence of our Russian gang problem here in River City for some time.”

“Excellent,” Payne said tersely. “Do you have any sort of organizational chart that we can take a look at?”

Renee shook her head. “Unfortunately, our intelligence is not that far along.”

Payne looked at the chief, then back at her. “Oh, really?”

“No,” she said. “While I know that these particular gangs are highly organized, it has been difficult to-”

Payne raised his hand. “How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That they’re highly organized.”

Renee paused, a little confused. “I thought you were with organized crime,” she said haltingly.

“I am. I know how organized they are. I want to know how you think you know that.”

She cleared her throat and spoke slowly. “I have attended a number of gang schools over the past several years. One of them focused specifically on European gangs.”

“Who put on that school?” he asked, condescension in his voice.

“That one would have been the FBI, sir,” she answered.

Payne paused and swallowed. “Uh, good. Okay, what else?”

Why the hell was she justifying her job to him? She glanced at the chief, but his stony gaze told her that she would have to answer the question. “I read a lot,” she said, anger brewing in the pit of her stomach. “Professional journals, books, bulletins. Whatever I can find on the Internet.”

Payne took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, that’s excellent. But be careful about the information on the web. Anyone can put anything out there, you know?”

“I pretty much stick to official sites,” Renee answered, starting to fume inside. I’ve been using computers since we stored data on cassette tapes, while you were popping pimples and reading Richie Rich comics, you little dipshit. “What’s this all about?” she asked.

Payne took another deep breath and affected a grave expression. Renee waited for him to speak, fairly certain that his tone would have a similar sense of measured gravity.

“What I’m about to tell you is completely confidential,” he said in a rehearsed voice. “It is classified based both upon the nature of the information and the source. Do you understand?”

Renee nodded. “Don’t tell anyone. I get it.”

Payne’s eyes narrowed. “It’s nothing to be flippant about,” he said. “Violations carry federal sanctions. If you can’t be trusted-”

“She can be trusted,” the chief rumbled from his leather throne. He cast a cautionary look at her. “Just let her know what’s going on, Agent Payne.”

Payne pressed his lips together as a slight redness crept into his cheeks. He looked like a schoolboy that had just been corrected by the teacher, but it quickly passed. “Do you know Oleg Tretiak?”

Renee shook her head.

Payne sighed. “Well, you should. He’s been the bookkeeper for Sergey Markov for the last two years. You do know Sergey Markov, right?”

Renee nodded, ignoring his tone. “Markov has been a suspect in a couple cases of fencing property, but he’s more likely in charge of a chop shop operation in town. Last year our detectives raided a garage in Hillyard. His car was parked in front of the house, but he wasn’t there.”

“Did any of the suspects talk?”

Renee gave him a baleful look. “No. They don’t talk. That’s the problem. Even the normal good citizens won’t inform on them. It’s a holdover from the old country.”

“They’ll talk,” Payne said. “It just takes a lot to make that happen.”

“Like what?”

Payne smiled coldly. “Well, if you try to kill a man, that tends to loosen his tongue.”

“Not with the Russians.” Renee eyed him carefully. “Are you saying you have an informant?”

Payne nodded.

“Is it Tretiak, the accountant?”

Payne nodded again.

Renee shrugged. “Well, that’s impressive, but I think you have to consider the odds that he’s not giving you accurate information. Even with an attempt on his life, I’m not so sure he’d turn on his-”

“It was more than a mere attempt on his life,” Payne said slowly. “Someone tried to kill him and his whole family by burning down his house. Only he wasn’t home at the time.”

Renee frowned. “There was a house fire on Grace on Sunday. A woman and two children died. The arson investigator’s initial report said that it was a wiring problem.”

“Oleg doesn’t think so.”

“Hoagland conducted that investigation,” Renee said. “I read his report. He didn’t have any evidence of arson.”

“He had his gut,” Payne said. “He called me yesterday. He said something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t find anything to substantiate his feeling.”

“Then it is what the evidence says it is,” Renee said.

Payne shrugged. “Oleg knows what happened. He has no doubt.”

Renee shook her head in wonder. “So the ones who died in the fire, that was…?”

“His wife?” Payne asked dramatically. “His son and daughter? Yes, it was. And that was enough to make him decide to switch sides.”

Renee’s mind raced. An informant of this magnitude could fill in a lot of gaps, including how big a player Markov really was. He might even make it possible to break the back of the entire operation. “This is huge,” she whispered.

“It is,” Payne agreed. “And you can’t tell anyone about it.”

For once, Renee found herself in perfect agreement. “The FBI involvement? Or the informant?”

Payne looked at the chief again and shrugged. “Our assistance is probably not confidential. But the informant absolutely is on a need-to-know basis.”

Renee nodded her understanding. “What do you need from me?”

“Intelligence support,” Payne said. “We’re a small office here in River City. Most of our assets are in Seattle, which has its own organized crime problem, and not of the Russian variety. I’m asking your chief for support on a few issues, including using you as an analyst when necessary.”

“All right.”

“You’ll be given temporary clearance into our system,” Payne explained. “And I’d like you to take notes during Tretiak’s debriefings.”

Renee resisted the urge to whoop. This could be the difference maker that uprooted the Russian foothold in River City. It would be a worthwhile assignment, even if she did have to put up with Special Agent Maurice Payne.

“Not quite the CIA,” the chief said, a trace of humor in his gruff voice, “but getting close.”

Renee nodded to him. Maybe he wasn’t quite an orc, after all.

“I’ll be in touch soon,” Payne said.

Renee nodded, rose, and left the office with a smile on her face.

0911 hours

B.J. Carson lifted her glass and drained the last of the beer. The amber liquid slid down easily, the way having been well lubricated by the previous two. She set the glass down on the table carefully, but couldn’t keep it from clunking loudly on the Formica surface. The sound echoed in the near-empty Happy Time Tavern.

“Oops,” she said, and giggled.

Anthony Battaglia chuckled at her from across the table. He emptied his own glass to match her. Then he clunked his own glass on the table.

“Oops,” he said back.

Both officers laughed. Battaglia reached for the pitcher on the table and divvied up the remainder of the Coors Light between them.

Carson reached for her glass, now about a third full. Or, she wondered, was it two-thirds empty? The thought made her giggle again.

“Now what’s funny?” Battaglia asked.

“Nothing,” Carson replied. “It’s stupid.”

“But you laughed.”

“Yeah, but it was stupid.”

“Try me,” Battaglia urged.

“It’s stupid. Really.”

“I’ve got a stupid sense of humor. I’m Italian.”

Carson sighed. “All right.”

“Good.” He leaned forward and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

She held up her glass. “I just noticed that this was about one-third full. Then the thought popped in my mind, is it one-third full or is it two-thirds empty?”

Battaglia lowered his brows and stared at her.

“It thought it was funny,” Carson said, and shrugged.

“No, you were right,” Battaglia deadpanned. “It was stupid.”

“Shut up!” she said, laughing and throwing a balled-up napkin at him.

The wadded napkin struck Battaglia in the forehead and dropped directly into his beer glass.

Carson let out a squealing laugh. She covered her mouth, but her laughter continued.

Battaglia let out an exaggerated sigh. He reached for several other napkins and made a small pile. Then he reached inside his glass with two fingers and fished out the soggy napkin. He held it up for Carson to see before plopping it onto the bed of dry napkins he’d created. Then he peered at the remaining beer in his glass. “Well, now my beer is either one-quarter full or three-quarters empty.”

Another squealing laugh escaped from behind Carson’s hand.

Battaglia waggled an index finger at her. “Well, now I know one of your dark secrets, B.J.”

She shook her head but couldn’t speak through the giggles.

“That squeaky laugh…” He shook his head. “Well, I just don’t know.”

The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Carson’s giggles slowly faded. When she had them under control, she took a sip of beer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Battaglia said.

“Why didn’t we go to Duke’s?”

“Huh?”

“Duke’s,” she said. “Isn’t that the main hangout bar for patrol?”

Battaglia shrugged. “Sure. I mean, some guys go there.”

Carson didn’t reply. During her stint at the academy and since being in the training car, she’d hardly heard of officers going anywhere else. It was supposed to be the one place where the cops could cut loose without everyone eyeballing them. All the celebrations-promotions, retirements, probation parties-happened at Duke’s.

So why did Battaglia bring her here instead? The Happy Time was a nice little neighborhood bar, right along Division Street, just above the crest of the hill that rose from the river valley below. When she’d parked her car shortly after their shift ended, she’d been treated to a nice view of the city core below. So it wasn’t that this was a bad choice, but it wasn’t Duke’s. Which brought her back to, Why?

Battaglia was staring down at the beer in front of him. Carson opened her mouth to repeat the question when he spoke.

“Why do you think I asked you to beers at all?” he asked. He looked up and met her eyes. “Why, B.J.?”

Carson felt a nervous pang in her chest when she met his eyes. The attraction there was palpable and even when her mind raced to factor in the number of drinks they’d downed, she knew she couldn’t write it off to beer lust. She swallowed.

Battaglia’s penetrating gaze didn’t leave her.

Carson wet her lips, then cursed herself for the obviously flirtatious gesture. She hoped it was the drink talking.

“Uh, you’re the chair of the platoon’s welcoming committee?”

Battaglia shook his head. “No,” he said softly.

Carson shrugged. “I don’t know then. Why did you ask me to beers?”

“That call last night,” he said. “The traffic stop. With the Russians.”

“Oh.” Carson hadn’t wanted to think about it again just yet.

“I figured it might’ve shaken you up a little bit,” Battaglia continued. “Thought you might want to talk about it, is all.”

Carson took another sip of beer. “What’s to talk about?”

“Whatever you want,” Battaglia said. “Tactics, feelings, whatever.”

Carson grinned nervously. “Well, Dr. Battaglia, how much does it cost to lie on your couch and spew out all my secret feelings?”

She regretted the words as soon as she said them.

But Battaglia didn’t smile. His face darkened and he leaned forward. “B.J., you can joke if you want. I like joking. Hell, it’s all Sully and I ever do. But don’t joke about a partner reaching out to you when something bad happens on the job. That’s something sacred and you don’t joke about it.”

His intensity surprised her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking down at her hands. He called me a partner.

He waved her apology away. “Not necessary. You’re a rookie. You don’t know these things. But you’ll learn. Your platoon will help, as long as you’re a hard worker and not afraid to step up when things get hot.”

Carson nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”

“I know. I saw it last night.”

Carson looked back into his face. “I was scared shitless,” she admitted. “And I didn’t know what to do.”

Battaglia’s expression softened. He reached out and patted her hand, then left it on top of hers. “This job is ninety-nine percent boredom,” he told her, “and one percent sheer terror. The stressful part is, you never know when the one percent is coming.”

Battaglia’s palm and fingers warmed the back of Carson’s hand. She knew she should casually pull her hand away. That was the signal she should send: You’re married, and we work together. That’s what she should say.

But that’s never what you say, is it?

She cleared her throat and said, “Last night was definitely in the one percent category.”

Battaglia smiled. He squeezed her hand lightly and removed his. “It was. The whole thing could have gone to shit. So you have to ask yourself, what are we doing here? What’s at stake? They had, what? Seven guys?”

“I think so.”

Battaglia took a swallow of beer. “And who knows how many of them had guns? So we’re supposed to push matters? Get into a gunfight over a traffic ticket?” He shook his head. “No, we did the only thing we could.”

Somehow, Carson thought he was trying to convince himself as much as her. She lifted her glass and finished it.

Battaglia swallowed the last of his own beer, too. “We should probably call no joy, huh?”

“No joy?”

Battaglia shrugged. “Fighter pilot talk.”

“Were you a pilot?” Carson gushed.

Battaglia laughed. “Oh, I fly my cruiser low once in a while, but that’s about it.” He shook his head. “No, I got that from some movie.”

“Oh,” Carson said. She let out a giggle that she didn’t really feel, embarrassed at sounding like a teenage girl mooning over a fighter pilot.

“Careful,” Battaglia said, standing. “That squeal might escape again.”

Carson stood as well, sending a light punch into Battaglia’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

Battaglia fished some folded bills from his pocket. Carson rummaged through her purse for her wallet. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy.

“Relax,” Battaglia told her. “I got it.”

“No,” Carson said, “I can pay my share.”

Battaglia dropped a few bills on the table. “Next time,” he said.

Carson acquiesced and the two of them made their way to the door. Her movements were a little wooden and clumsy. She was probably borderline for driving home, even though it wasn’t very far to her apartment.

When she reached her car, she felt Battaglia’s hand on her shoulder. The warm strength of it almost made her knees buckle. She froze, then turned toward him, determined not to let her emotions and the beer carry her away. No matter what, I will not kiss him.

“Are you okay to drive?”

“Frobably pine,” she answered, then covered her mouth and laughed.

Battaglia smiled. “Or frobably not.” He released her shoulder. “Come on, I’ll drop you at your place.”

Carson’s heart rate kicked up. Her place?

I can not sleep with him. He’s married. He’s on my platoon. That part of my life is over. I’m a different person now.

“No, that’s okay,” she finally said.

“What?”

“I’ll just, you know, sit and listen to the radio for a while. Then I’ll drive home.”

Battaglia strolled back toward her. “Did you learn in the academy about the rate that alcohol metabolizes in the body?”

“Yes,” she answered, struggling to remember the equation.

“What is it?”

“I don’t remember the exact figures,” Carson said. “You know, I didn’t realize there was going to be a test right here in the Happy Time parking lot.”

Battaglia smiled. “Well, trust me. You’ll be here at least an hour before you’re ready to drive home. So let me take you.”

“You drank just as much as I did,” Carson said.

“I did.”

“So should you be driving?”

“I weigh at least fifty pounds more than you,” Battaglia said. “Do the math.”

Carson frowned. “I’m terrible at math.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have anything to throw.”

“Yeah,” Battaglia said. “It’d land in my glass and I’d be out more beer. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

Carson still didn’t move. “What about my car?” she asked, desperate for a last-ditch excuse.

“I’ll come in a little early tonight,” Battaglia explained. “I’ll pick you up at your house and drop you at your car. Then you can drive it to work. No fuss, no muss.”

Carson hesitated, but she was out of reasons to decline. Battaglia opened the driver’s door and popped the lock for her. She slid into the passenger seat. The cab had the slight scent of his cologne in it.

Battaglia let the engine idle for a few moments, staring straight ahead. Then he turned to Carson. “You asked me why I didn’t take you to Duke’s.”

She nodded.

Battaglia shrugged. “I guess I didn’t want people to talk.”

“Talk?” she asked, though she knew immediately what he meant.

“Sure,” he said, pointing to himself and then to her. “Man, woman. That sort of thing.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I mean, if we’d invited another cop or two along, it’d be nothing,” Battaglia explained. “Just taking the rookie out for a beer, is all. If we did that, though, we couldn’t have talked about that stop with the Russians. But if we went to Duke’s together with no one else, the River City rumor mill would start up on us. You know?”

Carson knew about the rumor mill. She’d been the grist too many times. “I guess,” she said. “I suppose it’s the same everywhere.”

“People is people,” Battaglia agreed.

They fell silent. Battaglia took in a deep breath and let it out. “So there it is,” he finally said, then dropped the truck into gear. “Your address?”

Carson gave it to him, then said, “Just go up Division until you hit-”

“I don’t need directions,” Battaglia said. “I know this city like the back of my hand.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You will, too,” he said, his voice tender. “Soon.”

Battaglia drove unerringly to her address and pulled up to the apartment complex. “Curbside service,” he announced.

Carson was glad to see that he didn’t turn off the engine or make any sign that he expected to come inside. She absolutely wasn’t going to invite him-was she? — but it made it easier that he didn’t expect it.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem. When do you usually leave for work?”

“About eight.”

“I’ll be here. Just another fine service by Battaglia’s Beers ’n’ Cab.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Batts,” she said. His nickname sounded good to her ear, felt good rolling off her tongue.

“Anytime.”

She reached for her door handle, then stopped suddenly. She leaned across the seat and brushed her lips against his cheek. The beginning stubble of his beard raked her tender lips, and the scent of his skin and his cologne filled her nostrils.

Battaglia didn’t move.

She pulled away and popped open her door. “Really,” she said. “Thanks for everything.”

He met her gaze. “Anytime,” he repeated softly.

She flashed him a grin as she stepped out of the truck and closed the door behind her. He raised his hand in farewell and she returned the wave, then he nudged his truck forward and drove away.

A jumble of mixed emotions jangled around inside Carson’s chest. What the hell was that?

At her door she fumbled inside her purse until she drew out the key ring. She was grateful to be home. She resolved not to think about it. Just jump in the hot shower and get into bed. Sleep. She just needed to sleep. Another graveyard shift was coming.

But it wasn’t the shift she was worried about.

1214 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat at the table in the corner. The Zippo lighter with the Soviet logo turned slowly in his hands. He touched it with more than an absent-minded caress, but less than actual affection. He rolled and dipped it through his fingers slowly, because slow control was the mark of a man who had mastered an act. Anyone could blaze through something with a little practice. Slow control demonstrated mastery.

Dmitri was late once again. Val had already decided that if he did not come with the converted AK-47s, this would be the last meeting the fat man was ever late for in his miserable life. If he had the rifles, though… well, perhaps he could learn from a mere reprimand.

Pyotr hovered near the cash register, watching him but acting like he wasn’t. Whenever Val glanced his way, the old man gave him an ingratiating smile and a nod. Val returned his nod with a cool gaze.

The clattering of beads announced the arrival of his waitress. Natalia slid a cup of Turkish coffee in front of him, her jasmine perfume washing over him. She placed her hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward slightly, giving him a perfect view of her cleavage.

“Will there be anything else?” she purred.

“No,” he replied.

An exaggerated pout appeared on her face and she turned away. As she walked, the sway of her hips was as pronounced as her expression.

“Natalia,” he grunted after her.

The dark-haired beauty stopped and turned around, smiling. “Yes, Valeriy?”

He waved her over. She sashayed back, resting her elbows on the table and batting her doe eyes at him.

“What is it?” she whispered huskily.

“I will gladly take you to my bed,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are most beautiful. You might even make a good wife.”

Her expression went from insulted to flattered within the space of his sentence, and her eyes grew sultry.

Val raised his finger. “But,” he said, “this is a coffee shop. Not a whorehouse. Just be pretty and a little bit friendly. That will be enough to bring the business in.”

Natalia gave him a hurt look.

Val waved her away. “Get back to work.”

The waitress turned and walked away. This time, the sway of her hips was noticeably muted.

Good, Valeriy thought.The less attention to this place, the better.

The door swung open and Dmitri strode in. He sat down without asking. After a moment he realized what he’d done and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” Val said, waving him to the chair he’d already claimed.

Dmitri sat gratefully and wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. “I am late,” he said.

“I noticed,” Val answered, injecting just a hint of disapproval into his tone.

“My apologies,” Dmitri added quickly, “but I was just finishing up the job.”

“Finishing?”

Dmitri smiled. “Da. I didn’t want to bring you anything less than your full complement of arms.”

Val nodded, impressed. He took a long, noisy sip of his harsh Turkish coffee. “Even so, Dmitri,” he said, his voice pleasant but laced with danger, “it isn’t wise to keep someone waiting. After all, I might think that perhaps you went to the police.”

“Never!” Dmitri said forcefully. “I am no stukach!”

Val shrugged. “Or perhaps it is a sign of disrespect.”

“No, no, no!” Dmitri objected, waving his hands. “I just wanted to finish the last rifle. That’s all! If I could have called you, I would have, but you won’t use the telephone.”

Val’s eyes narrowed. “Are you taking me to task, Dmitri Yuskevich?”

“Nyet, nyet!” he cried, waving his hands even more fervently. “I am only saying that… oh, I don’t know what I am saying. Please forgive me, sir. I am an armorer. I know firearms. I am not so good with people.”

Val sat back and gave the fat man a long look. Then he nodded slowly. “Very well. Tell me what you have.”

Dmitri smiled, a hint of pride shining through his previous concern. “All ten,” he whispered. “In my trunk.”

“Tested?” Val asked.

“Dry-fired, yes.”

“But not with live ammunition?”

Dmitri shrugged. “It is hard to find a place to fire such weapons. And I had thought that you wanted these as quickly as possible. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Val answered. “You were not wrong. You guarantee that they will work?”

“Absolutely.”

Val removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. He scrawled an address on it, then pushed it across to Dmitri. “Deliver them to the garage behind this address. Knock three times, loudly, on the garage door.”

Dmitri studied the address.

“Do not knock twice or four times, Dmitri,” Val cautioned, “or you will not like their response.”

Dmitri swallowed hard, but nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

“Very well. You may go.”

Dmitri rose in his chair and started to leave. He paused for a moment and turned back toward Valeriy.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I am truly sorry for being late. Please know it was only so that I could finish the final rifle. To serve you better.”

Val simply nodded. “I accept your apology,” he said, then added, “This time.”

Dmitri smiled nervously and left.

Val watched him go, pleased. One person at a time, he was solidifying his own grip on this small empire, independent of Sergey’s power and reputation. All was going according to plan.

He sipped the Turkish coffee, his mind spinning. From the cash register Pyotr eyed him with gratitude and hatred. At the end of the counter, Natalia’s look was of lust and hatred. Neither one affected him as he examined and re-examined his strategy. His plans within plans within plans.

1239 hours

Officer Anthony Giovanni replaced the microphone and cursed. Less than two hours to go and he had just been nabbed for a special detail. And the worst part was that the dispatcher who nailed him for it was Irina, who was still mad at him for casually sleeping with her four years ago. She was as bad as Ridgeway when it came to letting things go. Ridgeway was still stewing about his messy divorce that happened around the same time Gio dated Irina. Some people really needed to let things go after a time.

Gio hung a left and headed up north toward the Costco. The heavy daytime traffic slowed his response, but eventually he swung into the Costco parking lot and pulled up next to Sergeant Michaels’ vehicle. “What’s up, Sarge?”

Michaels sighed. “Well, we’re being tapped to help the feds with a babysitting detail.”

“Babysitting?”

“Yep. Apparently they have a high-profile witness or informant or whatever, and they want extra help in keeping him safe.”

“Where?”

“At the Quality Inn just up the street.”

“So why are we meeting here?”

“Because they want you to park here and walk in.”

Gio grinned. “Are you kidding?”

Michaels shook his head. “Nope. The guys relieving you will get the word to come up plainclothes in an undercover vehicle, but you’re first on the hit list.”

“What the hell, Sarge?”

Michaels raised his hands. “I know, I know. Fuckin’ feds.”

“Exactly.”

“But the chief is on board. So we have to play. Park your car here and walk in. They’re in room 420.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Though I’m sure the irony is lost on the feebs.”

“Probably.”

“And Gio?”

“What?”

“It’s mandatory overtime. Graveyard will relieve you around nine thirty tonight.”

Gio sighed. He was supposed to meet a girl for drinks at seven thirty. Tricia. Or Trina. He couldn’t remember, but either way worked. He figured she’d probably reschedule for nine thirty. If not, he could always call Angela.

“Fine,” he said.

“Thanks for not bitching, Gio.”

Gio smiled tightly. “You should have picked Ridgeway instead. He doesn’t have a life.”

Michaels laughed. “Yeah. Ridgeway and a fed. That’s not going to be a problem.”

“At least he won’t have to reschedule his personal life.”

Michaels grinned. “She’ll wait for you, Gio. Whoever she is, she’ll wait. She thinks you’re the answer to her prayers.”

Gio smiled and shook his head as he rolled up his window and killed his engine. Sergeant Michaels gave him a two-fingered salute and pulled away.

Gio removed his wallet from his patrol bag and began the two block trek north to the Quality Inn. As he walked, he reminded himself that he was being well paid for his troubles, though probably not as well as the federal officer that he was pretty certain he wasn’t going to like one little bit.

He arrived at the front door of the hotel a little bit sweaty and in a worse mood than when he left his patrol car. The door swung open and a rush of cool air washed over him. He reveled in it for a brief moment, then met the eyes of the front desk clerk.

“Elevator?” he asked.

The young clerk, who resembled Ebenezer Scrooge at twenty with some acne issues, pointed a wavering finger to his left. “Is there, uh, some problem?”

“Nope,” Gio said. “Just meeting my girlfriend.”

The clerk swallowed.

“Just kidding,” Gio told him, walking toward the elevator. “I’m taking a theft report.”

“Oh,” the clerk replied, obviously relieved. “Okay.”

Gio found the elevator and punched the number four. Room 420 was nestled at the end of a hallway. Gio rapped on the door. There was a long pause before a cautious “Who’s there?” came from inside.

“Rent-a-cop,” Gio announced.

After another pause, a rattling chain told Gio he’d guessed the secret password. The door swung open. A small, dark-haired man in a black suit greeted him with a nod. “Officer. Come on in.”

Gio stepped into the hotel room and the agent closed the door behind him. Gio scanned the room. Two king-sized beds dominated the main area; a desk and a TV stand filled out the rest. The TV was on, playing a popular music video that Gio vaguely recognized and happened to like.

The agent stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Greg Leeb,” he said, his elfin features breaking into a smile. “Looks like we’re cellmates.”

Gio reached out and shook the agent’s hand. It was firm but not overbearing.

“Who’s our principal?” Gio asked.

Leeb jerked a thumb toward the bathroom. “Oleg Tretiak. He’s… incapacitated.”

“Sick?”

Leeb shrugged. “Nerves. He’s been through a lot.”

“Like what?” Gio asked.

Leeb gave him a curious look. “They didn’t brief you?” Gio shook his head. Leeb smiled. “Well have a sit, brother. I shall enlighten you.”

Gio smiled back. He was going to like this guy.

2101 hours

Graveyard Shift

Chisolm watched Lieutenant Robert Saylor step up to the lectern. The chatter around the drill hall dried up as the officers in the room gave the shift commander their full attention.

Saylor looked out at the assembled group, meeting their eyes as he spoke. “Number one on the hot board tonight,” he said, “is a bulletin from Renee in Crime Analysis. It is twofold. The first is an officer safety warning from a CI. You all have a copy of the details in front of you. Apparently some of the Russian criminals in our city have devised a strategy to disobey minor infractions.”

Chisolm had already skimmed the memorandum. He waited while the rest of the shift did so. A few astonished exhalations were the only sound.

“Now,” Saylor said, “a situation like this puts the officer in a difficult position. You have to be able to justify your use of force based on the behavior of the suspect. What can we do in this type of situation?”

Chisolm raised his hand.

Saylor nodded at the veteran officer. “Tom?”

“Don’t go code four, for starters,” Chisolm said. “That way, you always have adequate backup. After that, I’d say you have to judge each situation by its own merits. If you can act decisively and take someone into custody, then you should. But if the risk outweighs the reward?” Chisolm shrugged. “Forget it. We’ll get them eventually.”

Saylor nodded and looked around the room. “Is everyone listening? Your safety is number one.”

There was a murmur of understanding throughout the assembled group.

“That said,” Saylor continued, “if any events such as what this CI describes do occur, I want to know about it immediately.”

Heads bobbed collectively. Chisolm knew Saylor cared about his men and took care of them, which is one of the reasons he respected the shift commander.

“Okay,” Saylor said. “Now, secondly, Renee is reporting that we now have the assistance of the Federal Bureau of Investigation at our disposal when it comes to issues of organized crime.”

A smattering of groans and a titter of laughter went through the room. Chisolm couldn’t resist joining in. “An FBI agent, El-Tee?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Saylor answered. “Why?”

“Well, sir,” Chisolm replied, “excuse me for saying, but those guys are about as helpful as a hostage negotiator with Tourette’s syndrome.”

The room exploded in raucous laughter, and a slight smile appeared on Saylor’s face. Chisolm tipped him a wink. He knew one of his roles was to keep roll calls loose and that his commanding officer appreciated it. Some things weren’t very different between the military and police work.

Once the guffaws tapered off, Lieutenant Saylor turned up his hands to the assembled group. “Their effectiveness aside, the Bureau is at our disposal.” His voice turned slightly more serious. “If we get anything on the intel side, they might actually be helpful, so forward it to Renee. Any questions?”

No one raised a hand.

“All right, then,” Saylor said. “All that potential support from the feds doesn’t come free, though. We’ve got a babysitting detail to rotate through up at the Quality Inn on Division. Sergeant Shen will have the assignment. It’s an all-nighter.”

“Glad I work south side,” Officer Aaron Norris quipped from the Charlie Sector table.

“You’re assigned south,” Chisolm shot back. “I don’t know about the work part.”

Another chorus of laughter and a few “Oohs” went through the room. Norris paused a moment, searching for a reply. He settled for the tried and true-a middle finger.

“Is that your IQ or the number of parents you know?” Chisolm asked him, sparking another round of laughter.

Saylor raised his hands to settle things down. “Okay, that’s enough. Does anyone else have anything besides verbal jabs?” No one replied. “Okay. Then let’s hit the street.”

Chairs scraped as officers rose to leave. As Chisolm stood, Norris called out to him. “Hey, Tom, I heard that at your age, ‘getting a little action’ means you don’t need to take any fiber today.”

“That’s not what your wife said,” Chisolm said. “By the way, you need to pick up some bread on the way home after work.”

“Really?” Norris said. “What brought that up? The yeast infection?”

Chisolm raised his palms in a half shrug, half surrender. He couldn’t top that. Instead, he gathered up his patrol bag and headed for the basement to get his car.

2249 hours

Valeriy rapped lightly on the front door. After a few moments Marina appeared in her bathrobe. When she recognized her brother she smiled and opened the door.

“Good to see you,” she said, giving him a short embrace. She planted a light kiss on his jaw. “But you always come so late, Valera. If you came earlier, you could have some dinner with us.”

Val shrugged. “I don’t want to intrude on your family time.”

She waved his words away. “Don’t be foolish. You’re my brother. You are family. Besides, Pavel loves you. I think perhaps you are even his hero.”

Good.

“And Sergey?” Val asked.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Sergey loves you, too, silly. You are like his brother.”

“I feel the same,” he said. Like Cain and Abel.

Marina slid her hand into his and leaned her head onto his shoulder. “We were right to come here,” she said, her voice soft. “America has been good for us.”

“Yes,” Val agreed. “It is a place where a man can shape his own destiny.”

“A woman, too,” she reminded, nudging him with her shoulder.

Val nodded, though he didn’t understand. What was she doing any differently as Sergey’s wife in America that she couldn’t have accomplished back home in Ukraine? There wasn’t much difference, other than some luxuries. Not like how his own vista of opportunity spread open for him when he came to this country.

“A drink?” Marina asked him.

“Sure.”

She squeezed his arm and drifted away. Val watched her slim form as she walked toward the kitchen. His sister was a beautiful, pure woman, perhaps the most beautiful woman he knew. Sergey didn’t have any idea how lucky he was to be married to her. Though Sergey didn’t treat her poorly and was very discreet with his mistresses, Val didn’t believe that he was close to worthy of her. Of course, Val knew he would probably not find a man alive that would be worthy of Marina.

So what would she do when Sergey was gone?

The creak of the stairs pierced his thoughts, and a moment later Sergey entered the living room, still fully dressed. That meant that his boss intended to go out, whether to see a mistress or otherwise. Val would have to convince him not to. It was important that he be at home tonight.

“Valeriy,” he said. “You are coming by late again. More business?”

Val nodded. The two men moved into the kitchen and sat at the small wooden table in the corner. Marina put a short glass of vodka in front of each of them. Val smiled his thanks to his sister but Sergey merely grunted and threw back the drink with one hard swallow. Then he tapped the glass with his wedding ring. Marina refilled the glass without pause, then left the bottle on the table.

“Bed for me,” she said pleasantly before kissing both men briefly on the cheek and leaving. Neither man spoke until the creaking sound of the stairs faded.

“What is so pressing?” Sergey asked. His voice was a little sharper than Val was accustomed to.

“The first move is in motion,” Val said.

Sergey considered for a moment. “You mean the black move or the brown move?”

Val suppressed a scowl. He tried to keep his discussions with Sergey somewhat encoded so that anyone listening wouldn’t be able to connect the dots. Their most direct and pointed conversations usually took place outdoors, away from their vehicles, while walking. There was less chance that someone was recording them that way. He knew that he was likely being overly careful on this matter, but the memories of the KGB refused to leave him, so he kept his vigilance. Perhaps the Americans were not so invasive. Perhaps their organization was not yet interesting enough to the police to garner this level of attention. But the vigilance was his discipline and he kept to it, so it bothered him when Sergey strayed so far.

“Black,” he said reluctantly, “then brown.”

He didn’t like this simplistic code-speak. Anyone listening would immediately break out the racial meaning, particularly after the events to come.

“Good,” Sergey said. “And Ivan?”

“The judge set bail at $20,000.”

“For disciplining his wife?”

Val shook his head. “The police officer he fought with suffered a broken ankle. They are charging him with assaulting her as well.”

“Her?”

“The police officer was a woman,” Val said with a shrug. “It is America.”

Sergey sighed, but nodded. “Of course. Who will take Ivan’s place?”

“Ivan is free,” Val reported. “Yuri bailed him out.”

Sergey frowned. “For twenty thousand? That is a steep price to pay for one man’s freedom, brother.”

“We used a bail bondsman. It only cost ten percent.” Val gave Sergey a cold smile. “As I said, this is America.”

Sergey gazed at him for another moment, then returned the smile, just as cold. “I see. Sometimes I forget how easy it is here.” He paused, then said, “Very well. Proceed as planned.”

“Yes, Sergey.”

“But after our second move, I will meet with the leaders of the gangs.”

Val’s desire to scowl grew. Not only was Sergey abandoning careful talk, he was now changing their previous plans. “I thought you decided that I would go to them.”

“I changed my mind,” Sergey said.

“Why?”

“Do I answer to you now?” Sergey snapped.

Val didn’t reply. He wrapped his fingers around the vodka glass and brought the drink to his lips. As he sipped and swallowed, his mind raced. Why the change of plans and attitude from Sergey?

“I asked you a question,” Sergey pressed. He tapped his thick fingers on the table to accent each word. “Do I answer to you now, or am I still the boss?”

Val set the glass on the table. “I didn’t answer the question because the answer is apparent. You are, and always will be, the boss. I answer to you completely.”

“So you say.”

Val gave Sergey a hard look. “You are my brother’s wife. You are my captain. Do you doubt my loyalty?”

Sergey didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “I am wondering something, Valeriy Aleksandrovich. I am wondering why the men I talk to speak of their loyalty to you. I am wondering why they all speak so highly of you. I am wondering why they stand ready to do anything for you.”

“Their loyalty to me is based upon their loyalty to you,” Val answered evenly. “They know my loyalty to you is absolute.”

“Is it?”

Val clenched his jaw. His eyes narrowed. “Sergey, I will do anything you ask. But you break my heart when you question my faithfulness.”

“I wonder, sometimes, if you even have a heart to break, Valeriy.”

Val didn’t answer. He wasn’t about to show Sergey, or anyone, his secret heart. Instead he pushed back slightly from the table, reached into his pocket, and removed a heavy-bladed folding knife. With a flick of his thumb he snapped the blade open into a locked position.

Sergey watched.

Val placed his left hand on the table. He left his small finger extended and curled the others into a fist. He looked directly into Sergey’s eyes before lowering the tip of the knife onto the table next to the first knuckle of his extended finger. The razor-sharp point dug into the wooden tabletop. “How many knuckles do you want?” he asked, his voice flat.

Sergey seemed to appraise him. Then he asked, “How many will you give me?”

“All that you ask for,” Val answered without pause.

The tension between the two men hung in the air like an invisible fog. Val sat easily, his knife poised above his small finger, his eyes boring into Sergey. Sergey stared back, his expression contemplative. He lifted the glass to his mouth and drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I want the whole finger,” Sergey said softly.

Val shifted the knife so that it rested near the base of his finger. He gave Sergey a meaningful look and pressed downward.

Sergey’s hand shot out and caught Val’s at the wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong. With a hard pull, he moved Val’s hand away. Blood coursed from the deep cut on Val’s small finger and he could see the white of the bone at the bottom. But his finger was still whole.

“Put your knife away,” Sergey instructed. He rose from his seat and wet one of Marina’s kitchen towels in the sink.

Val snapped the blade shut and slid it into his pocket. Sergey thrust the damp cloth toward him, and he pressed it against the cut on his finger.

Sergey sat down. “I’m sorry I doubted you, brother,” he said. “But this is a dirty business we are in. Loyalty is a rare commodity.”

Val lifted the dishtowel and inspected his cut. He was going to need some stitches.

“There is a saying in our country,” Sergey continued. “Maybe you know it. ‘An enemy will agree, but a friend will argue.’ Do you know this saying, Valeriy?”

Val nodded. He dribbled some vodka onto his wound. It stung, but he resisted wincing. “I know this saying,” he said. “I live it.”

“I can see that,” Sergey said. “Now, tell me why you came here tonight.”

Val pressed the towel back against the injury, then looked up at Sergey. “You need to stay home tonight,” he said, “so that you will not be connected to anything that happens.”

“Very well. I had certain plans, but…” He shrugged.

Val ignored the obvious reference to Sergey’s mistress and went on. “After our business tonight, I planned to sit down with certain people to discuss the future operations here in River City. If you want to be the one to do that, I will step aside.”

“What do you recommend?” Sergey asked.

“I recommend you stay as insulated as possible,” Val said. “Let me be your voice for now. Everyone who knows anything knows that I speak on your behalf, but no one who wants to prove that will be able to.”

“You mean the police?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t think they are a realistic threat,” Sergey said.

Not now, Val thought. But when we expand, they will be our greatest threat.

Sergey took another sip from his vodka glass. “I think that in matters such as this, people need to see that I am the one in charge. Their people, and ours, too.”

“I am certain you are correct,” Val said. Perhaps it would work better for him, too.

Sergey nodded. “I am.” He reached out and patted Val on the forearm. “You are a good lieutenant, Valeriy, but I am a better general. You must trust my vision.”

“I am yours,” Val said.

Sergey laughed, a short barking sound that filled the small kitchen. “We saw that tonight already, didn’t we?” He reached for his glass and drained it. Then he stared down into the empty bottom. “What about the bookkeeper?” he asked.

Val shifted and turned his left hand over, pressing it down to the tabletop to maintain pressure on the cut. With his free hand he picked up his glass and raised it to Sergey in a silent toast and swallowed its contents. Then he held it out toward Sergey.

After a moment the older man smiled and poured them both another. Val turned his glass in his fingers. “They also say in our homeland that the tongue always returns to the sore tooth,” he mused.

“This particular tooth is rotting,” Sergey replied. “And the dentist failed to pull it.”

Val felt the warmth from the vodka brewing in his stomach. He raised the glass and sipped. This felt like old times to him. They could have been sitting in a Kiev flat, huddled against the cold and sipping vodka. Those times were simpler, back when his ambition was simply to become Sergey’s right hand.

He pushed away the sentimentality. “Our man did his job. He is not to blame that the target was not present.”

“But where is the target?”

“I don’t know. But I will find out.”

Sergey stared down into his vodka with a concerned expression. “What do you think, Valera? Is he on the run? Or did he go to the enemy?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Val replied. “But I will ask you this. If someone took from you what we took from him, would you simply run away? Or would you seek out your revenge?”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

Val nodded. “For me, as well. And I don’t think that Oleg is so different from either of us.”

“No,” Sergey said. “He was bold enough to steal money from me and to complain about how I ran matters.” He shook his head. “What a fool. You would think that a man who was stealing would remain as quiet as possible, so as not to attract attention to himself.”

“Not every man is capable of remaining silent,” Val said. “But don’t worry, Sergey. The horse may run quickly, but it cannot escape its own tail. I will find him.”

“Do whatever it takes,” Sergey instructed. “I am not a man to be trifled with, nor betrayed.”

Val only nodded.

Part II

Take time to deliberate;

but when the time for action arrives, stop thinking and go in.

— Andrew Jackson

FIVE

Wednesday, July 16th

0507 hours

DeShawn “Dee” Brown sat on the couch, sipping slowly from the bottle of beer. The TV in front of him flickered with images of dancing women, gyrating to a beat that he couldn’t hear because of the mute button. He didn’t care. The sleeping forms that lay twisted and piled on the floor and furniture of his living room needed the quiet and not the pulsating beat of Sir Mix-a-Lot. And DeShawn was more interested in the sweet bitches shaking their asses.

He should be asleep himself, but he’d been up late working on a problem with his little cousin, Ladondra. Of course, no one called her that. To most everyone, she was Dondra, but to Deshawn, she would always be Little La La.

DeShawn shook his head. Poor girl was only fifteen and she went and got herself pregnant. He’d sat with her for hours, listening to her cry and rave about her situation until she finally told him who the swinging dick was. He had worried that she’d crossed the line and found some guy in a rival gang, but she’d stayed true blue. Still, DeShawn wasn’t happy to hear it was Ronnie. The boy was a low-level runner who might make it up to selling shit on the corner someday, if the motherfucker overachieved. There was no way he could take care of DeShawn’s little cousin, even if he wanted to. So that didn’t leave many options.

After he checked that Little La La was in bed, and kissed her on the forehead, he went looking for Ronnie to discuss those options. Unfortunately, the rabbit-ass motherfucker must’ve known DeShawn was on the lookout for him, because he was nowhere to be found for the longest time. DeShawn was just about to give up when he ran smack into the kid coming out of the Circle K convenience store.

He’d gotten right up into Ronnie’s grill, but quickly saw that something wasn’t clicking. DeShawn hadn’t thought to ask Little La La if she’d told the boy yet. The answer was clear from the surprise and confusion in Ronnie’s face.

“I din’t know you was declaring the girl off limits,” he’d stammered. He apologized, but he gave no hint he knew about the condition she was in. “I’d have never touched her if you’d said the word.”

DeShawn swore, shook his head, and brought the stupid punk back to the house. Now Ronnie lay sleeping on the overstuffed chair in the corner, curled up like some little kid.

DeShawn didn’t sleep. Instead he sipped a brew and watched some big-ass black girl shake her moneymaker while he mulled over what to do about Ronnie and Little La La.

He shook his head. What choice was there? Ronnie could try to hit some big score and have enough to take care of La La and the baby, but what were the odds of that? He couldn’t handle that kind of action. Besides, the stupid punk would probably blow all the money. Spend it all on rims and chains. Shit.

DeShawn sipped his beer. A blue-clad form in the easy chair shifted in his sleep, passed gas, and sighed. DeShawn ignored it. Put five brothers in a room, he figured one of them had to fart eventually. Plus, it wasn’t healthy to hold that stuff inside.

The beer was flat, so he screwed the cap back on the bottle and walked into the messy kitchen. He opened the fridge and put the bottle on the bottom rack, where it was coldest. He knew that because unlike most of his crew in the other room, DeShawn had finished high school. He even flirted with going to college, though he never told anyone. In his world, saying he wanted to go to college was along the same lines as telling everyone he was gay or something. The reaction would not have been congratulatory.

Besides, he wouldn’t be where he was now, running his own crew. Taking River City for serious bank every goddamn day.

He smiled and closed the refrigerator. Then he thought about Ronnie again and scowled. What in the hell was he going to do about him and Little La La? Maybe if he had Ronnie take care of the-

KA-BLAM!

DeShawn jumped. “What the fuck?” he yelled, and took a step toward the living room.

Another blast exploded through the front window. Glass flew across the room. The groggy gang members instinctively dove for the floor and huddled behind furniture.

DeShawn dropped into a crouch. He reached into his waistband and pulled out the 9 mm Glock he kept tucked there. His hand trembled with adrenaline. He took a deep breath and told himself to relax.

The sound of squealing tires echoed through the shattered windows.

“Motherfuckers is doin’ a drive-by,” he said in a low tone. His voice carried in the silence of the room. “Some gonna be dead motherfuckers,” he added for the benefit of his boys.

For a long moment no one moved. DeShawn listened carefully, but all he could hear was the racing whine of a small engine descending in the distance. He waited another few seconds, then motioned toward the sprawling figures on the floor of the living room. “Any o’ y’all hit?”

There was a pause, then a general murmur in the negative.

DeShawn rose. “Well, then, get yo’ asses off the motherfucking floor and check it out,” he snapped. He turned and strode quickly back to the bedroom to check on Little La La. He found the girl sitting up in bed, blinking in confusion.

“What is it, Dee?” she asked him.

Relieved, DeShawn slipped his gun into his waistband. He sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t you worry none. Just some broke-ass wannabes taking a shot at the title.”

“Huh?”

“Bad guys,” he told her. “Go back to sleep.”

She nodded and slid beneath the covers. DeShawn was pretty sure she was back asleep before he left the room.

He returned to the now empty living room. The front door stood open, and he made his way toward it. He’d almost reached the threshold when the sharp crack of automatic gunfire erupted in the night. He dropped to the ground but the rounds weren’t landing near him. He saw the muzzle flashes from behind parked cars across the street. The shooters fired in controlled bursts, their bullets tearing into the assembled group of gang bangers in the front yard.

DeShawn watched in horror as his boys scrambled for cover. One did a grotesque, shuddering chicken dance before flopping to the ground.

Almost as soon as the gunfire started, it ended. A van appeared in front of the house and slowed to a near stop. Three shooters materialized from their positions of cover and walked purposefully toward the van. The side door slid open and the first gunman climbed inside.

Rage washed over DeShawn. These motherfuckers were not getting away! He tore his nine from his waistband, pointed, and cranked off three quick rounds.

He was instantly rewarded with a long burst of gunfire. Bullets tore up the doorframe and bit into the ground in front of him. He heard the whizzing whine of a ricochet off the concrete steps.

The van continued slowly along the street. The two gunmen still outside moved next to it, using it as cover. Every couple of seconds, one of them stepped from behind the van and sent a few rounds in his direction. He’d seen this tactic somewhere before, but couldn’t remember where. Then the man inside the van started firing at him and he rolled to his left.

A few more rounds peppered the house. One of the men shouted something in a guttural tone. Then came the sound of slamming doors and an accelerating engine.

DeShawn lay still for a long moment, shell-shocked. The distant wail of sirens brought him out of it. He cursed and clambered to his feet. The wooden doorframe was chewed up from the gunfire-chunks were missing, and splintered edges pointed out at sharp angles.

There was a long, painful moan from the front yard, but DeShawn ignored it. He had to take care of his gun first. He went out into the yard, where two of his boys lay on the ragged grass. One, Sweaty, twisted and turned while he moaned in pain. The other lay still.

DeShawn peered closer at the still body. It was Ronnie.

Shit, DeShawn thought. A pang of grief jumped up in his chest. Not for the dumb-ass punk on the grass, but for his little cousin. La La was going to take it hard.

The sirens drew closer.

Gotta do what I gotta do.

DeShawn wiped the grip of his gun with his shirt, then squatted next to Ronnie and tucked the pistol into his slack hand.

“Sorry, G,” he whispered. “You was never shit, but at least you can die like a good soldier.”

He wanted to know who got away and who got hit. It was also important to know right now who fought back, because if he didn’t, he knew there’d be plenty of lying going on about it later. He moved away from the fallen boy and tried to survey the yard, but it was too dark, and he couldn’t see anything.

The yelp of the police siren burst onto the street and the patrol car screeched to a halt.

DeShawn held his hands in the air. He didn’t want some nervous cop busting a cap on him. Not after surviving the assault he’d just been through.

He glanced down at Ronnie’s still body. As sad as Little La La was going to be, this did solve the problem. Of course, now DeShawn had a host of new problems to deal with, ones that wouldn’t be quite so simple.

A young officer approached slowly, his shotgun leveled at DeShawn. “Police!” he shouted. “Don’t move!”

“Easy,” DeShawn told him. “I’m the motherfuckin’ victim here.”

0614 hours

Thomas Chisolm stood next to the gang banger, his pen poised above his open notepad.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“I go by Dee.”

“That’s great,” Chisolm said, “but what’s your name?”

The man gave him a hard look, then answered, “DeShawn Brown.”

Chisolm scribbled the name on his notepad. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had to admire the man’s composure. He’d just been shot at with high-powered automatic rifles, seen one of his buddies killed and another wounded, and yet he didn’t seem too shaken up. Chisolm had seen his type before, both in the military and since coming on the job. There was a simple word for it. The man was a warrior. Too bad he was throwing his life away being a gangbanger maggot.

“What happened next?” he asked.

DeShawn pointed. “A van pulled up right over there. Them motherfuckers wit guns came out of their hiding places and walked to it. Then they-”

“Wait a minute. They walked to the van?”

“That’s what I said. You need a hearing aid, pops?”

Chisolm glared at him. DeShawn blinked and stared back. Chisolm shook his head. “Just answer my questions. I’m trying to help you here.”

“If you’da been doing your job, this never woulda happened,” DeShawn snapped. “Where was you at, anyways? Off shoving donuts in your hole or something?”

Chisolm smiled humorlessly. “You’ll want to curb that talk,” he said in a low voice.

DeShawn opened his mouth to shoot back another comment, but Chisolm twitched his fingers next to his handcuff case. DeShawn noticed, and after a moment he closed his mouth and pressed his lips together. “What you wanna know, pops?” he asked, his voice more neutral.

“Were they wearing masks?” Chisolm asked.

DeShawn shook his head.

“Did they say anything?”

“Somethin’, but I couldn’t tell what. It sounded like some foreign shit.”

Chisolm nodded. “Show me where they were hiding before the van showed up.”

DeShawn pointed out the three locations. Chisolm noted the perfect triangulation of fire-whoever set this up had a strong understanding of military tactics. He would have to make sure the investigating detectives knew.

“Somethin’ else, too,” DeShawn said. “They didn’t all get in the van right away. Two of ’em walked behind it while they were shooting at me.”

“They used it for cover,” Chisolm muttered. “Great.”

“Thas right,” DeShawn said. “I saw that before once. I didn’t remember before, but I do now. It was in a movie.”

“What movie?”

DeShawn scratched his chin. “That Vietnam movie. The one with the little Oriental bitch sayin’ ‘me so horny’ and shit.”

“Full Metal Jacket,” Chisolm said.

DeShawn snapped his fingers and pointed. “Thas right. Them dudes was walking along next to a tank, just like these motherfuckers were doin’ with that van.”

Chisolm resisted the urge to sigh. Using a tank or an APC for cover while on the move was a fairly common military tactic. But it took knowing the tactic, as well as a little bit of planning ahead and practice.

“Can I go check on my little cousin?” DeShawn asked. He pointed to the neighbor’s house where a teenage girl sat huddled on the porch in a blanket.

“Sure,” Chisolm said. “But don’t go anywhere.”

DeShawn nodded and walked directly toward the girl.

Chisolm glanced around the crime scene’s inner perimeter. Yellow tape cordoned off the front yard of DeShawn’s house as well as the area across the street. At the edge of the outer perimeter Sergeant Shen sat in his cruiser with the door propped open, working his phone. Chisolm knew he was talking to Lieutenant Crawford in Major Crimes. He’d arrive soon, along with his detectives. They’d take over the scene and conduct the remainder of the investigation.

“Homicide, step aside,” Chisolm muttered to himself, snapping his notebook shut.

Day shift would be out soon to relieve the graveyard officers, but he decided he’d stay on scene until the detectives made it out. He hoped it was Detective Tower or Detective Browning, either of which he figured would listen to the bad news he was going to have to tell them.

0719 hours

Officer Mark Ridgeway took a deep drag from his cigarette and watched the young man in a business suit approach the edge of the crime scene. He noted the uptight, cocky swagger and the slight bulge under the left arm.

“Fed,” he muttered, and cursed silently. So much for wrapping the scene up in a timely manner.

The agent stopped in front of Ridgeway and looked him over, contempt plain in his eyes. Then he reached into his jacket and removed a billfold. “Special Agent Payne,” he announced, flashing his tin at an unimpressed Ridgeway. “FBI.”

Ridgeway nodded slowly, and blew out a stream of smoke. “You expected in there?”

Payne’s eyes narrowed. “I was requested.”

“Oh, I see.” Ridgeway raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Requested.”

“Yes,” Payne said tightly. “By your chief, as a matter of fact.”

Ridgeway lifted the crime scene tape. “Then, by all means, go right in.”

Payne took a step forward, then stopped. He pointed at Ridgeway’s cigarette. “This is a crime scene. You need to put that out.”

Ridgeway eyed him for a moment, not entirely believing what he’d just heard.

“I’m serious,” Payne said. “Put it out.”

“This is the outer perimeter,” Ridgeway told him, letting the crime scene tape snap back into place. “There’s no chance of contaminating the scene out here.”

“This whole area is a crime scene,” Payne repeated. “And now that I’ve been called in to consult, federal procedures are to be adhered to. That means no smoking anywhere near the scene.” He leaned in slightly and forced a cold smile. “Of course, officer, if you’d like me to get your lieutenant out here to talk to you about this, I’m sure I can accommodate you.”

Ridgeway took another drag off his cigarette. It wouldn’t be Ridgeway’s lieutenant that came over. It would be the Major Crimes boss, Lieutenant Crawford. And while the man was a bona fide ball buster, they’d known each other a long time. Ridgeway wasn’t particularly worried. “How many years have you been a cop?” he asked Payne.

The special agent crossed his arms. “Why?”

“How many?” Ridgeway repeated.

“I’ve been with the bureau three years. Plus I have a degree from the University of Washington in the field of-”

“See these?” Ridgeway interrupted. He pointed at the one-inch horizontal service stripes on his left sleeve. “You know what they are?”

Payne shrugged. “Service stripes.”

“That’s right,” Ridgeway said. “Each one of these stripes is for three years of service.”

“On patrol, probably,” Payne snorted.

“Yeah, on patrol. All of them.” Ridgeway’s voice was low and mean. “And since you feds have trouble with simple things, I’ll tell you straight out that there’s nine of these stripes right here on my sleeve. Nine.” He cocked his head slightly and glared at Payne. “How many years is that, Agent Payne?”

“Twenty-seven.So what?”

“So what?” Ridgeway took a deep drag and sent the smoke billowing toward Payne. “Well, sonny, I’ll tell you so what.” He pointed at the hash marks and traced them up his sleeve. “Why don’t you just climb up this ladder and kiss my ass?”

Payne blanched. His mouth gaped open for a moment. He moved it as if to speak but no words came out. Finally he slammed it shut, turned on his heels, and stomped toward the inner perimeter.

Ridgeway shook his head and made a notation in the crime scene log of the time and who had entered. He exercised great self-discipline and labeled Payne as “Agent” instead of “Dipshit.”

Then Mark Ridgeway finished his cigarette and lit another.

0720 hours

“Military training?”

“Yes.” Thomas Chisolm nodded emphatically to Detective Ray Browning. “That’s what I’m saying.”

Chisolm stared into the intelligent, dark-brown eyes of the veteran detective. Detective Tower stood off to the side, his pen poised above a notepad as he made a preliminary sketch of the scene.

Browning gave Chisolm a long look, then nodded. “All right, Tom. I’ll keep it in mind. Who would have this kind of training?”

“Any infantryman gets it,” Chisolm said.

“That doesn’t narrow the suspect field much.”

“Any infantryman gets it,” Chisolm repeated, “but getting instruction and training is a long ways from putting into effect in a real situation with a full team.”

Browning stroked his closely cropped goatee. The jet-black whiskers had a sprinkling of gray in them. Chisolm could remember a time when Browning wore his face clean-shaven. The detective’s skin had been a more vibrant cocoa color back then. Now it had a worn, dusty look to it.

We’re all getting old, Chisolm thought. Even so, he was glad for the deep wisdom he saw in Browning’s eyes.

“You’re saying it takes a lot to employ these tactics?” Browning asked. “More than just being trained?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Whoever executed this operation has either done it before, probably in the military, or they planned for it extensively.”

“Are you saying that because of the-”

“Triangulation of fire. It’s the exact opposite of crossfire.” He peered closer at Browning. “Were you ever in SWAT, Ray?”

Browning shook his head. “No. Five years in patrol. The rest of it in investigations. Why?”

Chisolm squatted and motioned for Browning to do the same. “I know for a fact that you’re one hell of a detective, Ray,” Chisolm said. “Everyone does.”

“Thanks, but-”

“The thing is,” Chisolm continued, “that no one can know everything, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Even if some people think they do,” Chisolm added, his eyes flicking toward Lieutenant Crawford as he conversed with a Channel Five news reporter.

Browning smiled slightly. “Even if.”

“Okay, then. Here’s what you might not know.” Chisolm removed his pen from his uniform shirt and scratched in the dirt while he spoke. “Here’s the van,” he said, drawing a small circle in the dirt, “and here’s the house.”

“Got it.”

Chisolm marked the positions of the gunmen with a large dot for each. “This is where the shooters were staged,” he said. “Keep in mind that every one of them had cover and concealment, whether it was the one behind that tree over there or crouched next to the front tire of that pickup truck.”

Browning nodded.

Chisolm drew a line from shooter to shooter, creating a rough semicircle. “They’re covering about 120 degrees of the compass here. That gives them a huge field of fire, but it also keeps them from being in a crossfire and out of danger of hitting each other.” He emphasized his point by drawing lines from each shooter’s position toward the house.

“It was an ambush all along,” Browning muttered.

“Exactly,” Chisolm said. “They used the gangster drive-by tactic and threw a couple of shots into the house as a ruse. This draws the majority of the bangers outside.” He stabbed his pen into the dirt. “Once they’re outside, they walk into the middle of hell. From their perspective, bullets would have been coming from everywhere.”

Browning nodded thoughtfully. “One of the witnesses said that the shooting was loud and definitely from what she called machine guns. But she said it only lasted about five or ten seconds at the most.”

“Right,” Chisolm said, “because these guys knew what they were going to do. They had a plan. They had concentrated fire. They poured a full magazine of rounds down onto these poor bastards, went back to cover, and did a reload. Meanwhile, the van swoops in. They use it for cover as they get away.”

“That’s pretty organized,” Browning said. “And impressive.”

“It’s more than impressive,” Chisolm said. “It takes training, experience, and balls. You have to be ready for anything.”

“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” Browning quoted.

Chisolm nodded emphatically. “Exactly. In this case, you got DeShawn here, who didn’t come outside right away because he was checking on his cousin. So he’s not in the kill zone when they open fire. He gets a good look at them after the first volley.”

“He was a little bit outgunned, it sounds like.”

“Sure he was. But that’s not the point. The point is, what do these guys do? When things don’t go as planned?”

Browning considered a moment. “They stay calm. They continue to fire. And they stick to their plan.”

“And they get away,” Chisolm added, smiling. He pulled his pen from the dirt and wiped it clean. The two men stood, both ignoring the crackling sounds of the other’s knees. “See, Ray? You’re as smart as I figured you were.”

Browning snorted. “We’ll see.”

“Detective Browning?”

Both men turned to see a man of about thirty years old in a suit. Chisolm recognized him immediately.

“Payne?” he asked, surprised.

Payne gave him a contemptuous look. “It’s Agent Payne,” he corrected, flashing his credentials. “FBI.”

Chisolm raised his thumb and forefinger to his face and rubbed his tired eyes. Memories of a younger Maurice Payne riding in his training car danced in his head. He recalled the weak, mush-mouthed commands, all the fumbling, the constant mistakes.

“FBI,” he muttered. “Great. I don’t need this headache.”

“The agency is working in conjunction with your chief of police to address the issue of Russian organized crime in River City,” Payne announced. “I expect full cooperation from you on this matter, Detective.”

Browning waited a beat before offering a clipped “Of course.”

Chisolm opened his eyes and sighed.

Payne turned his gaze to Chisolm. “That goes for you as well, Officer Chisolm.”

Chisolm chuckled. “How long have you been waiting to say that?” he asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Payne answered, but Chisolm could see the spiteful delight dancing in his eyes.

“Sure you don’t,” Chisolm said. He nodded at Browning. “If you need anything, let me know.” Then he turned to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Payne asked.

Chisolm kept walking.

“I’m talking to you, Officer,” Payne yelled after him. “Come back here!”

“My shift’s over,” Chisolm said, not bothering to turn around. “And I don’t answer to you.”

When he reached the yellow crime scene tape, Ridgeway lifted it for him. He gave Chisolm a rare smile. “Have a good sleep, Tom,” he said.

Chisolm returned the grin and jerked his thumb in Payne’s direction. “Oh, with him in charge, I imagine I’ll sleep like a baby.”

0843 hours

Anthony Battaglia slid his house key into the lock and paused to gather himself. He’d stopped for beers again after work. With B.J. He’d promised himself he’d only have one, but before he realized it they’d each had three. Both had done a good job of keeping up pretenses that the sexual tension wasn’t there, while at the same time doing nothing to dispel it. Battaglia wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Well, you’re not gonna figure it out standing on the porch.

He closed the front door behind him as quietly as possible. He figured Rebecca would be awake, but it was summertime and they let the kids sleep in. He tossed his keys onto the table next to the door and wandered into the kitchen.

Rebecca sat at the breakfast bar, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. She looked up when he walked in. “Busy night?”

Battaglia shrugged. “There was a shooting near the end of shift.”

“Was it bad?”

“It was a gang drive-by,” Battaglia answered. “They unloaded on those guys with assault rifles.” He reached out and took a bite of Rebecca’s toast. “Killed four.”

Rebecca lowered the newspaper. “Four?”

“Yep.”

“That’s horrible.”

“It wasn’t horrible when it was one?”

“It was,” Rebecca said, “but… four? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of something like that happening here before.”

Battaglia yawned. “I don’t know if it has or not.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. He hoped she didn’t notice the beer on his breath. “I’m heading to bed.”

“Okay,” she said behind him. As he neared the doorway, she asked, “It was bad enough you needed beers after, huh?”

Battaglia looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Yeah, a couple of us from the platoon had choir practice after shift. Why?”

Rebecca gave him a warm smile. “It’s not a problem, babe. But I’m here if you want to talk to me, too, okay?”

Guilt washed over him. He clenched his jaw and swallowed. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Battaglia nodded. “Well, good night, then.” He turned to go.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“I finished a new poem last night. I left it on the nightstand for you.”

“Great,” Battaglia said with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel.

“This one’s a little darker, but I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“So let me know what you think?”

“Sure.” He cleared his throat. “Can I read it when I wake up, though? I’m bushed.”

“Of course. Get some sleep.”

“All right. Thanks.” He turned to go again.

“Babe?”

“What?” he asked, a bit sharply.

Rebecca’s expression turned slightly hurt, but she didn’t acknowledge his tone. “I love you,” she said. “That’s all.” After a moment she added, “Good night.”

Battaglia nodded and turned away.

He climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Frustration and guilt burned in his chest as he took every step. Once in the bedroom, he kicked off his boots and peeled his clothing off. He ignored the sheet of paper on the nightstand, written in Rebecca’s flowing script. Instead he flopped into the king-sized bed and hoped that the beer and the long night would lower the curtain of sleep on him right away, but the wheels of his mind started turning.

He shouldn’t be thinking about B.J. Rebecca was a good woman. She was his wife. The mother of his children.

Battaglia sighed into his pillow. All of that didn’t matter. It wasn’t the same anymore. Rebecca just didn’t… excite him. And she made him feel stupid. She’d taken to reading a lot of different books. Some were poetry or stories, other times it was history or philosophy. He asked her why and she said it was for entertainment. To expand her mind.

For entertainment, Battaglia would just as soon watch a shoot-’em-up movie or catch a ball game. As far as mind expansion went, the only thing he equated that with was drug use. And there wasn’t a cop alive who thought that was okay.

The quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the dark room. He could almost hear the rustle of the paper on the nightstand. He thought about B.J. to drive away the sound. Her laugh. Her eyes. The smell of her hair when she’d brushed up against him. The feel of her lips when they’d grazed his cheek.

“Jesus,” Battaglia murmured.

He was going to have a hard time getting to sleep this morning.

1020 hours

“You did well, my brothers,” Val told the assembled group in the deserted auto shop. “The TV stations are reporting four kills. I am pleased.”

Val noticed the way each man stood ramrod straight in his presence. He noticed the subtle reaction of pride when he praised them. He allowed himself a flutter of satisfaction-these were now truly his men. No longer Sergey’s, but his. That would matter later on. It would be critical. Plans within plans within plans.

“The van?” he asked Yuri.

Yuri smiled, showing the rot of his blackened teeth. “At the other shop on Market Street. By noon, it will be in pieces. Then I will transport those pieces to the salvage yard.”

“Good. Any piece with a VIN on it must be destroyed.”

Yuri nodded. “I understand.”

Val turned to Black Ivan. “You are ready for the next move?”

“Da.” The large man stood even straighter. “We’ll give the burros the same thing we gave the chernozhopyi this morning.”

“This one must be quieter,” Val said. He motioned toward Mikhail, the smallest man in the group. “He is good with the knife, no?”

Mikhail glanced at Ivan. Then he removed a large folding knife from his pocket and snapped the blade into place with a flick of his wrist. Without looking down at the knife, Mikhail spun and twirled the black blade adeptly. He swayed his arm back and forth as the knife danced in his hand. The motion reminded Val of a hooded cobra. Then, just as quickly as he started, he stopped, the knife poised to strike.

“He is good,” Ivan said simply.

“Then you know what to do,” Val said. “And do it soon.”

“It will be so.”

Val met the eyes of each man, his demanding gaze a mixture of threat, trust, and pride. Then he turned and left. He slid into the passenger seat of his green BMW.

“Go,” he told Pavel.

Pavel turned down the music on the stereo and drove north. “Where next?”

“I am to meet your father at the bakery on Hamilton Street.”

“Good,” Pavel said. “I’m hungry.”

Val didn’t speak. He ignored the mindless tune on the radio and turned over the morning’s events in his mind. The execution by his men had been nearly flawless. The remaining Crips would be shell-shocked from the attack. Once the next stage of Sergey’s plan was completed, Val was sure that they’d be ready to deal their way out of any further problems.

That left the bookkeeper. He’d put the word out to everyone he could think of regarding Oleg. There was a substantial reward for anyone who came forward with information on the traitor. Of course, he didn’t need to tell anyone that there was an equally substantial penalty for anyone who hid Oleg or helped him in any way.

If he were Oleg, where would he run? Certainly not home to Ukraine. With all of the business and family connections there, it would be tantamount to walking into Sergey’s living room.

He couldn’t go to any of the cities in the U.S. that had a heavy Russian population. The result would be the same-someone would see him, and whether they had the word that Val wanted him or not, the knowledge of his whereabouts would eventually find its way to someone who did. It wouldn’t take long for the promise of cash or the fear of a visit from Black Ivan to result in a phone call, and that would be that. Oleg was not stupid. He had to know this.

Where, then? Val frowned. It was a difficult proposition for him to consider, because he himself would never run. He might lie low for a brief time until he was ready to exact his vengeance, but flee like a coward? Never.

He didn’t think Oleg was a coward, either. He would want revenge for those three beloved bodies that burned up in his home. How best to accomplish that?

Val stared out his window as the businesses on Nevada Street flashed past. Several blocks of mini strip malls were filled with niche businesses from ceramics to used music to pet grooming. He smiled as they passed a small Russian grocery store. The bold lettering of the Cyrillic alphabet on the red sign above the door gave him some measure of satisfaction.

We are gaining a true foothold here, he thought. We are making it home.

Oleg may not have been a coward, but he was no soldier, either. There was no way he could successfully come after Sergey with guns and force. Oleg was smart. He had to know that wasn’t possible. So how best to exact his revenge?

Val resisted a sigh. He’d known the answer instinctively all along, but had wished it weren’t true. He’d hoped that even though Oleg had betrayed Sergey, he wouldn’t go so far as to betray his entire people. But his hope had been a vain one. There were no other possibilities. Oleg had gone to the police.

Val supposed that this made things easier, in a way. He could focus his efforts on finding information, casting his nets around the police station instead of a wider area. But it also accelerated matters. He had to find a way to get to Oleg before the bookkeeper gave them too much. Every hour counted.

Pavel signaled and pulled into the small parking lot outside the Russian bakery. He turned off the car and released his seat belt. Val reached across and stopped him. “Wait here.”

Pavel scowled. “But I’m hungry.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“Maybe I want to see my father,” Pavel suggested.

Val turned a cold, hard glare onto his nephew. “Then stay home for dinner tonight instead of running around with your imbecile friends. But for now, you wait in the car.”

Pavel pouted but said nothing.

Val went inside. Sergey was seated in the corner with a newspaper, sipping coffee and nibbling a pastry. He didn’t look up when Val sat across from him. Val checked the masthead of the newspaper. It was the local paper of record, the River City Herald. The much smaller Russian-language weekly sat at his elbow.

A young girl that Val knew to be the baker’s daughter appeared at the table. “Coffee?” she asked.

Val glanced at Sergey’s cup. “Do you have Turkish?”

She shook her head. “But I have beans from Turkey. I can make an espresso.”

Val waved her suggestion away. “Never mind. Just bring me another of these pastries. To go.”

After she left, Sergey lowered the newspaper. “To go? You are in some kind of hurry today, brother?”

“The pastry is for Pavel. He is driving me today and he is hungry.”

“He doesn’t come in to pay his respects to his father?”

Val shook his head. “He should not hear what we speak about this morning.”

Sergey raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Of course. But someday, he must learn it all.”

“Someday,” Val said. “But not today.”

“No,” Sergey said. “I suppose it is too soon for him.”

“His time will come.”

Sergey watched him for a few moments, then motioned to the newspaper. “It never surprises me,” he said.

“What is that?”

“These Americans,” Sergey said. “They love the violent movies. The Godfather movies, the Rambo. But then a few criminals get shot, men that they would like to see go far away anyway, and what do they do?” He flicked the newspaper with his fingers. “They cry and wring their hands like women. I don’t understand it.”

Val shrugged. “Americans are different.”

Sergey snorted. “They are weak.”

Val didn’t agree, but he was not going to argue with Sergey. Americans had their soft spots, but it would never do to underestimate them. Throughout history, they’d always seemed to have the snarl when their backs were put to the wall. Maybe the 1990s generation would be different, but Val doubted it.

“Anyway,” Sergey continued, reaching for his coffee, “tell me what you are here to tell me.” He sipped his coffee and watched Val.

“Your main operation is moving forward perfectly,” Val told him. “It is the other complication that I am worried about.”

“The bookkeeper,” Sergey grunted. He tore off a piece of his pastry and tossed it into his mouth. “When we find him, I would like him taken apart a piece at a time.”

“I believe he has gone to the police,” Val said. “In fact, I see no other option for him.”

Sergey pressed his lips together. “Then we have very little time.”

“True.”

“This is bad, Valeriy.”

“I agree.”

“He knows too much.”

“I know,” Val answered. “But that may work in our favor.”

Sergey scowled. “How?”

“It may give us a little time.”

Sergey plucked another piece of his pastry. “I am afraid I don’t understand, little brother,” he said.

“Oleg wants revenge,” Val explained. “But he is not stupid. That is why he went to the police. It was his best opportunity for revenge.”

“I know that,” Sergey snapped. “Tell me how this may help us.”

The baker’s daughter approached the table and set a wrapped pastry next to Val. He reached into his pocket, peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Keep the extra,” he told her. “Buy a music CD or something pretty for yourself.”

She blushed and thanked him. Val waited until she had walked out of earshot to speak again. “Once Oleg thinks it out, he will start to wonder what is beyond his revenge. What comes after. And once he considers that, he will slow down. He will tell the police very little. He will want to make the best deal for himself. All he has for leverage is the information he knows. So he will wait.”

Sergey looked at him, considering. After a few moments he nodded his head. “You may be correct. But what if he wants revenge too much to wait?”

“He is too smart for that.”

“What if the police give him the greatest deal right away?”

“They won’t.”

“What if they do?” Sergey pressed.

He is like a scared woman sometimes, Val thought. These are the times that it shows he was never a soldier.

“I heard a saying here in America,” Val said. “It goes, ‘What if grasshoppers had machine guns?’”

Sergey’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What does this mean?”

“If grasshoppers had machine guns, the birds would not fuck with them,” Val said.

There was a long moment of silence, then a large grin spread across Sergey’s face. “I see. This is funny.” He made a gun with both fingers and pantomimed a machine gun burst. “Ba-ba-bah. No more birds. Good.”

Val returned his smile. “I have a cousin who works on a janitor crew that cleans at the police station. I will ask him to listen and look. Maybe we can find where Oleg is.”

“Good, good.” Sergey said. He picked up his coffee and took a drink. “And raise the reward.”

“You are too generous,” Val said.

Sergey waved his words away. “It breeds loyalty.”

Val reached for the pastry, but Sergey put his hand over it. Val looked up at him. “You had something more?”

Sergey nodded slowly. “Yes. I am not so sure about your idea when it comes to insulating me.”

“It is for your protection,” Val said. “And Marina’s.”

“Perhaps,” Sergey said. “But life is risk. I still plan to attend the summit you will be arranging soon.”

“I advise against it,” Val told him.

“I know. But sometimes, the soldiers need to see that their general is in charge. That he is brave and will join the battle with them.”

Val didn’t reply right away. By the time he arranged the summit there would be little danger of battle. The men in attendance would already be defeated. The meeting would be more like a Roman triumph parade than a battle. “It is, of course, up to you,” he finally said.

“I know.” Sergey picked up his paper and went back to reading.

Val took the pastry and left the bakery. The anemic dinging sound as he swung the door open irritated him, but he made an effort to conceal it.

Sergey was only making sure Val knew who was in charge. He was only making a point. That’s why he wanted to change Val’s plans. That’s why he had been so dismissive of him. It was classic gangster leadership behavior. He was seeking to assert his dominance over Val. To show him who was the alpha wolf.

A very old Russian saying sprang to Val’s mind, drowning out his injured pride: ’Tis a hard winter when one wolf eats another.

Val smiled and opened the car door. He tossed the bakery bag to Pavel.

“Thanks, Uncle,” Pavel said. He unwrapped it and took a large bite. “Where next?”

“Take me to my coffee shop,” Val told him. “We’ll wait there for things to be finished.”

“Sure,” Pavel said. He took another huge bite, started the car, and headed north.

Val looked out the window and smiled. It might be summer, but Sergey was in for a very hard winter.

1240 hours

Esteban Ruiz walked down Nettleton Street, proudly displaying his brown handkerchief. He wore it as a headband. His closely cropped hair didn’t absorb much sweat, so flying his colors that way had an additional benefit. He also wore a white wife-beater and baggy dark blue denims. Sturdy brown boots and a.25 auto in his pocket rounded out his ensemble. No one would doubt who he was. Not just a gangster, but a Dean Avenue Diablo.

If Esteban smiled much, that thought might have coaxed a grin to his lips. Hell, he wasn’t just a Diablo, he was the Diablos. That was him. Numero uno. El Jefe. El Capitan. The Boss. Call it what you will, in English or Spanish, it meant the same thing.

He ran his crew and he ran West Central.

The sun beat down as he walked along the wide sidewalk. He was headed to the Broadway Food Store to get something cold to drink. Maybe some Gatorade for now and some cerveza for later. He could have sent Pepe or Luis, but he wanted the time alone. And he could have driven the short distance to the store, but he wanted to do the kind of thinking that only seemed to work for him when he was walking.

He’d seen the news. Someone had shot up the local Crips pretty good. He figured it was a rival Crip set, or maybe an internal power struggle. Two things impressed him about the event, though. One was that someone had managed to get hold of fully automatic rifles, and that was some serious shit in these parts. While it was a little easier to get guns in the Pacific Northwest, it had also proved very difficult to get full auto pieces. So the fact that someone was able to pull that off, and with AKs, no less, well, that impressed Esteban quite a bit.

The more important thing that impressed him was the opportunity that it created for him and his crew. Whether this shooting was an internal struggle or a gang versus gang, four dead homies was going to hurt those Crips. On top of that, they’d be keeping their heads down, waiting for the next visit from those AK-47s. They wouldn’t be up for very much in the way of business. The Crips wouldn’t be in any sort of position to supply the demand.

Los Diablos could. But he had to think it through. If he moved in too quick or too hard, they might think he was behind that drive-by. That would result in all-out war between the Crips and Los Diablos. He didn’t want that. But maybe if they just crept in a little at a time. Just nibble and nibble while the others were fighting each other. If they came around eventually and wanted their piece back, Esteban could decide whether it was worth fighting for. Or he could negotiate. Hell, if he had to, he could just give it to them, though he doubted he would. Those mayates might get through whatever fight they were in, but they weren’t going to come out of it stronger.

Esteban crossed Broadway Avenue and turned left. He could feel the sweat running down the small of his back and was looking forward to something cold. Maybe he’d get a Pepsi. A great big cup, chock full of ice. That’d go down real nice.

Out of habit, Esteban cast his eyes left and right as he walked. The Crips shooting probably didn’t mean he was in any greater danger than usual, but it jangled his nerves just a little bit.

He didn’t see any cars that made him suspicious. A pair of kids rode bikes in the empty parking lot across the street. A block away, he could hear the noise of a basketball game at Dutch Jake Park. A short, thin man stood using the payphone near the door to the grocery store.

As Esteban approached the door, it swung open toward him. A kid no older than nine burst out, clutching a Slurpee in both hands. Immediately behind him came a smaller version of the same kid, maybe six or so. He carried the same size cup. The blue ice sloshed as he hurried after his older brother.

“Michael!” he yelled. “Mom said to wait for me!” Michael kept running.

Esteban held the door, waiting until the younger kid cleared the threshold.

“Michael! I’m telling Mom!”

Esteban smiled slightly. He had an older brother. Paco was in Walla Walla, serving six to twelve for a manslaughter charge. It had been at least three months since he’d visited his older brother. He decided to do that soon. Right now, though, he wanted that Pepsi-

A firm hand gripped his left shoulder, then a hard coldness bit into his right kidney. He took in a sharp breath. Before there was even any pain, he felt the blade slide forward, cutting through his abdomen. When the knife tore free somewhere near his belly button, the coldness turned to a harsh fire of intense pain exploding from his middle. He tried to cry out, but only a wet gasp slipped past his lips.

Strong hands guided him to the ground and leaned him against the wall next to the door. Esteban wanted to see who it was. He wanted to take the identity of his killer with him to hell, but he couldn’t muster the strength to turn his head and look. The most he could manage was to stare down at his middle. Bright red blood coursed out, soaking into his white T-shirt and pooling around his knees.

Chinga tu madre, puto, he tried to say, but could only gurgle.

He didn’t want to die this way. He refused to die this way. He would take this coward with him. Esteban wrapped his left arm around his seeping middle to keep his insides from spilling out. He slid his hand into his pocket, fumbling for the.25 auto. The bullets might not be that big, but when he put one in the middle of that maricon’s forehead, it would do the-

The next thing he knew was darkness.

SIX

Wednesday, July 16th

1640 hours

Renee sat in the chief’s office, feeling ignored while Special Agent Maurice Payne orated. The mush-mouthed agent prattled on mostly to the chief, occasionally glancing at Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford. Renee and Detective Browning might as well have been invisible.

“The AK-47, while not exclusively used by former Soviet organized crime, is a heavily favored weapon,” Payne said in the tone of a lecturing professor. “As you may know, that was the standard issue rifle in the former Soviet Union and their satellite eastern bloc nations. The better models are Czech-made, though the Chinese have a-”

“I’m familiar with the weapon, son,” the chief said, cutting him off. “I faced off against soldiers carrying it for my entire military career. But just because someone used an AK-47, it doesn’t make them Russian. Anyone could have gotten hold of some AKs.”

“Perhaps,” Payne conceded, his expression slightly pouty. “But also remember that DeShawn Brown reported hearing a Russian accent.”

“He heard an accent,” Detective Browning corrected. “He didn’t specify it was a Russian accent.”

Payne turned to Browning. “When I spoke to him, I asked if it could have been Russian. He said yes.”

Browning’s eyes widened. “You interviewed one of my witnesses?”

“Of course,” Payne said officiously. He gave Browning a condescending look. “Sometimes you have to know what questions to ask, Detective.”

Browning’s nostrils flared. Renee swore she saw red seep into Browning’s cocoa-colored cheeks. There was a long moment of tension in the room before Browning sputtered, “Know what questions to-”

“I thought the feebs were here to observe and assist,” Lieutenant Crawford interrupted. “Not screw up our investigation.”

The room fell silent and the temperature seemed to drop. Renee resisted the urge to smile at Payne’s expense and sat quietly waiting to see how the situation played out. Payne blushed and pressed his lips together tightly, but didn’t speak right away.

The chief filled the silence. “I don’t think we need to be tossing any more rocks in the pond, Lieutenant,” he said, “just to see the splash.”

Lieutenant Crawford didn’t remove his eyes from Payne. “Sir, I wasn’t tossing any rocks. I just think it’s damned unprofessional of an agency that’s supposed to be assisting us on a case to stomp on the lead investigator’s shoes.”

Payne squirmed under Crawford’s steady gaze. “If this was a shoplifting at the supermarket,” Payne snapped, “I’d be inclined to agree with you, Lieutenant. But this case has major repercussions that could extend well beyond River City. If the Russians are successful in consolidating their position here, they might make similar moves in large cities such as Seattle or Portland.”

“So we’re just the minor leagues,” Crawford commented dryly.

“River City’s always been a small town,” Payne shot back. “A city isn’t always defined by the size of its population. Sometimes it has to do with attitude and professionalism.”

“Well,” Crawford said. “Aren’t we just Mr. Cosmopolitan?”

Payne opened his mouth to reply, but the chief cut him off.

“Enough of this!” he rumbled. “It’s getting us nowhere. Regardless of your thoughts on the matter, it’s clear we have a bit of a problem here in River City.” He glanced at Renee. “In your initial briefing to me, you made some statements about this particular brand of gangster. Would you mind repeating those for everyone else present?”

Renee nodded and cleared her throat. “Basically my point to the chief was that the Russian gangs tend to be more organized and more ruthless than we’ve seen in our gangs of the homegrown variety. Aside from some of the Central American gangs, I don’t think you’ll find a criminal organization more willing to do considerable violence than with the Russians.”

“I already know that,” Payne said. “That’s why I’m here.”

The chief held up his hand. “I just want everyone on the same page, Special Agent.”

Payne shrugged and motioned for Renee to continue.

Renee said, “The problem is that immigrant communities such as the Ukrainian community here in River City tend to be very insular and suspicious of law enforcement. We don’t get much help, if any, from the community members even though the vast majority are hardworking and law-abiding people.”

“So,” the chief said, “what is your recommendation?”

Renee raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”

“Your recommendation,” the chief said. “If you were sitting in my chair, what would you do to solve this problem?”

Renee felt her heart race. She’d been a crime analyst for twelve years. In all that time she was very comfortable with her facts and even her speculation, but she couldn’t remember a time when anyone other than a working detective asked for her opinion on a solution.

“Renee?” the chief said, still looking at her.

“I think you have to strike at the head of the snake just as you would in any other organized crime case,” Renee finally managed. “Since the agent has an asset that can give us that information.”

Payne held up his hand. “Wait a minute. Now we’re getting into confidential material that these gentlemen aren’t cleared to know.”

“Do you mean the protected witness that we’re helping you guard up at the Quality Inn on North Division?” Captain Reott said.

Payne set his jaw and sighed. “That’s the problem,” he said, “with sharing information with the locals. There’s no sense of security.”

“Your information’s safe enough,” Reott said. “And not known to the majority of my troops. I do think it’s fitting that the division commander of patrol should be aware of this. Don’t you?”

“Fine,” Payne conceded. “But I’d appreciate it if you kept the information circle as tight as possible.”

“Certainly,” Reott replied curtly.

Payne turned back to Renee and shrugged. “I guess you can continue.”

Renee imagined clawing out the eyes of the arrogant agent in front of her. Then she said, “If you can get the names of the major players from your asset, then maybe patrol or the detectives can squeeze those leaders. Even if we only get them off the street for a little while, that might stymie this push for dominance.”

“That’s not going to work,” Payne said. “In fact, by arresting them on something weak only to release them a short time later, all we’re doing is emboldening them.”

“I disagree,” Renee said. “They are already contemptuous of our jails and our criminal justice system. It’s not going to get any better or worse, but by taking them off the street-”

“It’s pointless,” Payne said. “We need to build a stronger case and hopefully get them on federal racketeering charges. That way I can build a RICO case-”

“And get all the glory,” Crawford interrupted.

Payne pressed his lips together in exasperation. “It’s not about glory, Lieutenant. It’s about doing a job right and making a case that sticks.” He looked back at Renee. “And they might be contemptuous of your jails, but I don’t think they’d have quite the same cavalier attitude when faced with spending time in a federal penitentiary.”

No one spoke for a few moments. Then Renee looked at the chief and said, “That’s my opinion, sir, and I stand by it.”

The chief nodded. “Thank you, Renee.”

Detective Ray Browning lifted his hand to catch the chief’s attention.

“Yes, Detective?”

“I’d like to lend my support to Renee’s analysis of this situation and perhaps add another wrinkle to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I had a conversation with Officer Chisolm at the scene of the ambush. He offered an interesting analysis of what occurred. I asked him to come down so that he could explain it to all of you in person.”

“Is he here?” the chief asked.

“I believe so. I could check.”

The chief nodded, and Browning rose from his chair and left the room.

Renee watched the color drain slowly from Payne’s face as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She wondered what that was all about, but she couldn’t think of any way to tactfully ask.

A few moments later Browning returned with Thomas Chisolm in tow. Chisolm was dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a black T-shirt. His badge hung from a lanyard in the middle of his chest. As always, Renee’s eyes were drawn to the thin white scar that ran from his temple to his chin. His eyes looked slightly sleepy. Renee realized that this was the middle of the night for him.

Browning sat down and Chisolm took the final empty chair next to Renee.

“Detective Browning said you had a theory,” the chief said. “Go ahead and explain it.”

Chisolm nodded. “I do, but it’s not a theory, sir. It’s pretty much fact. If you recall, the drive-by assault on the Crips gang went like this. There were shots fired from an unknown vehicle through the front window of the house. Inside were a half a dozen gang members, sleeping. The car drove away immediately after firing the shots. This drew the majority of the gangsters out from the protection of the house and into the front yard. At this point at least three gunmen opened up on the assembled group with automatic weapons fire. They used short, controlled bursts that indicated technical proficiency with their weapon. Their positions of cover and concealment set up an almost perfect triangulation of fire.”

The chief nodded slowly. “Go on,” he said.

“Immediately after the initial attack, a van arrived to provide transport to the shooters. As they got into the transport vehicle, one of the remaining gangsters fired at them. The shooters didn’t panic, and returned fire using the van as cover in similar fashion as they would an APC or a tank.”

“So,” the chief said, “your belief is that these men had to have military training.”

“That’s my analysis, sir,” Chisolm said.

“And I take it you are familiar with all of these tactics firsthand?”

“Yes, sir. Two tours in Vietnam.”

The chief nodded slowly, his expression betraying admiration.

“These are very common tactics,” Payne cut in. “I’ve seen them, too.”

Chisolm turned his gaze on to Payne. “I’m sure you have, son. In books.”

“Yes,” Payne said. “In books. But you probably don’t think much of books, do you, Officer Chisolm?”

Chisolm shrugged. “Actually, I like books. I’ve learned a lot about the world from books, but they are not the be-all, end-all of knowledge that you seem to think they are.”

“I have experience, too,” Payne snapped back. “Experience and education. I went to the University of Washington, Officer Chisolm. I graduated with a 3.8 in criminal justice and international studies. Where did you go to school?”

Renee watched as Chisolm smiled.

“Vietnam,” Chisolm answered. “It was pass/fail.”

Payne’s cheeks flared red again.

Chisolm’s smile broadened. “And graduation was a bitch.”

Renee suppressed a smile. Behind Payne, Crawford let out a low chuckle and shook his head.

In the end the chief came to Payne’s rescue. “Thanks for your insight, Officer Chisolm. I appreciate you coming down here in the middle of your night.”

Chisolm nodded. “My pleasure, sir.” He rose, turned on his heel, and strode out of the office without a word.

“Guess the young bull isn’t quite ready to rule the herd yet,” Crawford observed, still chuckling.

“That’s enough of that,” the chief said evenly, but he was looking at Payne. “Agent Payne, do you have a problem with Officer Chisolm?”

Payne clenched his jaw and didn’t answer.

“Should I take your silence as a yes?”

Crawford said, “You could, Chief. Or you could take it as one man being unhappy about the fact another man got him fired from a certain River City Police Department a few years back.”

The chief glanced at Crawford and then back at Payne. “You used to work here?”

Payne blinked slowly. “I went through the police academy and served briefly with the River City Police Department before I moved on to federal law enforcement,” he said in measured tones.

The chief remained silent. Renee could almost see the gears turning behind the thoughtful expression. Crawford drew a breath to say something, but the chief held his hand up and stopped him before he could utter a sound. His eyes remained on Payne. After a few moments he said, “Agent Payne, I am very grateful for federal assistance in this matter, and I am more than happy to have the criminals in this case charged federally. There’s no issue there. But if you have a grudge against any of my officers, I suggest you stow it. If you can’t do that, I’ll give your SAC a call and we’ll get an agent in here who doesn’t have any issues.”

Payne swallowed and shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” he whispered. “It’s just that Officer Chisolm was not very kind to me during our training experience.”

“Tom doesn’t suffer fools,” Crawford managed to say before the chief waved his hand and cut him off again.

“I’ll take your word,” the chief said, “that this’ll be the last time we need to speak of this.”

“You have it,” Payne said.

“Good. Then let’s move on. What is your recommendation on how to move forward with this case?”

Payne took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Renee almost felt sorry for the young agent. Almost.

“Well,” Payne said, “obviously Detective Browning should continue to work this case in whatever manner he sees fit. As long as I am updated frequently, I don’t see any conflict there.”

Browning barely reacted, but Renee noticed a flicker of irritation pass across his face, which was about as expressive as the veteran detective was likely to get.

“On the overall front, I think we need to initiate some surveillance. If we properly monitor the key players, we may develop enough probable cause for a wiretap and other devices and we should be able to build a chargeable RICO case.”

Crawford snorted slightly and shook his head.

The chief glanced over at him. “You take issue with this approach, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, I do, sir,” Crawford shot back, his voice confident. “I’ve been assigned to Investigations for a lot of years and I can tell you that working the case is the only way to work a case.” Crawford looked over at Payne. “These feds are happy to carry on surveillance until the second coming, but we don’t have the resources for that. Besides, I don’t think we have the time.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning these Russians aren’t going to sit on their hands waiting for the federal government to decide there’s sufficient probable cause to make some major RICO case. Those cases take years. We don’t even have weeks if we’re going to be successful in stemming the tide here.” He pointed to Renee. “You heard what she had to say. These Russkies don’t mess around. If we’re going to get a handle on this situation, it has to be sooner, not later.”

The chief glanced at Payne and waited for his reply.

“My recommendation stands,” the young agent said briskly. “We’ve built numerous solid cases based on short-term surveillance, and the agency is more than capable of adapting and moving quickly when a situation becomes more rapidly evolving.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Crawford. “I’ve noticed that.”

Payne looked askance at Crawford.

Crawford’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you want examples?” He raised his thumb. “Ruby Ridge.” He raised his index finger. “Waco, Texas.”

“Waco was the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms,” Payne said.

“Federal is federal,” Crawford shot back. “And I think the reason you want to do surveillance is because that’s all you feds know how to do.”

“Surveillance is an effective tool,” Payne replied.

“I don’t disagree,” Crawford said. “But like I said, we don’t have the resources for it and we don’t have the time. Neither do you. You don’t even have enough resources to guard your own protected witness.”

“I might be able to break free some additional resources,” Payne began, but Crawford shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter, because like I said, we don’t have the time to build a case like the one you’re talking about.”

Payne leaned back in his chair and glared condescendingly at Crawford. Then he said, “Is Sergeant Morgan still the range master here?”

“What the hell has that got to do with anything?” Crawford asked.

“Humor me,” Payne said.

“He is,” Reott answered.

“Well,” Payne said, “I recall him to be a very gruff man of few words, and those words were often repeated. I assume this was to ensure that the students learned these lessons that he deemed critical to firing accurately and surviving in a gunfight.”

“Duh,” Crawford said. He glanced at Reott, Renee, and then the chief. “What’s the point?”

“The point is, that one of his more common statements was you can’t miss fast enough. Have you ever heard him say that, Lieutenant?”

“Sure,” Crawford said.

“And do you understand what that tenet means?”

Crawford leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Don’t talk to me like you’re a professor, you little shit. I don’t work for you.”

“But you do work for me,” the chief said. “And I’d like to hear the agent’s point.”

Crawford leaned back, staring daggers at Payne. The agent seemed more comfortable now that he had the chief’s support. “As I understand it,” he continued, “that means you should take enough time to be sure of your shot because you might only get one, and if you hurry the shot and you miss, it could be game over. Do I have that right?”

Crawford didn’t answer.

Payne smiled wanly. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. So, with that in mind I’m sure you can see how this philosophy applies to our current situation. If we rush this case-that is, if we fire too quickly-we will surely miss. And that would be a costly mistake.”

The room fell silent. Renee glanced from face to face, fascinated by the mixture of ego and talent in the room. She wondered sometimes why men who had reached powerful positions couldn’t divest themselves of their ego and cooperate to reach a common goal. But she’d come to the conclusion that their ego not only got them into powerful positions, but made them effective there.

The chief leaned back in his chair. “I appreciate all of you coming to this meeting. I’m going to accept the agent’s recommendation as a course of action.”

Crawford sighed, but the chief ignored him.

“Detective Browning, continue your investigation independent of any Bureau activity. Copy all your reports to Agent Payne.”

Detective Browning nodded. The chief’s gaze fell on to Agent Payne. “Agent, we will continue to provide an officer to the protection detail at the hotel. If you require any backup for emergency reasons during the course of your surveillance, please contact either Lieutenant Crawford or Captain Reott, depending on whether you would prefer uniform or investigative personnel. However,” he added, “we do not have sufficient resources to provide you with any other assistance in your surveillance activities.”

Payne’s expression, which had been noticeably gloating, fell. “No assistance?” he asked.

The chief shook his head. “We’re stretched thin enough just providing basic public safety services to the citizens of River City,” he said. “If you encounter a situation where you need immediate assistance, we’re certainly willing to help. If your investigation progresses to the point where you need help with any operational matters such as search warrants or arrest warrants, we’ll help you on a case-by-case basis.”

Payne sat speechless. Then he cleared his throat, nodded, and stood. “Thank you for your assistance, Chief,” he said in an official tone. “The Bureau appreciates it.”

“Anytime,” the chief answered.

Payne nodded again, turned, and walked briskly out of the room. Renee watched him go, forgetting that it was poor form to smile at another’s discomfort. She let the corners of her mouth do what they wanted to do.

Nothing wrong with a little schadenfreude, she thought.

1753 hours

Katie MacLeod sipped her glass of wine. It was a crisp white that tasted heavily of apple. Curious, she picked up the bottle and perused the label. It was nearly local, having been bottled in Wenatchee.

“So much for that little mystery,” she said to the empty room. Wenatchee was full of apple orchards. It made sense that they’d get into the wine business at some point. Or did it make sense that if they had a winery in the region, apples would find their way into the mix somehow?

Katie took another sip and swished it around before swallowing. It definitely tasted like there was some apple in it. No question. The bigger question was why in the hell she was trying to solve the grand mystery of what ingredients were in a glass of Wenatchee wine.

Maybe it was because it was her third glass with dinner. Katie shrugged and took another sip. This time she didn’t bother swishing. She swilled. Like mama, like daughter, she thought.

That brought a frown to her face. She was not like her mother. That woman drank every day for no reason other than… well, other than she simply drank every day. Katie was having a glass of wine with dinner.

Or three glasses with half a dinner. Whatever. She reached for the bottle and poured the last of it into her glass. Might as well finish it, she figured.

The telephone rang. She had a flash of panic. Maybe it was her mother calling to rebuke her for having those negative thoughts about her. That would be karma in a nutshell, wouldn’t it?

Katie decided she didn’t care. Maybe since she was a little tipsy herself, she’d be able to have something closer to a normal conversation with her mother. Maybe drunk to drunk they’d make more sense, like two people speaking the same foreign language.

Katie picked up the phone, then paused and looked at the caller ID attached to the cord. The rectangular gadget displayed a local number. She didn’t recognize it.

Katie took another deep breath and stared at the unfamiliar number. It had to be Stef. In the space between two rings, her mind raced with images of him. His smile. His short hair barely kinked from lying on the pillow next to her. The anguish on his face after-

No.

He hadn’t called her since the incident with the Rainy Day Rapist. What was that? Over two years ago? Before that, he’d called her every few weeks or so. Usually drunk or whacked out on the pain pills he took. Always a mess. It was not unlike talking to her mother.

Katie knew he was trying to grab onto her like some kind of life preserver, a last vestige of his days as a cop. Maybe he saw her as a way to validate or even redeem himself. But Katie didn’t feel like she was rescuing him from drowning in his own self-pity. It felt like he was going to drag her down with him.

The hard part was that she still cared about him. Maybe even loved him. But she couldn’t save him from himself. That was one thing she’d learned in police work that was always true. And right now, she wasn’t feeling like the strongest of swimmers for him to grab onto.

The phone rang again. After one more it would go to the answering machine. Maybe that was the best solution. Ignore him. Katie set her jaw.

No. Some people ran from their problems. Other people faced up to them. She knew which kind of person she was. She pressed “talk.” “Hello.”

There was a pause, then a female voice asked hesitantly, “Uh, Katie?”

Katie thought for a second that it was her mother after all, and that she was here in River City, not back home in Seattle. Her stomach fell. She started to ask who it was, but stopped. If it was her mother, that would set the ball rolling. Instead, she simply said, “Yes.”

The nervous laugh on the other end definitely did not belong to her mother. “Oh, good. I thought I had the wrong number.”

“Who is this?” Katie asked.

“Oh, sorry. It’s Billie Jo.”

“Who?”

“B.J.,” the woman said.

“I don’t know any-”

“B.J. Carson. From work?”

“Oh.” Katie’s mind stopped spinning. She remembered Carson, of course. She’d been the rookie’s first training officer back in the spring. The tall, slender woman had seemed a little bit too much of a lipstick cop to Katie, the kind of woman that became a cop more to meet other cops than to protect and serve. She’d felt a little bit guilty judging her right away, but then again, she’d seen nothing in their four weeks together that changed her mind. Then another thought occurred to her. “How’d you get this number?” she asked, her voice a little sharp.

There was a pause, then Carson answered, “I called Dispatch. Janice gave it to me.”

“Oh.” Well, that made sense then, didn’t it? Katie sipped her wine. She was solving mysteries left and right tonight. But the biggest one still remained. What the hell did Miss River City PD 1998 want?

“Is it all right that I called?” Carson asked.

Katie swallowed and said, “It’s fine.”

“Is this a bad time?”

Katie smiled at that. Was it a bad time? Oh nooo, princess. It was a great time.

“What can I do for you, B.J.?”

Another pause. Katie drew in a breath. How in the hell did this woman expect to be a cop if she didn’t show a little more confidence? She’d get eaten up. Forget the bad guys, even. She wouldn’t get past the other cops.

“Well,” B.J. began, “I wanted to tell you I was sorry to hear about your ankle.”

Katie’s eyes flicked down to her injured ankle propped up on a chair. Her sock-clad toes peeked out of the blue foam support boot her doctor had prescribed. She wiggled them at B.J. in a sarcastic thank-you.

“That’s nice of you,” Katie said flatly. She knew that she should be sweeter about it, but too many things got in the way. Her own lack of tolerance for bullshit was probably the biggest obstacle, but the wine came in a close second. Running in a strong third place was frustration at being sidelined while this woman, who she suspected of being a badge bunny with a badge, was out working the streets.

“Are you coming back soon?” Carson asked.

Katie detected the sincerity in the other woman’s voice and felt a small stab of guilt for her own cattiness. Still, she knew that wasn’t the reason Carson had called. “As soon as my doctor lets me. Is there something going on?”

“Going on?” Carson repeated. Katie heard a trace of panic in her voice.

“Well, you called me,” Katie said. When Carson didn’t answer, she went on. “We don’t exactly go to lunch together, so I was wondering why you were calling.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. She felt guilty for being so blunt, but then she shrugged and finished off the glass of wine. If someone was going to call her out of the blue, they got what they got, right?

“I’m sorry,” Carson said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”

Katie put down her wine glass. She wanted to say that maybe Carson was right, but that was a bit too harsh, and she knew she was already going to regret being as rude as she’d been. “No, it’s all right. You just caught me by surprise. I mean, we’re not even on the same platoon, so I’m a little confused, that’s all.”

Carson didn’t answer.

“Look, I appreciate your well wishes on my ankle, but you probably called for another reason, so what can I do for you?”

“Oh, right,” Carson said. “I called because you were the best training officer I had. Plus you were the only woman. And I need some advice.”

“Advice?” Katie shrugged.

“Yeah.On dealing with… it.”

“It?”

“It.The whole thing. Being a woman on this job. Dealing with the men. All the sexual tension. Just… all of it.”

Katie’s mind whirred in several different directions. No one ever taught her how to deal with it. She figured it out on her own, the hard way. By working hard. By being the best cop she could be. By never showing that she was any weaker than her male counterparts. Hell, by never being any weaker than her male counterparts.

Sexual tension? Sure, it existed, but you handled it the way you handled it anywhere else. Professionally. Prudently. And if anything ever happened with anyone on the job, you kept it discreet. Mostly you didn’t let it happen, because it almost always led to disaster. That’s what happened with her and Stef. She’d learned her lesson there on her own. No one pulled her aside and gave her the template for dealing with it. She certainly hadn’t called anyone at home and pleaded for advice.

And who did this Carson chick think she was, anyway? Time was, a rookie remembered his place. Open ears, close mouth. Work hard. Learn. It didn’t come to you on a silver platter. You figured it out over time and if you proved yourself to be a brave and hard worker, the veterans on the platoon gave you some subtle guidance, but you didn’t call them on the phone and ask for it. You earned it. At seven years on the job, Katie knew she was just now entering that veteran phase of her career. She’d earned that respect from most of her platoon mates, with the possible exception of Kahn, and who cared about that prick? She’d faced impossible situations and come through them. Maybe not whole, maybe not all right, but she’d come through. And no one held her hand or gave her some secret potion to deal with all of it. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had, anyway. Some knowledge has no value unless you learn it on your own.

Katie drew in a breath and prepared to tell Carson some version of all these thoughts. She wasn’t sure how they’d tumble out but she was pretty sure this little beauty queen would know by the end of the conversation that even if she had some sort of secret wisdom, she wasn’t just going to hand it over to some bimbo playing dress-up. Carson was going to have to earn it. Like she did.

“Are you still there?” Carson asked.

“Yes,” Katie said. Her stomach was warm with the wine. Maybe she shouldn’t say those things. Or if she did, maybe it shouldn’t be when she was feeling the wine so much. Maybe she should suggest that she and Carson meet for coffee sometime in the next couple of days and she could decide if there was any advice she could give her that would help.

“Should I call you some other time? You sound a little funny.”

“No,” Katie said. “I’m fine. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well, I just figured you were the best person to talk to.” She paused. “Maybe the only one who’d understand.”

Katie did understand.

“There aren’t any women on your platoon?” Katie asked.

“No. Just you. Besides me, of course.”

“Wait a minute. You’re on my platoon now?”

“Yeah,” Carson said. “I got reassigned when you were injured. You didn’t know?”

“No,” Katie answered. “I didn’t know.”

Katie digested this. They sure didn’t take long to replace her. What the hell was this? Any chick will do? She knew that wasn’t the case, but it still burned at her. Not only was she going to be out of commission, but in the meantime Carson was supposed to replace her? And now Carson had the audacity to call her up and ask her exactly how to do that?

“Anyway,” Carson said, “I just figured you probably went through a lot of the same stuff I’m dealing with, so I wanted to call and see if you can offer any advice.”

Katie opened and closed her mouth. She choked down the bilious words that threatened to spill out. Even through the vino she could tell that while Carson didn’t know how utterly ignorant she was, she wasn’t calling to be malicious. She didn’t deserve a magic totem to get her through what Katie learned the hard way, but she didn’t deserve Katie biting her head off, either.

“The best advice I can give you is to do the job,” Katie said. She knew her words had a slight slur, but she repeated them anyway. “Just do the job the best you can.” When Carson didn’t reply right away, Katie added, “Be a good cop.”

Katie nodded. Her advice might sound simple, but she knew it was also profound. In fact it was as close to a magical secret as Carson, or any other cop for that matter, was likely to ever get.

“Okay,” Carson replied, her voice unsure. “But I was also wondering about-”

“I’m sorry,” Katie said, “but I’ve got to go. This pain medication makes me nauseous. I’m not feeling very good.”

“Oh. All right. Well, thanks for-”

“You’re welcome,” Katie said, and hung up.

For a long while Katie MacLeod stared down at her empty wine glass, awash in emotions. Guilt gave way to frustration, which faded into a tickling anger. A little bit of self-pity tried to worm its way in, but she pushed it away with pride. Finally the guilt rose to the top again.

Katie slid her injured foot off the support chair, stood up, and limped toward the refrigerator. She was pretty sure that another bottle of Wenatchee’s best was in there. And right now, that seemed the simplest and easiest thing to do.

1811 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat sipping his Turkish coffee. A half-eaten pastry sat on the plate in front of him. He stared down at the deep black coffee in the tiny cup between his hands. Sergey could not be moved from his decision to address the heads of the various gangs. This was despite Val’s strong counsel that he insulate himself and allow Val to handle the meeting. “No,” Sergey had said, “a subjugated people need to know who their ruler is, even if they never see my face again.”

Val had argued, raising several valid points. Sergey was unmoved. Of course, secretly Val was glad that Sergey had been obstinate. It was exactly what he’d wanted.

Val lifted the powerful coffee to his lips and sipped. The strong taste and odor filled his senses while he considered how to execute the next stage of his plan. He saw the endgame very clearly, but the plays between now and then were still shadowy. Perhaps Sergey would show him the way. He glanced around the small coffee shop, a habit from his days on the street as a young man. Natalia stood by the cash register striking a seductive pose and glancing up at him often enough to let him know that she was his for the taking. He thought that perhaps after he finished with the evening’s business he might avail himself of that particular opportunity. But for now he needed to remain focused.

Focused. The lack of focus made him think momentarily of Pavel. He fingered a battered paperback copy of Dune that sat next to his plate. It was printed in Russian, purchased from a street vendor in Kiev. He’d brought it along to give to his nephew. The boy needed to become more serious, and soon. What better way to reach him than through the same book that stirred his own Machiavellian nature?

He turned his thoughts to the top men in the organization. None of them lacked in loyalty. Several had been soldiers who served in Spetsnaz with him, and those that hadn’t had been on the streets of Kiev with him and Sergey.

Still, Val had to admit he had missed Oleg’s treachery. The accountant had voiced several points of dissatisfaction, but Val had never read that to be disloyalty. He encouraged his men to speak up and advise him of any problems they saw with operations. It was in that light that he had heard Oleg’s challenges. Instead, the man turned out to be a traitor, a dirty musor.

Val took another sip of his Turkish coffee and considered that for a moment. Oleg had been vocal, but was that traitorous? The transgression for which Sergey had sentenced him to die was embezzlement. Stealing from Sergey was certainly not the most loyal of practices, but Val wondered still if he would classify Oleg as disloyal. Everyone skimmed a little. It was a cash business, after all. As long as a man wasn’t too greedy, he could do that indefinitely. Val set aside significant amounts before kicking up to Sergey and the boss had been never the wiser. Either that or he considered it the cost of doing business. His decision to punish Oleg most likely had to do with the amount Oleg was skimming and not necessarily the practice itself.

Val asked himself why he was so concerned with this, but the answer came immediately behind. Because if he missed signs of Oleg’s disloyalty, how well could he gauge the others?

Val thought on that for a long while. In the end he was forced to conclude that all of the men were as loyal as any man could be. Oleg’s treachery with the police was because of the fire. He sat for a while, considering his rationalization. Finally he accepted his own analysis.

He mentally walked through each of his top men again. This time he gauged their loyalty to Sergey versus their loyalty to him. He found that task considerably easier. The men who had served in the military were his. Of that he had no doubt. The others he was less certain of. However, his efforts over the past several months to bring them closer at Sergey’s expense seemed to have been largely successful. He believed that if he made his move now the coup might well be bloodless.

Aside from Sergey, that is.

And Marina, of course. Val thought about his sister again. He didn’t like the idea of bringing her pain, but knew it could not be helped. He told himself he would be there to comfort her, and tried to push thoughts of her from his mind.

He glanced at his pastry and decided that he wasn’t hungry anymore. He pushed the plate away and a moment later Natalia appeared at his table.

“Are you finished with that?” she asked in a sultry tone.

Val grunted affirmatively.

She leaned over further than was necessary to retrieve the small plate, then turned and walked away, adding a bit of sway to her step. Val took a moment to appreciate the view as she made her way back to the kitchen.

Val’s cellular phone rang. He wasn’t entirely sold on these devices. They were becoming more and more commonplace, if expensive. They would likely become immensely popular with Americans because they represented another luxury. For him, it was a very expedient tool, but he distrusted it from the vantage point of communication security. He discouraged anyone from saying anything incriminating over any telephone, but particularly a cell phone. Perhaps a day would come when he and his crew could purchase scrambled cell phones, but until then he was glad that they spoke only Russian in the clear.

“Yes,” he said into the receiver.

Yuri spoke quickly. “Dinner is arranged,” he said cryptically. “All the guests will attend.”

Val did not answer. He snapped the phone shut and put it back into his pocket. So far, everything was a go. All his strategies were working out. He had done his groundwork. He had the loyalty of the men, he had the tools, and things were proceeding according to plan.

According to plans within plans within plans.

1927 hours

Detective Ray Browning sat at his desk staring down at the case file in front of him. The lights above the desks of his colleagues had been turned off hours ago. The only sound he heard was Glenda’s rapid typing in the foyer as she transcribed one of the detectives’ reports on overtime. Browning found himself envying whichever detective had made enough progress on a case to ship a report to her.

Browning never officially learned to type. He still nurtured his hunting and pecking skills when he was forced to type something. But right now, even he could type up his report without Glenda’s skills.

He resisted the urge to review the contents of the case file again. He knew them virtually by heart already, but if he were to open the file the result would be another hour poring over every detail again, looking for something that he might have missed the first dozen times.

But an empty cupboard was an empty cupboard, no matter how many times he opened the door and peered inside.

Something about the case bothered him. It wasn’t the meddling of Special Agent Payne. It wasn’t even the fact that the victims had been young black men, stirring in him some sort of sympathy born of kinship. Browning didn’t think along those lines. Men were men. Good was good. And criminals were criminals. He barely paid attention to skin color unless it helped him identify the bad guy.

No, what bothered him was the sheer brutality of it. Three dead and one in a drug-induced coma who was likely to be a vegetable for the rest of his life.

The gang member witnesses ranged from unhelpful to flat-out adversarial. Only DeShawn Brown, the apparent leader of this Crip set, had been both helpful and useful. And even his information hadn’t given Browning any particularly powerful or solid leads.

The police database for Russian criminals was shallow, and most of their information sketchy. He spoke with DeShawn very frankly about gang matters, assuring the young man that he could speak freely without concern for criminal matters so long as they were drug or property crimes. DeShawn had been wary nonetheless and avoided anything directly incriminating. When Browning had asked about political issues, the gang leader shook his head.

“Ain’t nobody said nothin’ to me about nothin’,” he’d stated emphatically. “This was a flat-out ambush and we didn’t do shit to piss them motherfuckers off.”

Browning wondered if the move by the Russians was truly unprovoked, but he had no call to disbelieve DeShawn.

Beyond the carnage, what bothered Browning just as much was the setting. It irritated him that the gang members would hole up in a residential area that even by gang standards would have been considered civilian. Their presence was a trouble magnet. But the bulk of Browning’s ire was directed at the men who had fired their automatic weapons in a neighborhood full of working people and children.

He accepted Chisolm’s analysis that they were military trained and that their rounds had been largely accurate, but that didn’t negate the fact that a stray round could have taken an innocent life.

All of this didn’t help solve the case.

Browning examined instead what physical evidence existed. They recovered 106 AK-47 shell cases. According to Chisolm, each of the three shooters probably had a thirty-round magazine and probably carried two or more in reserve. At least one or more of the men had done a tactical reload at some point. Browning hadn’t needed Chisolm’s input to figure that part out. He might not have been in the military, but he understood math.

He’d ordered a fingerprint check on all the casings and was astounded to learn that there hadn’t been a single smudge or smear, much less a print. That meant the shooters had wiped down each round before loading them. Furthermore, they must have worn gloves while doing so. That level of meticulous caution dismayed him.

During any detective’s career, the majority of cases were broken because the detective discovered a mistake that the criminal made. He knew that you could be a brilliant investigator and follow out every lead to its natural end, but if the perpetrator didn’t make a mistake somewhere along the way, you were unlikely to break the case. That sentiment didn’t sit well with some of the more hotshot detectives, but Browning’s days of worrying about image were long behind him, if they ever existed at all. His primary consideration was simple: Figure out what happened, find the bad guy, and build a case against him that’ll stand up in court. Nothing more, nothing less. Although in this case he was coming up with a lot less.

“If this is the way the Russians do business,” he whispered down to the closed case file, “we could be in for a long haul.”

Speaking those words sapped the last of his motivation for the day. His wife, Veronica, and son, Marcus, were waiting at home for him, probably holding dinner. There was nothing more for him to do today except hope that maybe someone made a mistake overnight.

2217 hours

“Baker-122, Baker-128.” The dispatcher’s monotone voice broke into the still night of B.J. Carson’s patrol car as she cruised up Division Street. She waited until Battaglia answered up, then keyed her own mike. “Go ahead,” she said, trying to project a confidence she didn’t entirely feel.

“In Adam Sector at 119 W Central. Male caller states he thinks his wife has committed suicide. She went in the bathroom and he heard a loud bang. He is standing by at the front door of 119 W Central.”

“Copy,”came Battaglia’s unflappable voice.

“Copy,” Carson said, putting on her overhead lights and heading that direction. “Time delay?”

“He called less than a minute ago. Also, medics will be standing by.”

Carson copied that, too. She hung up the microphone. Katie’s words echoed in her mind: just be a good cop.

She pressed down on the accelerator and drove hard. No way were medics going to beat her there. She only had about five blocks to drive.

As she turned onto the correct block she dumped all her lights and rolled to a stop one house east of 119. In the distance she could hear the loud air horn and siren of the fire truck. Battaglia cruised in behind her, lights out.

Carson headed up to the door. A middle-aged man opened the door as she approached. Worry lines etched his face.

“Straight back,” he said, pointing with a trembling hand.

Carson entered the house, her heart pounding with adrenaline. The smell of body odor and dirty cat boxes filled her nostrils. She heard Battaglia’s footsteps and creaking leather right behind her. The sounds comforted her. Directly inside the doorway was a large, messy living room. On the other side of that she could see the bright light of the bathroom. The bathroom door stood half open.

Drawing her weapon, Carson approached the door cautiously. The man at the door gasped at the action, but Carson ignored him. The woman in the bathroom might still be alive. She might still want to commit suicide. And she might want to make Carson do it for her. She’d learned in the academy that suicide by cop was getting more and more popular.

Battaglia moved to the opposite side of the doorway, his gun drawn and at the ready. Carson tried to peek through the crack at the hinges. She saw a body seated on the closed toilet. There was no movement. She glanced up at Battaglia and shook her head.

Battaglia shrugged. “Ma’am?” he said. “Ma’am, are you all right in there?”

The man who had let them in approached them. “Help her, please!”

“Sir, just go to the door,” Carson said as firmly as she could muster. She knew her voice had to cut through the man’s worry and impending grief. “Medics are on the way. You’ll need to let them in.”

The man reluctantly obeyed.

Carson looked over at Battaglia. “I’ll check,” she whispered.

“My number came first, my call,” Battaglia whispered back. “I’ll get it.”

Just be a good cop.

Carson shook her head. “I got it.” Before Battaglia could move, Carson stepped around the door, her gun extended.

The woman sat on the toilet, her empty hands hanging limply at her sides. Her legs were splayed out and her head had fallen onto the sink. A bright red stream of blood trickled slowly from her nose and mouth into the drain. Her wide and staring eyes bore into Carson, the last vestiges of life in them seeping away.

“Gun on the floor,” Battaglia said from behind her.

Carson looked at the woman, who she guessed had pulled the trigger less than three minutes ago. An odd thought occurred to her-the woman’s soul was probably still leaving her body.

Carson looked away.

“Semi-auto.22,” Battaglia said. He didn’t touch the gun. Carson knew that a detective would have to respond and investigate the suicide to ensure it wasn’t a homicide. It was standard procedure. Their job now was to allow medics in to either work to save the woman or declare her deceased. After the medics were finished, their duty became protecting the integrity of the crime scene.

“You see a casing anywhere?” Battaglia asked.

Carson looked around. “No.”

Battaglia peered at the woman. “Looks like she shot right through the roof of her mouth. I don’t see an exit wound or any spray on the wall behind her. The bullet probably just bounced around inside her head. Pureed her brains, I bet.”

Carson glanced out the door. The man still stood at the front door of the house. Carson hoped he wasn’t hearing this.

“Awful nice of her to bleed out into the sink, I guess,” Battaglia continued quietly, leaning forward to examine her more closely.

Carson swallowed hard and felt a rush of nausea. The stench of human and cat box odor didn’t help her queasy stomach. She focused on taking tiny breaths through her mouth.

“She’s probably right-handed, so she would have to hold the gun just so”-he made a gun with his thumb and forefinger-“which would eject the casing over there.” He shined his flashlight into the bathtub. It was dirty but empty.

Carson followed his flashlight beam, then glanced up at Battaglia’s face. His hard expression was covered by a sheen of intensity. Carson wondered at his callous attitude toward this poor woman. Was this the same man who had comforted her after the Russian traffic stop? Who joked over beers at the Happy Time?

She heard the fire truck arrive, its loud diesel engine rattling, its air brakes hissing.

“Or,” Battaglia said, turning his hand over, “she could hold it so, which would eject the casing right here.” He moved the light to shine on Carson’s boots, then looked up at her quizzically.

No. Please don’t tell me I screwed up the crime scene.

She lifted her right foot carefully. Nothing underneath. She checked the tread. Nothing.

“Now the left,” Battaglia said. His tone was even, but she imagined a hint of dread in it.

Carson lifted the left boot. Nothing underneath it. She turned her foot over. A small gold.22 caliber casing was wedged in the tread.

“Damn,” she muttered. So much for being a good cop. She couldn’t even handle a straightforward suicide scene without mucking it up.

Battaglia chuckled slightly. “Don’t worry about it. Put it back where you stepped. The detective will never know the difference.”

“Damn,” Carson repeated. She picked the casing out of her boot tread and put it down where her foot had been. Then they both backed out of the bathroom.

“Case solved,” Battaglia told her. “Now we wait for an hour for the detective to get here and another two hours for him to reach the same conclusion and give it his blessing.” The resentment in his voice sounded more contrived than bitter.

Fire Station Paramedics, Squad Three, came barreling through the door. Battaglia shook his head at the lieutenant of the squad and they all slowed down.

“I just need one man to come in and verify she’s DOA,” Battaglia told the lieutenant.

The fire lieutenant nodded. He motioned to one of the three men behind him. “Dean?”

A short fireman with what looked like a large tackle box in his hand stepped forward. Battaglia led him to the bathroom.

“What happened?” the lieutenant asked Carson while they waited.

“Suicide.Gunshot.” She looked to see if the man who had let them in was watching. She spotted him out on the porch, smoking a cigarette. Carson put her finger in her mouth and simulated a gun. The lieutenant nodded.

Carson stood by with the firemen. She cringed when she overheard Battaglia warn Dean not to step on the bullet casing.

After a few minutes, Dean returned. “Nothing, El-Tee.”

“All right. You need anything?” the lieutenant asked Carson and Battaglia.

“Nope,” said Battaglia. “Just your run sheet.”

The lieutenant jotted down the names of his crew and their response time on his paperwork, then tore off the pink copy. He handed it to Battaglia.

“Thanks, threes,” Battaglia said. The firemen filed out the door and back to their truck. Once they were out of earshot he turned to Carson. “Back to bed for them guys. Must be tough.”

Carson was usually grateful for Battaglia’s humor, but it didn’t seem right at the moment. “Do you want to call for a supervisor and a detective? I can inform the complainant that she’s DOA and then get his story for you.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Battaglia said. “Thanks, B.J.” He turned and went into the kitchen, looking for a phone.

Carson walked back into the bathroom. The fireman hadn’t moved the woman. A rubber contact remained on her upper chest where the paramedic had hooked her up to the heart monitor. The blood and mucous that hung from her mouth had thickened into a gel-like substance. Her glazed-over eyes held no life in them, no expression. Less than four minutes had passed since Carson had seen her last.

Death is instantaneous, she thought, but it must also be a process. This woman’s life-her soul, if she had one-was clearly gone.

Carson left the bathroom and found the man still on the porch. She took a deep breath of the fresh air.

“Sir?”

The man glanced up quickly. A cigarette dangled between his fingers. “Is she okay?”

Carson hesitated. She’d never delivered news like this to anyone before, and was unsure exactly what to say. Finally she managed to say, “No, sir. I’m afraid she’s… gone.”

Tears welled up in the man’s eyes and dropped down his face. “I knew it.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Carson added, remembering a line from a cop show she used to watch.

The man took a long, wavering drag on his cigarette. “She was an alcoholic, you know? A mean drunk, too. So was I. But when she was off the sauce, she was the sweetest woman in the whole damn world.”

“I’m sure she was.”

Carson stood silently to give the man a chance to digest the news while he smoked his cigarette. The man took deep, deliberate drags and let the smoke out in shuddering exhales. Carson wondered what was going through his mind.

When he’d finished the cigarette and stubbed out the butt, Carson cleared her throat. “Sir, if you can,” she said, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

The man nodded. “Sure.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Robert Carew. Her name is Anne.”

Carson wrote that down on her notepad. She took a few minutes to get biographical information about both him and Anne, then asked, “What happened tonight?”

“She’d been drinking all night,” Robert said. “We had a fight earlier. I said some things I didn’t mean. She said some things I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean. Then she… did this.” He waved toward the house as his face dissolved into tears.

Carson changed gears. “Let’s start at the beginning, Robert. When did she start drinking?”

Robert wiped his eyes. He shrugged. “I don’t know. She was probably fourteen or so, I guess. Her parents were both alcoholics, so it wasn’t tough for her to get ahold of some booze.”

Carson shook her head. “No, sir. That’s not what I meant. I meant, when did she start drinking tonight?”

“Oh.” Robert let out a rueful chuckle that died on his lips. “I’m not sure. See, I’m a knife salesman. I have a route. I spend two nights a week away from home. I was in Oregon last night. I came home tonight at about six o’clock and she was already hammered.”

“Did you drink tonight?”

“No. I’m an alcoholic, but I’m sober. Five months now.”

Carson made a note. “So there was an argument, you said?”

“Yeah. It’s hard, you know? When one person quits and the other one won’t. You sympathize, you know what they’re going through, but being around it is hard. It’s very tempting.”

“Was that what the argument was about, Robert?”

He nodded, reaching into his robe for his cigarettes. “She wanted me to drink with her and I wouldn’t. She said I thought I was better than her. ‘Holier than thou,’ she called me. I just listened to her a while, then told her to shut up, and I went into the bedroom and read.”

“Did she say anything else to you?”

“Just that she thought that I’d be better off without her.”

“Did you respond to that?”

Tears welled up in Robert’s eyes again. He nodded, his face pinched. He struggled to shake a cigarette out of the pack, then lit it up.

“What did you say, Robert?” Carson asked gently.

“I said that in her current state, she was probably right.” Robert sniffed and wiped his nose with his robe sleeve. Then he looked squarely at Carson. “And you know what? Those were the last words I said to her.”

Carson nodded. “I’m sorry,” was all she could think to say.

Robert stared off down the street, trembling and smoking.

Carson heard Battaglia open the screen door and step out onto the porch with them. “Detective Finch has been notified and is en route. Sergeant Shen was advised. You can probably leave once the detective gets here.”

“Okay.” She turned back to Robert, very aware of Battaglia’s watching eyes. “I know this is difficult, but I’m going to have to ask you a few more questions, Robert. Are you up to that?”

“Yes,” Robert answered, his voice thick from crying.

“Has Anne ever tried to harm herself before?”

“Just by damn near drinking herself to death.”

“Has she been down lately?”

“A little. It was her son’s birthday last week. She tried to call him but he wouldn’t come to the phone.”

“Why’s that?”

“They don’t get along so good.”

“Did that upset her?”

“Yeah, a little. Then she drank and a little became a lot. You know how drunks are. I know how drunks are. I was one for eight years.” Robert inhaled deeply from his cigarette.

Carson paused. “Who does the gun belong to?”

“It’s hers. I bought it at the pawn shop so she had something to protect herself with when I was out of town.”

“All right.” Carson tried to keep her voice as soothing as possible. “Tell me what happened after you went into the bedroom to read.”

Robert sighed. “Well, I read for about three hours. I got up, went into the bathroom to take a leak-”

“Where was she?”

“Still on the couch.Still drinking.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“I went into the bathroom and as I was going in, I saw her get up and go into the bedroom. I was thinking, you know, great. She either wants to fight some more, or make up and be… well, with me, you know? Or she’s stealing the bed for the night, which would leave me with the couch. But then when I finished using the bathroom, she had come out of the bedroom and was back on the couch. So I went to bed.”

Carson nodded and waited for him to continue.

“She was getting the gun,” Robert said. “That’s what she was doing in the bedroom. I didn’t know it then, but that’s what she had to be doing. Anyway, after about twenty minutes, I heard a loud bang. I ran into the bathroom. She was sitting on the toilet and bleeding and I saw the gun on the floor…”

Robert began to cry again. He struggled to stop, but the sobs came in huge seizures and shook his whole upper body. The ash on his cigarette had grown long. It defied gravity, staying on the cigarette as Robert sobbed.

Carson glanced at Battaglia. His mouth was set in a hard line as he watched. Carson put her hand on Robert’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Robert. No more questions, okay?”

“The questions don’t bother me,” Robert said. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his robe sleeve again. “I know you’re just doing what you have to do. It just rips me up. Like I said before, when she’s clean and sober, she is the most wonderful woman alive. And her figure comes back, too. God, for a woman of forty-five…”

“Alcohol changes people,” Carson said.

Robert nodded and wiped his nose again. “You know, they tell you in Al-Anon that you can’t make a person stop drinking. They have to want to stop.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“They also tell you that sometimes you just have to let a person sink to their lowest point.” Robert looked at Carson with a straight face. “I guess that’s what she did.”

Carson patted his shoulder and turned away. She bit the inside of her mouth and didn’t say another word while she waited for Finch to arrive. She ignored Battaglia’s inquisitive glances. Once the detective was on scene, Carson cleared the call.

Only when she was back in her patrol car and safely out of the neighborhood did she laugh aloud at Robert’s comment. Her laughter came in huge gulps of air, blasting out in high-pitched tones. She slapped the steering wheel.

“I guess… that’s… what she did,” she repeated in between the peals of laughter.

Now she understood Battaglia’s reactions. She understood, and because she understood, she laughed.

She laughed because Robert was right.

She laughed because it struck her as tragically funny.

She laughed until she had to pull into an empty parking lot and cry.

SEVEN

Thursday, July 17th

0756 hours

Valeriy rode in silence in the back of Sergey’s car. Black Ivan drove, guiding the sedan with expertise. He was Val’s go-to driver for the important jobs. Sergey sat next to him, also quiet.

Val pondered briefly what was going through the older man’s mind, but didn’t dwell on it. He wondered why there was no sense of elation or even satisfaction in his own demeanor right now. After all, things were playing out much as he wanted them to. Logically he should be feeling quite pleased with the turn of events. Instead, his stomach was laced with an uncharacteristic tightness. He combed through possibilities of what could go wrong with this play and those that followed.

Chickens are counted in autumn, he reminded himself.

As they neared the warehouse he felt Sergey get mildly restless beside him. He didn’t want his boss to be nervous. In fact, he needed him not to be. Sergey’s role was essential. He had to sell all of the other gang leaders on his position as the dominant player in their organization.

Most organized crime groups were not nearly as tight-lipped as their own. Some, in fact, were completely porous. If Sergey presented himself as the supreme Russian gang leader, that was the report that the police would eventually get as word filtered through the other gangs. That painted a huge target on Sergey’s back and left Val comfortably in the shadows.

“How many will be there?” Sergey asked.

“Five men,” Val answered. He had briefed Sergey at length on each of the five men before they’d left. But this was, he knew, Sergey’s process. He asked questions that he knew the answers to and then convinced himself of his own superiority because he’d already known the answer. Val found such circular logic largely false and weak, but recognized that Sergey needed the positive self-talk.

He wondered if any of the men still loyal to Sergey would remain so if they knew about this particular idiosyncrasy.

“And who of this group,” Sergey asked him, “is first among equals?”

“DeShawn Brown would be my choice,” Val said.

“And the Mexicans? They have chosen a new leader?”

Val shrugged. “One of their lieutenants has come to the meeting, the brother of the man we eliminated. He’s the one that I would worry about the most.”

“You mean for revenge?” Sergey asked.

“Yes,” Val answered. “That’s exactly what I mean. DeShawn Brown is largely a businessman. He may wish revenge at some point in the future, but right now he knows that he is outgunned. He’ll see the wisdom of complying with our modest demands.”

“But not the Mexican?”

Val shrugged. “I do not know much about this man. I do know that the Mexicans are a fiercely emotional race. He may attempt to take his vengeance out during this meeting, but I doubt it.”

“What precautions have you taken to avoid it?”

“I have three men on the second level of the warehouse. All three have rifles and scopes. One of them will remain on this Mexican for this entire meeting. The remaining two will be responsible for two men each.”

“Outer security?”

“Three men at the front door,” Val said. “Three more on the inside.”

“Watching how many?”

“Each leader was allowed to bring a driver and one lieutenant. That is all. Both must remain outside.”

“And they agreed?”

Val shrugged. It had not been easy, but what choice did the men really have? “This is our meeting, so our rules.”

Sergey glanced at Val. “And what would you say to these men if you were attending this meeting in my place?”

“I believe we are best served with brevity,” he replied. “I would avoid any discussion about the events that brought us here, beyond recognizing that they occurred. Lay our offer on the table. Remind them that it is generous, and that it is non-negotiable.”

“And then?”

“Don’t give them time to think about it,” Val said. “Demand an answer before they’re allowed to leave.”

Sergey pursed his lips. “An answer drawn out by force is likely to be an untruthful one.”

“Possibly,” Val answered. “But it makes no difference. We are not bluffing. If a man in that room gives a false promise, we will deal with him. And that will only serve to drive home our point to those who remain.”

Sergey nodded his approval. “You are a wise lieutenant, Valeriy,” he said. “Perhaps I misjudged you when it came to strategic matters.”

“I am only trying to emulate you,” Val said.

“Ah,” Sergey replied. “Flattery.” He shook his head. “It does not become you, my friend.”

“There is no flattery in speaking the truth,” Val said.

Sergey smiled and the two men fell silent again. A few minutes later Black Ivan pulled the car up to the side door of the warehouse. A car under a tarp stood near the concrete staircase. Sergey motioned to the car and looked at Val questioningly.

“A contingency,” Val said. “The doors are unlocked and the keys are in the ignition.”

Sergey did not reply. He waited for Ivan to exit the vehicle and open the door for him. Val reached out and touched Sergey on his elbow.

“Wait one moment,” he said.

Val exited the rear of the car and scanned the area for any threats. Seeing none, he nodded at Black Ivan, who stepped to the side to indicate to Sergey that the way was clear. Sergey stepped out of the car with a confident stride and adjusted his suit jacket. Val headed for the entrance. Sergey followed, trailed by Black Ivan.

Val stepped inside and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior. A short distance away was a door leading to the open bay of the warehouse. Yuri stood by the door, holding an AK-47 in front of his chest. He gave Val a nod to indicate that all the guests were present and waiting.

Val pointed upward and raised his eyebrows. Yuri nodded again, holding up three fingers and making the sign of a gun with his forefinger and thumb.

Val held up his own hand and moved it like a chattering puppet.

Yuri grinned, his blackened front teeth prominent. He nodded his head vigorously.

Val stepped forward and allowed Sergey to enter the interior of the warehouse. Black Ivan followed behind him and closed the door snugly. Val leaned close to Sergey and whispered in his ear. “All of our guests are here. Our own men are in place. And the guests have been talking amongst themselves.”

Sergey took a deep breath and let it out. “Well then,” he said, “let’s get on with the theater.”

Sergey strode through the door where Yuri stood, directly toward the center of the warehouse. Five men sat in a rough semicircle on metal folding chairs. One of Val’s best hand-to-hand soldiers, Mikhail, stood directly behind them. Sergey didn’t break stride until he stood almost directly in front of the young black man in the center.

“DeShawn Brown?” he asked, speaking slowly. Val knew he was making an effort to minimize his accent.

DeShawn Brown licked his thick lips once and nodded calmly. Sergey returned the nod. His eyes scanned the remaining four men. “I must to apologize that I know not each of your names here today,” Sergey said. “Perhaps you will do me the honor.”

He smiled, but none of the men spoke. His smile hardened to something closer to a frown. But still none of the men spoke. Finally DeShawn Brown cleared his throat.

“I think the man wants us to introduce ourselves,” he said to the group.

“Yes, yes,” Sergey said. “Thank you. I thought I was clear.”

The men were hesitant as to who should go first. Sergey settled the question by looking at the man on the left end of the group. He was the youngest among them, a black kid who Val guessed could not have been more than nineteen. He sniffed with false bravado and puffed up his chest.

“Shit. I’m Murder.” The Deuce Trey flashed a quick sign with his hands, then lowered them uncertainly.

Sergey responded with only a nod, then moved his eyes to the next man.

The Latin-featured man wore baggy pants and a white wife-beater. A brown rag hung prominently from his front pocket. “Paco Gutierrez,” he said flatly. “Dean Avenue Diablos.” He said the words with obvious pride, laced with anger, but made no hand gestures.

Once again Sergey smiled and nodded. His eyes passed over DeShawn Brown to the remaining two men.

The black man sat in his chair without swagger. “I’m Bone-T,” he said simply. “East side.” He also made no hand gestures. Val figured him to be almost as reasonable as DeShawn Brown, and hoped the two of them would sway the field.

The last man sat leaning away from the others. He wore black Levi’s with combat boots, a white T-shirt, and a blue flannel shirt over the top. His shaved head and the swastika beneath his left eye left no doubt as to his affiliation. The contempt on his face was palpable. “I’m Oscar Krueger,” he said through gritted teeth. “And there ain’t no reason why a white man should be sittin’ here with niggers and spics.” His words brought an immediate eruption from the other four men, who leapt to their feet and moved toward Krueger.

But Mikhail was quicker than any of them. He knifed between Bone-T and Krueger and pushed the larger black man back. Bone-T’s considerable frame blocked the other three men from advancing. Mikhail brought his lead hand up in a knife edge and eyed the group coldly, as if daring one of them to step forward.

“This is my meeting,” Sergey said, the friendliness never leaving his voice. “I guarantee safety of all men.” There was a momentary pause before Sergey waved his hand toward the chairs. “Please, sit down. Enough of this.”

The four men sat down reluctantly. Krueger stood behind Mikhail with a smug look on his face. Val caught Mikhail’s eye and nodded imperceptibly, and Mikhail whirled around and struck Krueger in the jaw with the knife edge of his hand. Krueger stumbled backward, dazed, and fell to a knee. Mikhail reached out and took him by the arm to keep him from falling any further. He then guided Krueger back to his chair and sat him down almost gently. Krueger jerked his arm away contemptuously but said nothing.

“There will be no trouble here,” Sergey said, still smiling. “And no bad names. We are civilized men, no?”

The assembled group sat silently. Their collective anger radiated outward. Sergey paused, taking the time to meet each of the five men’s eyes once more. Then his smile broadened. “You know why it is that all of you are here today. Is like movie, no? The Godfather? You are the five families and this is our parley.”

Men shuffled in their seats, uncertain. Krueger refused to meet anyone’s eyes.

“So,” Sergey said. “Is very simple. You all see what we can do.” He pointed at DeShawn Brown, then his finger drifted over to Paco Gutierrez. His hand opened up to wave at all of them. “This could happen to any of you. Is very easy.”

“Maybe we be coming back at you,” Murder said in a low voice. “Ever think of that?”

“Would be mistake,” Sergey said, his voice confident. “My men are soldiers.”

“My boys be soldiers, too, motherfucker.”

Sergey shook his head. “No. You call them soldier, but they are not same. My men served Soviet Union in Spetsnaz. You know Spetsnaz?”

No one answered.

“No?” Sergey raised an eyebrow, an expression of theatrical disappointment on his face. “Is not matter. They are like your Delta Force. Only better.”

The men remained silent.

“So, you see I speak truth. This is also true-we wish no more violence.” He allowed the words to hang in the air for a moment, then added, “But peace is not free.”

Val watched as each man listened to Sergey. DeShawn Brown and Bone-T were impossible to read, but he was the least worried about their responses. Gutierrez’s eyes brimmed with rage, but he seemed to be listening. Murder at the end was doing his best to appear completely unconcerned, but doing a poor job of it. He was certain to comply. A quick glance at Krueger told him the same.

“We are not greedy men,” Sergey said. “And we do not wish for you to be unable to feed your children. Our number is reasonable. Twenty percent.”

Murder’s eyes flew open wide, but none of the other four men changed their demeanor. “Is small price, really,” Sergey said. “You keep your territories, your people, everything.”

Murder shook his head emphatically. “Ain’t no fuckin’ way I am giving up no twenty percent to no fuckin’ Russian,” he said, but there was little conviction in his voice.

“Perhaps,” Sergey said dryly, motioning toward Deshawn Brown, “we should have made our point clear with the Deuce Treys instead of his Crips. Your gang is stronger?”

Murder swallowed and shook his head.

“You are young man,” Sergey said. “But you must to be very smart if you are in charge at age so young. Perhaps you should listen to what the others say before you decide.”

Murder’s eyes flicked from Sergey to the others. Then he leaned back in his chair and shrugged. Sergey smiled again, that same diplomatic smile that always left Val wondering where it came from. His eyes settled on DeShawn Brown.

“Do you accept?” he asked the black man.

DeShawn sat still for a long moment. He and Sergey stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills. Val knew Sergey would not speak again until the gang leader had answered.

The sound of men breathing and the occasional drip of water from somewhere in the back of the warehouse were the only sounds. Val’s eyes flitted from face to face. The tension in the room climbed a notch; all the chips were on the table now.

It was DeShawn who broke first, as Val had hoped he would. The man’s gang had been targeted and he’d seen firsthand how surgical and powerful the Russians were. He was no fool, which is what Val had counted on.

“Twenty percent be fair enough,” he said. Then he stood and held out his hand.

Sergey took it and they pumped once before releasing, then DeShawn turned and walked away from the group.

Sergey turned his gaze to Bone-T. The east side gangster held Sergey’s stare but didn’t bother waiting as long as DeShawn. He nodded and stood.

“S’awright,” he said. He clasped hands briefly with Sergey, then turned and left as well.

Val wondered which of the remaining men Sergey would choose next. He knew what his own choice would be, and Sergey did not disappoint him.

“And you?” Sergey asked Murder.

Murder looked at the remaining two men, then stood up suddenly and said, “Awright, awright.” He held out his hand. Sergey took it. “Deal, motherfucker,” he said, then released Sergey’s hand and made his way self-assuredly in the direction the other two men had taken.

Sergey eyed Gutierrez next. The Mexican’s expression was flat, but his eyes were still fiery with hate. Nonetheless, he stood calmly and held out his hand. “Twenty,” was all he said.

Sergey waited until Gutierrez had left the building before turning to Krueger. “I save white man for last,” Sergey said. “I know it is hard to deal with inferior men, but we do what we must do, no?”

Krueger rubbed his cheek and nodded grudgingly.

“Shall we be friends again?” Sergey asked.

Krueger nodded, then stood and held out his hand. “For that twenty percent,” he said, “you keep any of these niggers or spics from moving in on downtown where I sling my shit.”

“Of course,” Sergey said.

“Partners then,” Krueger added, still shaking Sergey’s hand. Then he turned and fired a hard glance at Mikhail. The bodyguard remained unfazed. Krueger strode out of the building, his combat boots thudding on the concrete.

Once they were alone, Sergey turned to Val and smiled. “I think, my friend,” he said, “this went very well.”

“I agree,” Val said. Very well indeed.

0908 hours

B.J. Carson lifted the shot glass to her lips. For a moment she was struck by the absurdity of the situation. She’d done her fair share of drinking in high school and college, but she couldn’t remember a time where she had hoisted a shot at seven-thirty in the morning. If anyone had told her just six months ago that she’d be doing so, she’d have laughed at them.

Across the table, Anthony Battaglia paused before downing his shot. He met her eye, smiled slightly, shrugged, and threw the shot back expertly. Carson closed her eyes and followed suit.

The whiskey stung and burned her throat on the way down, then settled into her belly with a comfortable warming glow. She reached for her glass and chased the shot with a swallow of beer.

The two of them had gone directly to the Happy Time Tavern as soon as the shift ended. The entire discussion lasted all of three sentences. The suicide’s ghastly stare of nothingness filled Carson’s mind’s eye. The stark reality of death was something she had been unprepared for, despite all of the training at the academy and all the warnings from instructors and other cops. She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to throw off the image of Anne Carew sprawled on the toilet, her head askew over the top of the white porcelain sink. Instead of dissipating, the image crystallized once her eyes were closed. Carson let out a breath and opened them again.

Battaglia watched her carefully. Then he rose and moved to her side of the table. Carson slid over in the booth. Battaglia sat beside her and rested his forearms on the table, grazing her elbow. She savored the comfort of his closeness.

“That’s not the first dead body you’ve ever seen, is it?” he asked.

Carson shook her head. “No. I had a few DOAs while I was in the training car.”

“Naturals?” Battaglia asked.

Carson nodded. All three had been elderly people who died unattended deaths. There’d been nothing suspicious about any of the cases, and by the third one she was comfortable with that kind of call.

“Those don’t seem quite as immediate, do they?” Battaglia asked.

“No,” Carson answered quietly. The only other dead person she’d seen had been in a fatal collision that she’d helped investigate, but she hadn’t gotten close enough to the driver to really experience any emotional connection.

“This one was a little different,” Battaglia stated.

“Yes,” Carson whispered.

“You got there pretty fast.”

Carson nodded. “Maybe fifteen, twenty seconds.”

“Quick response.”

Carson blushed at his compliment. “Just dumb luck, really. I was close when they put the call out.”

She recalled the almost vibrant, pleading gaze in Anne’s dying eyes when she’d first seen her. What a stark contrast it was to the one just a few minutes later.

Carson didn’t think about things like dying or God very often. Her upbringing made her a Christian by default, but she was fairly lapsed in the more orthodox traditions. But watching the life force seep out of Anne made her wonder what really did happen when a person died. Where did they go? Did they go anywhere at all? And more than anything, when would it happen to her?

“It can be a little unnerving,” Battaglia said. “Makes you wonder about life and death. Religion, and stuff.”

Carson met his gaze. “Yeah. Exactly.” She was a little bit surprised at his insight, but glad for it. “Do you ever get used to it?” she asked him.

Battaglia shook his head slightly. “Not really. I guess you get to a point where you find ways to deal with it, but I don’t even think the homicide detectives get used to it.”

Carson sighed. “Used to it,” she said, and was conscious that she had slurred the sentence. “How can anybody get yewshed to shomethin’ like that?”

Battaglia didn’t answer; he only took another sip of his beer.

The two sat in silence for another long minute. The radio played a classic from Aerosmith. The slow, poignant chords of the electric guitar caused a pang in Carson’s chest. A tear rose up in her eye and she quickly brushed it away, masking the motion by taking another drink of her beer. When she looked at the glass and saw there were only two fingers left in the bottom, she took another swallow and finished it off. The pitcher in front of them was likewise empty. Battaglia’s glass was also nearly empty.

Just be a good cop. You’re a different person now.

She let out a rueful chuckle that reminded her of Robert Carew on his porch.

“What is it?” Battaglia asked.

She met his eyes. The gaze burned with fear, darkness, and desire.

“With all that death,” Carson whispered, “I just want to feel alive.”

Battaglia pushed away his glass of beer and rose from his seat. Carson slid out of the booth while he peeled off several bills and left them on the table. They made their way out of the tavern and into Battaglia’s truck. Battaglia drove to her apartment silently. The radio was tuned to the same station that had been playing in the bar, and Carson listened to the tail end of the song. When it ended, she reached up and turned off the radio. Battaglia didn’t object. She sat and listened to the creaking of springs and the truck’s seat and the whirr of the tires.

She knew she was drunk. She knew where this was going. She just didn’t care.

Battaglia stopped at her apartment complex. She led the way to her ground floor apartment, fishing her keys out of her purse. The doorknob opened easily, but the deadlock gave her some trouble. It was never easy to open and she usually had to jiggle the key for several seconds. But she found herself unable to make it work this morning. Part of it was the beer and whiskey, she knew. But part of it was that her hand was trembling.

After a few moments, Battaglia reached past her shoulder and covered her hands with his own. The warm strength of his fingers flooded down her arms like warm electricity. She let her hands fall away from the key and Battaglia worked it for a couple of seconds before it caught and turned.

She thought about saying thank you, but felt that any words might break the spell of the moment. She wondered if that would be a smarter move, wondered if this was all a big mistake. Her logical self screamed in agreement, but the admonition fell on deaf ears.

Battaglia closed the door behind him and turned the deadbolt. When he turned around, any argument from any part of herself fell away. She took one step toward him and he covered the rest of the distance himself.

Then she was kissing him, her lips seeking his hungrily. He pulled her tight to his chest, and she did the same. His tongue plowed into her mouth devoid of any technique, driven only by lust.

She felt his hardness through his jeans and a fiery ache exploded within her. She tugged his shirt out of his pants and they broke their kiss long enough to pull it over his head. In fits and starts, they kicked off shoes and peeled off clothing as Carson led him toward her bedroom. By the time they fell heavily onto her bed, he was naked and only her panties remained. In a moment those, too, were gone.

Her breasts flattened against his chest and then he was inside her. She let out a long, guttural moan and heard him do the same. They coupled as frantically as they’d kissed in her living room, and Carson felt the beginnings of an orgasm rising up within her, slowly climbing toward that blissful summit. She dug her fingers into Battaglia’s muscular back to pull him closer. She felt him stiffen, and he let out a guttural cry as he came. When he finished, she wrapped his legs around his and pulled him as deep within her as possible. They lay there clutching at each other, and in that moment Carson knew that she was alive.

Everything else might be wrong, but she was still alive.

EIGHT

1104 hours

Day Shift

Valeriy Romanov pulled into the Russian bakery lot. He killed the engine and set the parking brake. Several stalls over, he recognized Sergey’s car. He wondered briefly if Pavel had driven his father this morning. Had he started reading the book Val gave him? The boy needed to buckle down and learn a little bit more about the business if he was going to be part of it. Of course, the boy’s role was ultimately going to be different than Sergey had planned, but Val believed he would still be useful after his father was gone. If nothing else, his presence would give Marina a place to hide from her grief.

Val exited his car and walked into the bakery. The middle-aged wife of the proprietor looked up from the bread she was kneading, a sincere smile on her face. When she saw Val the smile faltered, but she recovered quickly and nodded to him.

Val returned her nod and made his way to Sergey’s table. No Pavel, but as usual, Sergey sat reading the River City Herald. The task took him a great deal of time every morning, as his English was still far from fluent. Val had heard that American journalism strove to write at the eighth-grade education level. Anything more difficult and Sergey would have to spend the entire day with the newspaper.

Val sat down without waiting for permission. He knew that irked Sergey, but the older man simply made him wait a while as penance. Val didn’t mind. He skimmed the front page while Sergey held the paper in front of him. His own English was not the best, but he read better than he spoke. A story about the “gangland slayings” was full of speculation, but no real information. Nothing in the article referenced Sergey or himself. In fact, there was nothing in the article at all about Russians, Ukrainians, or the politically correct term, Eastern Europeans.

Val was only mildly encouraged. He knew that the police were likely to be stingy with any information, especially with a newspaper that seemed to delight in hammering the cops at every opportunity. Val didn’t mind seeing them take a drubbing, but he kept that bias in mind when reading the paper.

Eventually Sergey rattled the paper, folded it, and set it in front of him. “Much to do in today’s news,” Sergey said.

Val shrugged. “Speculation and nonsense,” he replied.

Sergey nodded. “Probably. There is no mention of us at all.”

“And that’s good,” Val said. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

Sergey stroked his freshly shaved cheek. “I want to discuss two things. First, our new allies. Do you think each of them will comply with our demands? Or do you believe that we may have to put down a small rebellion before our conquest is complete?”

Val considered. “If I approach your question logically, then my answer is this. DeShawn Brown was the strongest of the group, which is why we struck at him. He is a businessman. He will comply. The other blacks will follow suit. The white believes we are partners, so he will pay.”

“And the Mexican?”

“He is young and it was his brother we eliminated.” Val shrugged. “It is possible he may retaliate.”

“We are in a position to deal with this should it arise, no?”

“We are,” Val said. “But the less we flex our muscle, the less police have reason to look at us.”

“Ah,” Sergey said. “The police. That was the other item I wished to discuss with you.”

Val waited, saying nothing. Sergey’s contempt for American police was on par with that for the Kiev police. Val disagreed with his assessment. The tactics of the Kiev police were certainly more brutal than their American counterparts, but the Americans tended to be largely incorruptible and more idealistic. Any moves they made had to be considered with this in mind.

“I believe,” Sergey said, “now that we have consolidated our position within our own world, we should put police on notice that we are hands off.”

Val believed the best way to be strong was to remain invisible to the police, but he knew Sergey wouldn’t listen. And most of Sergey’s plan so far had matched his own, so Val played along. “How do you intend to put them on notice?” he asked.

“A while ago, some of our people were stopped by a police officer. A woman, yes?”

“That’s right,” Val said.

“And they walked away with not so much as a traffic ticket.”

“That’s true.”

“Because they threatened force.”

“Yes,” Val said. He had chastised them for it, angry that they would risk a confrontation with the police over something so meaningless. Better to have simply taken the ticket and paid it.

“I think,” Sergey said, “that the next time such a situation occurs that the police officers should not walk away unscathed.”

“You want our soldiers to kill a police officer?” Val asked, surprised.

“No, no, no,” Sergey said. “That won’t be necessary. But I think a sound beating will be just the message we are looking to send.”

In Kiev, the message would work. Here, Val believed it would have the opposite effect. Instead of making them untouchable, it would cause the police to turn even more attention toward their operation. This was a bad move, but Sergey would not see it that way. Instead of raising objections, Val remained silent. How might this action fit into his own plans? He couldn’t see an angle. There was no profit in this direction.

Sergey watched him as he ruminated. Eventually, Val said, “I’m not sure if I see the necessity, but you are the greater strategist.”

Sergey smiled at Val’s flattery. “What you don’t see, Valeriy, is that once the police fear us, our enterprise will be allowed to operate unfettered. We will become rich and powerful. Who knows?” he said. “Perhaps we could reach other cities. Portland. Seattle. Boise. Many of these places are largely untapped resources.”

Val smiled coldly. Sergey’s reach would always exceed his grasp, but in the short term that was exactly what he was counting on.

“Let me consider the best way to implement your strategy,” Val said. “I’ll bring you a plan in a few days.”

Sergey nodded. “Very well.”

Val nodded back. This gave him a few days reprieve. He wasn’t sure if that would be enough, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

“Where is Pavel?” he asked.

Sergey waved his question away in frustration. “Bah! The boy spends too much time with his friends. Always driving his car up and down Riverside Avenue. Always chasing the girls.”

“He is young,” Val said.

“He’s a foolish pup,” Sergey snapped. “He has much to learn if he is going to follow in my footsteps.”

“He will learn,” Val said. “I gave him a book to read.”

“I know,” Sergey said. “And it sits unopened on the coffee table in our living room.” Then he shrugged. “It is just as well. He doesn’t need to read some book. He needs to do.”

“And he will,” Val said. He felt a small stab of disappointment that Pavel had ignored Dune, but that was the boy’s own choice. “He will grow into his role over time.”

Sergey took a deep breath and let it out. “I hope you are right, my friend. I plan to be here many years, but who knows for certain what tomorrow may bring. I should like it if my son was ready to take over before he actually must.”

Val nodded. “He will learn,” he repeated. Then he shook the older man’s hand and left.

Outside, he glanced at his watch and then opened his cell phone. He dialed the number from memory.

“Yes,” Natalia said.

“I am coming over,” he said. “Make yourself ready.”

“Yes,” she said again, this time with enthusiasm.

Valeriy snapped the phone shut and got into his car. A storm was coming. Now was as good a time as any to attend to his other needs.

1412 hours

Officer Mark Ridgeway sat in the hotel room chair with his arms crossed, staring across the room at the FBI agent and the Russian prick he was guarding. The two had been playing a good-natured game of gin rummy for the past hour. Ridgeway had wordlessly refused their offer to join them. He felt his stomach churn at the way the agent kissed the Russian’s ass. Not only was the son of a bitch a criminal, but he’d been an enemy to this country for Ridgeway’s entire life.

That’s our problem, Ridgeway thought. We Americans are too forgiving.

Some of his peers might find his thoughts objectionable. Gio certainly would. But Giovanni hadn’t lived through the Cold War the same way Ridgeway had. Besides, Gio was too busy chasing tail to understand the finer points of the matter. And he’d been chastising Ridgeway for the past year about his so-called negative attitude.

His attitude wasn’t negative. It just befit the world he lived in.

The Russian was a perfect case in point. A veteran with his experience gets sent up to the Quality Inn to babysit a feeb and a Commie? What kind of attitude was he supposed to have about that?

It didn’t matter, though. Ridgeway had discovered that the world will throw whatever it wants at you and you pretty much just have to suck it down. It’s either that or check out, and as inviting as that seemed at times, Ridgeway wasn’t about to leave this world a coward.

“Gin!” the Russian exclaimed loudly, laying his cards down. “I have gin! I beat you, Greg. How you like that?”

The FBI agent folded his cards and shrugged, a small smile on his face. “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while, Oleg,” he said easily.

“Hah!” Oleg said. “I beat you.”

“I was wondering,” Ridgeway said, raising his voice to catch the attention of both men. “Why’s it called gin rummy?”

Both men stared blankly at him. Agent Leeb shrugged. “No idea.”

“’Cause I figure,” Ridgeway continued dryly, “that if it’s a Russian playing it, maybe you oughta call it vodka rummy.”

The Russian’s expression darkened.

“Or maybe,” Ridgeway continued, “you shouldn’t be playing rummy at all, but a game of hammer and sickle.”

Leeb raised his hand in a calming gesture. “Now, officer-”

“No,” Oleg said to the agent. “Is all right. I like to hear.” He gave Ridgeway a cold glare. “What is game hammer and sickle?”

Ridgeway smiled coldly. “Well, that’s where you try like hell to take over the world for forty years ’til a guy named Ronald Reagan kicks your ass.”

The Russian’s face flushed.

“You oughta be good at it,” Ridgeway added.

“You are ignorant redhead,” the Russian spouted.

Ridgeway cocked his head. “My hair’s brown.” He didn’t mention the touch of gray throughout, or that it was getting thinner.

“Redhead. Redhead,” the Russian repeated, jabbing his finger in Ridgeway’s direction. “You are hick.”

“Hick?” Ridgeway asked. Then he laughed. “Oh, I see. You mean redneck.”

“Redneck. Yes,” the Russian said.

“Look, pal, if you’re going to insult me, at least learn my fucking language.”

The Russian shook his head. “You think you know all, but you know nothing.”

“Well,” Ridgeway said, “I know that I didn’t pack up and move to Moscow because over there was better than right here in the USA. I guess that’s a pretty clear indication of which country’s better.”

“I think that’s enough,” Leeb said.

Ridgeway turned his hands up innocently. “Just making conversation, Mister FBI Man.”

“You know nothing about my country,” the Russian shouted at Ridgeway. “My nation was great nation in Europe before yours even existed.”

“Yeah,” Ridgeway said. “And Rome was a pretty big fuckin’ empire. But where are they now? Same place you are.” Ridgeway tilted his head back and thought for a moment. “How did Reagan put it? Oh, yeah,” he said. “On the ash heap of history.”

“You are asshole of history,” the Russian yelled, climbing to his feet. “You think United States is better than Ukraine? Come here! I show you what is better.”

Ridgeway rose from his chair and took two giant strides to meet the Russian. Agent Leeb stepped between them with his hands out to keep the two men apart.

“You wanna throw hands, you Commie fuck?” Ridgeway said. “Take your best shot.”

“I knock you to hell,” the Russian shouted, surging forward against Leeb’s open hand.

“Enough!” Leeb yelled, his voice even louder than the Russian’s. “Enough of this.”

The two men stood, glaring at each other, seething. Leeb was the only thing keeping them apart. Their breathing seemed loud in the quiet room. A moment later, the sound of a key in the lock echoed through the room.

Ridgeway wheeled toward the door, his gun out of his holster and at the ready in less than a second.

Leeb pushed Oleg out of the line of fire while drawing his own gun. The door swung open and a uniformed Hispanic maid stepped through.

“Housekeeping,” she said, in a heavily accented, sing-song voice. Then she saw Ridgeway’s gun and froze. Her eyes widened and her hands went up. “Dios mio!” she cried out and staggered backward into the wall.

“Shit!” Ridgeway muttered and lowered his gun.

“ ?No me matas!” the woman sputtered. “Por favor, no me matas.”

“It’s okay,” Leeb said, holstering his weapon. “Esta bien.Soy policia.” He flashed his badge at her.

Her gaze flicked to the badge and to Leeb’s face, then to Ridgeway’s. After a moment, she lowered her hands slowly. “You scare me, senor,” she said with a hint of reproval.

“We’re sorry,” Ridgeway said gruffly. “Anyway, don’t you people knock?”

The woman’s expression shifted. “I do knock,” she said, holding up two fingers. “Dos veces. You no hear?”

Ridgeway shook his head and holstered his own pistol.

The maid said nothing for a moment, wiping sweat from her forehead and taking a deep, steadying breath. Finally she motioned to the room. “You like service?”

Ridgeway shook his head again. He looked over at Leeb, whose expression was unreadable.

“We were making too much noise to hear the knock,” Leeb said to Ridgeway. Then he looked at the maid and said, “No necesitamos nada. Gracias, senora.”

The maid nodded to both of them and turned to go.

“This is bullshit,” Ridgeway muttered as the maid shuttled out of the room. “And it was his fault,” he emphasized, pointing at Oleg.

“Yob tvoyu mat,” Oleg said in a deep, loud voice.

As the door closed behind the maid, Ridgeway said, “I’m sure that means ‘thank you for letting me come to your country and be a fuckin’ piece of shit criminal.’ So, you’re welcome.”

Leeb stepped in between the two of them again before Oleg could respond. “That’s enough,” he said. “It does no one any good.”

He turned to Oleg. “Mind your temper.”

Then he turned his eyes to Ridgeway. “I don’t like jamming up another cop,” he said, “but I figure you’ve got two choices. Sit down and be quiet for the rest of your shift, or I’ll call your boss and have him send someone who can.”

Ridgeway paused. He was almost tempted to let the little peckerwood carry through. It would get him out of this shit detail, and what was the worst that would happen? He might get a letter of reprimand for his demeanor. But at the same time, Ridgeway knew that this detail, shit or not, was part of the job. And he was a traditionalist when it came to doing your job. He returned to his chair by the door, sat down, crossed his arms, and sealed his mouth.

2056 hours

Thomas Chisolm was the last to arrive at the roll call table. He sat down, snapping the last of his belt keepers into place. He returned several hellos from his platoon mates and reached for a copy of the daily intelligence flyer. He glanced at his watch-three minutes to roll call. He skimmed through the intelligence information for anything specific to his sector, and listened to the customary banter around the table. Everyone seemed more subdued than usual.

When he finished with the flyer he took stock of the officers at the table. Kahn seemed just as abrasive and self-absorbed as usual. O’Sullivan made several attempts to draw Battaglia into a mock argument, but the dark-haired man didn’t bite. Instead he seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to Carson, who sat kitty-corner from him.

They exchanged several surreptitious glances that were glaringly obvious to Chisolm. He sighed inwardly. He would’ve figured that if anyone had started sleeping with Carson, it would’ve been Kahn. The man was notorious for such things. But Battaglia had never chipped around on his wife before this, at least not openly enough that Chisolm was aware of it. Now here he was fishing off the company pier.

Chisolm shook his head and pushed the intelligence flyer back into the center of the table. If this was true, it was going to be a problem. But before he could think about it any further, the roll call doors opened and Lieutenant Bill Saylor strode in. Behind him, shuffling along on crutches, came Officer Katie MacLeod. Chisolm smiled at the sight of her. She smiled back at him and the rest of the officers at the table.

Chisolm pulled out the chair next to him and Katie plopped into it.

“Hey, gimp,” O’Sullivan said. “Still nursing that little owie?”

“Still using your academy grades to get into the Special Olympics?” Katie retorted.

O’Sullivan smiled and nodded.

“How bad is it?” Chisolm asked.

Saylor called the room to order before she could answer. “Listen up,” he said. “There’s not a lot to go over tonight, but let’s get to it.”

He read off a pair of recent stolen vehicles, then turned to a memo. “As some of you probably know, the FBI is working the case against our local Russian criminal element. They’re currently in a surveillance mode, so the chief’s office wants you to be aware of that. Should they need our assistance on any operational need, we will respond. Also, we’re going to continue to help babysit their prisoner. Sergeant Shen’s sector has that duty tonight.”

Lieutenant Saylor turned the page and read off some more administrative matters before turning the roll call over to the sector tables.

Sergeant Shen looked around the table. “I believe it’s your turn, Officer Kahn,” he said.

Kahn groaned. “Don’t we go on seniority or something?”

Shen turned his attention to Katie. “We have our prodigal daughter back. At least for a moment. How’s the ankle?”

Katie shrugged. “Busted in a few places,” she said. “Once the swelling goes down a little bit more, they’re probably going to have to put in a pin or two.”

“Ouch,” Sully said. “You’ll never get out of Wal-Mart without showing your receipt again.”

“At least I won’t get busted for going through their garbage,” Katie said with a playful grin.

Sully’s eyebrows went up. “Whoa. That’s two in one night. Girl’s on fire.”

“How long before you’re back?” Sergeant Shen asked.

“Six to eight weeks,” Katie said, her grin fading. “Unless they have to operate. Then more like twelve.”

“What are they going to do with you until then?”

“It was on-duty injury,” she said. “So I have to work light duty. I’ll be down in Crime Analysis helping out Renee on all this Russian stuff.”

“So you’re some kind of expert now, huh?” Kahn said with a hint of a sneer.

“No,” Katie said. “But she wanted a cop’s perspective.”

Kahn grunted, but Katie ignored him. “After that,” she continued, “my guess is I’ll be out in dispatch.”

“That’ll be fun,” Sully said sarcastically.

“It’ll be fun for me,” she said, “when you and Batts end up going on every natural DOA or rape of a horse that comes in.”

Sully shook his head and mimicked a drum snare. “And there’s the hat trick,” he announced. Chisolm grinned. MacLeod still had it.

“All right,” said Shen. “Let’s hit the streets.”

2213 hours

Anthony Battaglia stared out the window of the patrol car. Houses jammed together like big city row houses flit by.

“This block always makes me think of Boston,” Sully said from the driver’s seat.

Battaglia knew it was an opening for him to say how the closest Sully ever got to Boston was watching a Red Sox game on TV. Instead he let the moment pass.

The two rode in silence for another several minutes. The radio squawked with the occasional service run, but the dispatcher didn’t call their number and none of the incidents were close enough to divert, so they just cruised through West Central on routine patrol. Battaglia was glad to have Sully back from his bout with food poisoning, but he didn’t feel much like talking.

“What’s the matter, goombah?” Sully finally asked. “You don’t like this district? Because we can switch with Kahn and work Hillyard tonight if you want.”

“I don’t care one way or the other,” Battaglia answered. His chest burned with indigestion. He wanted to blame it on the taco he’d eaten after they left the station, but he knew the truth. It was Carson.

He didn’t know what to do. He felt excited and alive with her. He felt like he was smart. It was different than with Rebecca; his wife made him feel dumb. In high school and for a long time after, it didn’t matter. He was the jock and she was the brain. It worked. But his physical prowess was slowly declining while her brain just seemed to keep getting sharper. Now she was writing fucking poetry, which he couldn’t make heads or tails out of, while he played recreational league softball.

It seemed to him that she was going places he couldn’t follow.

He avoided looking at Sully. If the Irishman got a good enough look at his face, he’d know something was up. That might be a relief. Battaglia wanted to talk to him about it. Sully was his partner. Hell, he was his best friend. But he knew what Sully would say and he wasn’t ready to hear it just yet.

“Your turn to be sick, lad?” Sully asked.

“Maybe.”

Maybe he should tell Sully. Maybe Sully wouldn’t jump his shit about it. Maybe he’d just be his friend and understand what Battaglia was going through, or at least try to. Maybe-

“You want me to run you home?” Sully asked. “Maybe you need some of Rebecca’s homemade chicken soup.”

Battaglia swallowed and shook his head.

“No?” Sully shrugged. “Okay. But if I were you, I wouldn’t miss a single opportunity to eat some of that woman’s soup.”

But Sully wasn’t him. Obviously he couldn’t tell Sully what was going on in this fucked-up head of his. He couldn’t let on that anything was wrong.

Battaglia cleared his throat and amped up his Brooklyn accent. “Yeah, well, I’d rather crush a little crime, yaknowwhudImean? So why don’t we go up to Hillyud and kick that fenook Kahn outta da district.”

He glanced over at Sully and forced a smile.

Sully’s face lit up. “Now yer talkin’, lad!”

2253 hours

Ludmila Malkinova slid her timecard into the slot and punched the red button. The time clock clunked and she withdrew her card. It read 10:58 PM. Her own watch read 10:53 PM. The clock in the hotel break room was matched to her own watch.

She shook her head. Clyde set the clock late so that they had to arrive early. There was no overtime unless they went over thirty minutes, so he lost nothing by her clocking out five minutes after the hour.

It was the same everywhere. Always the rich took advantage of the poor. Always the business owners took advantage of the workers. Even in her homeland it was the same way. The Soviet government may have professed to treat everyone equally, but that was a lie. At least here, all it cost her was an extra five minutes.

Still, some things were different here. Over dinner tonight, her husband told her about a Russian gangster who had betrayed his own people. That would never have happened in the homeland. America corrupted almost everyone.

She checked at the front desk. Clyde, the night manager who thought he was so sly with his clock games, gave her an appraising eye. “You look tired, Millie,” he said.

“I am mother,” Ludmila answered. She ignored the nickname. She thought it was far too assuming for an unmarried man to talk to a married woman so informally. “My husband works much in the daytime. I must care for children and then work the night. Is hard.”

Clyde shrugged. “Times are tough all over,” he said, though it was clear to her that he had no idea what tough times were like. “Take over for Constanza.”

Ludmila suppressed a scowl. Constanza was a pretty young Hispanic girl who didn’t know the meaning of the word “work.” If she was taking over for Constanza, she’d already be behind in her duties.

Ludmila tried the break room first, and wasn’t surprised to discover the girl there chattering with two other housekeepers. One was Hispanic, but the other was a white girl who must not have spoken Spanish, because Constanza was speaking English to them both.

“And then I see the gun,” Constanza was saying. “It scared me almost to death!”

“Oh my God!” the white girl said. “You’re kidding me!”

“Es la verdad,” Constanza said, crossing herself and kissing her thumb. “I think that maybe they are going to kill each other. Then I think that maybe they are going to kill me.”

“Was he a policeman?”

Constanza nodded, then shrugged. “Si. I mean, I think so. He said they were. At least two of them. I don’t know about the other one. He sounded Russian.”

Ludmila’s ears perked up.

“All of them had guns?”

Constanza shook her head. “No, only two. Not the Russian.”

Ludmila’s mind raced. If the Russian was the only one without a gun, then he must be their prisoner. It had to be the ones that Vladimir told her about.

“One of them spoke Spanish,” Constanza said. “And… el es muy guapo.”

The other Hispanic girl burst into a fit of conspiratorial giggles. Constanza joined in.

“What?” the white girl asked. “What did she say?”

“I say that the one who speaks Spanish, he is very handsome.”

“Oh,” the white girl said. Then she joined in with their giggling.

These girls were in their twenties, yet they still acted like thirteen-year-olds. Ludmila’s instinct was to snap at them, get the cleaning list from Constanza, and leave them in the break room to carry on with their immature prattle. But not tonight. Because Vladimir had mentioned something else to her over dinner. Something about a reward.

“What room?” Ludmila asked Constanza.

The girls stopped giggling. Constanza eyed Ludmila suspiciously. Ludmila tried to put on a friendly face, but it didn’t come naturally for her.

“What do you care?” the white girl said.

Ludmila smiled and shrugged. “I only want not make same problem. I no like guns, either.”

Constanza’s disapproving gaze rested on her for another few moments, then she shrugged. “Whatever,” she said. “It’s room 420.”

“Thank you,” Ludmila said. “You have cleaning list?”

Constanza pulled it from her apron and held it out to Ludmila. Ludmila reached out to take it from her hand, but Constanza pulled it back.

“Oops!” she said in mock distress.

Ludmila let the friendliness drain from her face and sent Constanza a dark scowl. She kept her hand extended.

Constanza pouted for a moment, then slapped the list into Ludmila’s open hand. “You’re such a sourpuss, Millie,” she said. The other two girls tittered nervously.

“I here to work,” Ludmila said.

“Den go verk,” Constanza said mockingly.

Ludmila left the break room without looking back. She ignored the list, too, slipping it into her own apron pocket. Instead she went into the nearest unoccupied room and flipped the deadbolt behind her. She swung the safety lock over, too.

Ludmila picked up the telephone and dialed her house. Vladimir picked up on the third ring. “Da?”

Ludmila smiled, this time for real. “I have something to tell you,” she said.

Friday, July 18th

0716 hours

Thomas Chisolm cruised slowly down the street near the large apartment complex. He wasn’t sure where Carson’s apartment was, so he kept the truck in first gear and let the engine pull him along. It didn’t take long.

He spotted a blue Chevy parked near the corner and stopped. He stared at the truck for a little while. After all, lots of people drove trucks in the Pacific Northwest. Even Chevys. But the joke did little to lighten his mood. Especially not when he saw the license plate holder on the truck that read, “Italians Do It Better.”

Definitely Batts’ truck.

Chisolm sighed. His suspicions at the roll call table last night had just been confirmed. This was going to cause complications. Lots of them. Battaglia and Carson would start going to a majority of their calls together. There would be tension between Sully and Battaglia over it. There would be resentment from some of the other platoon mates, as well.

But the most important thing was the safety implications. Neither one of the officers would operate on professionalism alone if emotion was involved. If a critical incident occurred, he knew that the reaction of either one couldn’t be counted upon.

God damn it. There were about 2.5 billion women in the world. If Battaglia was going to step out on his wife, the least he could do would be to choose one who didn’t work on the same fucking platoon.

Chisolm put his Ford in gear and headed home. He knew that he was going to have to deal with this, and soon. First and foremost to keep the sergeant from finding out and getting involved. But most importantly to eliminate the distraction for either one of them.

“A distracted soldier is a dead soldier,” he said quietly, recalling the words of his commander in Vietnam. Captain Mack Greene had taught him a lot about being a warrior. And Chisolm knew that it was his responsibility to pass it on to the next generation.

Whether they liked it or not.

NINE

0913 hours

Day Shift

Battaglia waited until Carson’s breath evened out with sleep, then he slipped out of the bed. He scrounged around for his clothing in the darkness. He found his jeans balled up near the head of the bed, and his T-shirt lay in the doorway next to his shoes and one sock. He searched for the second sock for a little while, then gave up.

He dressed in the living room. He knew he should probably shower before leaving; if Rebecca wasn’t busy, she might get close to him before he could get into the shower at home. And she’d smell what he’d been up to.

Battaglia pulled his shoe on over his sockless foot. She might ask him about that, too. Still, a missing sock was easier to explain than the scent of another woman’s sex on him. If she caught a whiff of that-

“Fuck it,” Battaglia muttered. So what if she did? Maybe he wanted her to. Maybe that would push things in the direction he wanted them to go-irrevocably toward divorce. He knew Rebecca could forgive him many things, but he was pretty certain that screwing around on her wasn’t one of them.

He pulled the front door shut behind him. Out of habit, he checked to ensure it was locked. Then he turned and trudged toward his Chevy.

He headed home, already rehearsing the lie he might have to tell. Which one would it be this time?

I got popped with a late burglary call with a ton of evidence to put on the books.

I had to back up a day shifter on a late domestic violence situation.

The sergeant had me babysitting a natural DOA until the detectives sent someone from Homicide to confirm.

Or how about: I used to be the star third baseman and you were the brain. Now I’m the star patrol officer, but you’re getting way too smart for me with this poetry and college classes and shit, so I decided I’d start fucking my coworker B.J.

Maybe he should just tell her. They weren’t a good fit anymore. They’d grown apart. She didn’t excite him. Whatever. It wasn’t like divorce was the worst thing that could happen. Hell, he knew a dozen guys on the job who’d been through it. Women, too. It was a bear at first, and there was a considerable financial hit, but people survived it. Kahn was living proof-he had at least three ex-wives.

Battaglia frowned. Now he was comparing himself to Kahn? That was a sad day.

Besides, what about the kids? He thought of Maggie and little Anthony. The idea of hurting his kids made his stomach tighten. But plenty of kids went through it, didn’t they? It wasn’t like he was moving to Turkey or something. Divorce might not be good, but it wasn’t death. He could see them on the weekends. Hell, he might end up being an even better dad than he was now. And he was sure B.J. would-

No. Battaglia stopped. He might be able to talk himself into believing that he and Rebecca weren’t right for each other. He might even be able to find a way to believe that falling into bed with B.J. was inevitable or excusable. But he would never even try to convince himself or anyone else that getting a divorce was somehow going to be a good thing for Maggie or Anthony.

The image of two badly burnt bodies lying on the grass outside of the house on Grace sprang unbidden to mind. He clenched his jaw but couldn’t force it from his mind.

Is that what he was doing to his family? Setting the house on fire? Burning up a life that they all shared?

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Or why he was doing it.

Before he knew it he was pulling into his driveway. He turned off the engine and sat in the truck, staring at the white house with its dark trim. He remembered how excited Rebecca had been when they found it. “This is our home,” she’d said. “This is where we’ll grow old together.”

He didn’t think much about the statement when she made it. It was just some mushy chick thing for her to say. But now Battaglia shook his head. She probably believed it, but he doubted her prediction would come true now.

The whine of a garage door opener kicked in and the white door rose slowly. Rebecca’s green Subaru backed out. Her hair was drawn back into a ponytail. Little Anthony’s hands reached into the air above him. That made Battaglia smile. The little guy loved the garage door opener.

Rebecca spotted him in the driveway and stopped. She pressed the button and rolled down the passenger window. “Hey,” she said, smiling.

“Hey.”

“You’re home late,” she said.

He looked for suspicion in her eyes, but found none. “Late call,” he said.

She seemed to accept his answer, giving him an easy nod.

“Where’s Maggie?” he asked, not seeing her in the Subaru.

“Having some Grandma time,” Rebecca said. “Mom’s taking her to Riverfront Park to go on the carousel and feed garbage to the mechanical goat.”

It was Battaglia’s turn to nod. “Where are you going?”

“Grocery shopping. You need anything?”

He shrugged. “Maybe some beer.”

“Already on my list.Anything else?”

He thought about it and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Then I’ll see you when I get back.”

“I’ll probably already be asleep,” Battaglia said.

“I figured.” She gave him a sly smile. “But if you’re still awake when the Great Bambino here goes down for his morning nap…”

Guilt stabbed him in the gut. He forced a weak smile. “Yeah, sure,” he said.

Her eyes widened slightly. “Yeah sure?” she repeated. “Jeez, Anthony. Don’t sweep me off my feet or anything.”

“Sorry,” Battaglia said. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Well, then, get some sleep,” she said, her tone turning brisk. “I’ll see you later.”

“Rebecca-” he started to say, but she pushed the button to roll up the window. He didn’t bother trying to talk through the glass. He kept staring at her as she backed out of the short driveway and onto the street. Then, as she pulled away, she gave him a little wave.

All is forgiven, he thought. That’s what her wave meant. She probably wouldn’t check to see if he was still awake come nap time, but she wouldn’t be mad at him when he woke up, either. He knew that because he knew her.

Battaglia started the truck and pulled it into the garage. In the bedroom he undressed, mixing his clothes in with all the other dirty clothes in the hamper. Then he climbed into the shower.

By the time he got out, sleep was gnawing at the edge of his consciousness like a gray mist. He settled into bed, trying to push away thoughts of Rebecca, burning houses, or hairless porcelain dolls lying on the grass. It didn’t work. So instead he thought about B.J. The memory of scents and sensations from just a couple of hours ago invaded his mind, and he carried them with him into an uneasy sleep.

1549 hours

Katie MacLeod rubbed her tired eyes. She glanced up at Renee, who was engrossed in a police report, probably her hundredth of the day.

“Do you really do this all day, every day?” Katie asked.

Renee smiled without looking away from the report. “It’s the only way I know to do good analyst work.”

“How do you remember all this stuff?”

“I only remember the important things,” Renee said.

“How do you know what’s important?” Katie asked, motioning at the huge stacks of police reports. “There’s a ton of information.”

Renee paused, crinkling her brow. “I guess I don’t rightly know how. Things sort of jump out at me, I suppose. I read through the reports and things just seem to… connect somehow.”

“Sounds like magic to me,” Katie joked.

“It’s not magic. Or if it is, you could do it, too.”

“I don’t have this kind of brainpower,” Katie said.

Renee shrugged. “I think it’s the same way you know when a suspect is lying even though you can’t prove it just yet.”

Katie considered. “Yeah, okay. But it’s still a special knack, what you do.”

“Thanks.” Renee pointed at the stack in front of Katie. “Now get back to reading.”

Katie chuckled. “A stern taskmaster, too, huh?”

“Those reports aren’t going to read themselves.”

“I wish they would. Why can’t we just feed them into a computer and let it spit out an answer for us?”

Renee gave her a chastising look. “Seriously?”

Katie shrugged. “No, not really.” Then she added, “But why couldn’t we?”

“No computer will ever replace a human analyst,” Renee said tersely. “Computers may be able to compile data more quickly, but analysis will always be a human endeavor.”

Katie raised her hands. “Whoa. I didn’t mean to say-”

“That I could be replaced by a computer?”

“Uh…”

“That’s about as likely as RoboCop replacing you.”

Katie stared at her for a moment, trying to gauge whether or not she was wholly serious.

Renee broke out in a grin. “Got ya.”

Katie grinned back, relieved. “You had me going for a second, but I wouldn’t say you got me.”

“If you’d have seen your face, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

“Maybe,” Katie conceded.

“Definitely,” Renee said. Then she motioned toward the stacks of paper in front of them both. “You’re right, though. Someday, a computer will help us weed through this. It will give us more information, more quickly. I’ll still be around, though. Someone has to interpret the raw data.”

“What is there to interpret? I haven’t seen any reports that help make heads or tails out of the drive-by shooting. No witnesses. No informants coming forward with anything. Detective Browning’s investigation is at a standstill.” She shrugged. “What’s to analyze? There’s no data.”

“There’s always data. You just have to listen to what it says.”

“All I hear is silence.”

Renee shrugged. “Even silence tells you something. Look,” she said. “It’s clear that the drive-by shooting on DeShawn Brown’s home was committed by Russian gang members. Later that same day, Esteban Ruiz, leader of the Dean Avenue Diablos, is stabbed to death in front of Broadway Foods. Both very public, orchestrated events.”

“So?”

“So, couple that with the fact that neither the Crips nor the Diablos are even talking to investigators and what do you get?”

“Typical gangster behavior?” Katie guessed sarcastically. “It’s not like these guys ever talk to us when it’s gang-on-gang.”

“Fair enough. So when they don’t talk to you, what are they telling you? That it’s a gang-on-gang crime. That’s something.”

“It doesn’t get us any closer to solving the crime, though.”

“Sure it does. It narrows the field. Plus, I got an interesting FI from Battaglia a few days ago.” She pushed her chair away from her desk and slid to a table a few feet away, where she shuffled through some papers for a few moments. “Take a look at this,” she said, handing the field interview to Katie.

Katie read through the FI. “So the Russians are pushing the envelope on traffic stops, too. They refuse to cooperate, call for other cars, whatever.” She shrugged. “I mean, I see the officer safety issues here, but-”

Renee held up a finger. “There’s more. The FBI has an informant from inside the Russian Mafia here in River City. He confirms what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying, Renee?” Katie asked, exasperated.

“The Russians are making a major play to control organized crime here in River City,” Renee pronounced solemnly.

Katie stared at her for a long moment. “Can you prove that?”

“Nope. In fact, I don’t even know who the major players are for sure.”

The two women sat in silence. Finally, Katie sighed and motioned toward the piles of police reports in front of them. “Back to the stacks?”

“Yep,” Renee answered. “There’s an answer in there somewhere.”

1843 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat at his coffee shop, reading through the River CityHerald. Coverage on the recent gang shootings was prolific. In addition to the straight news piece below the fold on page one, there was a feature on the migration of gangs into River City in the regional section. He was pleased to see that his people received little mention. Most of the concern was still over black gangs from California and white supremacists from Northern Idaho.

He also read a letter to the editor decrying the inability of the police to handle the situation, putting most of the blame squarely on the shoulders of the relatively new police chief.

The newspaper was off base on the true nature of the situation, of course. But he suspected that the police had at least a general idea that he and Sergey-especially Sergey; they must have known he was the leader-were making a concerted move at consolidating the local gang structure under their control. He didn’t think it would hold. Criminals resented authority by nature, even when it came from the brute criminal force that they knew and respected. Someone would buck the system. Possibly the young black who called himself Murder. Or maybe the Mexican, looking for some kind of revenge.

It didn’t matter. If history had shown anything, it was that you can always repress people but repression will never last forever. His country had lorded over most of Asia and all of Eastern Europe for almost fifty years, but it had come to an end. This was no different.

The only difference is that Val wanted it to fail. And Sergey with it.

They would go from controlling a minority of the criminal action to a majority, only to be “beaten” back down by the police and rival gangs to something twice as large as what they started out with. Let the other gangs have their small, spoon-fed victory. Let the police capture their kingpin in Sergey. Val and the rest of the operation would shrink back into relative anonymity but still be greater than before. There was plenty of grain to harvest; there was no need to own every farm.

It was not the way Val would have done things if he had been in control from the very beginning. But he was not. Sergey was, and he had to contend with the man’s ego and desire for power. So he had devised this strategy to take advantage of Sergey’s reach exceeding his grasp.

Plans within plans within plans.

The door dinged. Val glanced up out of habit. Instead of going to Pyotr at the counter, the man who entered looked directly at Val. He held the stare long enough to convey that he was asking for permission to approach.

Val lowered his paper and nodded.

The man’s expression broke into a deferential smile. He hurried to Val’s corner table and stopped next to the chair opposite Val.

Val motioned to the chair. “Sit, brother.”

The man shook his head. “Thank you, but no. My business will take but a moment of your time, Valeriy Aleksandrovich.”

Val shrugged and waited, his expression impassive.

The man shifted his feet, then smiled again. “My name is Vladimir Petrovich Malkinov,” he said.

“I know you,” Val said quietly. “You are the custodian at the grade school in West Central, near the river.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he nodded. “Yes, yes. Fillmore Elementary.”

“What is your business that is so brief you do not even wish to sit down?”

Malkinov’s expression grew concerned. Val was glad to see it. It was better to be feared than respected, though he believed he had achieved both in the Russian community.

After a moment Malkinov leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “My wife works at the Quality Inn on Division,” he said. “She told me something last night that I think you will want to know.”

“What is it?” Val asked. For Malkinov’s sake, it had better be good. He was already tiring of this conversation.

Malkinov smiled. “She tells me that there are two policemen staying in room 420. They have a guest.”

“A guest?”

Malkinov nodded. “Yes. A Russian guest.”

Electricity shot through Val’s body. This could only mean one thing.

Oleg, you bastard, he thought. You’re dead now!

He kept his outward composure. “This is very interesting,” he told Malkinov. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a roll of money. “Let me please pay for the cost of your trip to see me today,” he said, peeling off several bills. He handed them to Malkinov, who took them gingerly.

“Thank you, Mr. Romanov,” Malkinov said, eyeing the money and trying to hide his disappointment. “You are very kind.”

Val forced a cold smile. Did this idiot think he carried enough money in his pockets to pay the bounty on Oleg? Or that he would pay in full without verifying the information?

“Give Pyotr your address,” he told Malkinov. “Perhaps later I will send a loaf of bread to your home as well.”

Malkinov’s worried expression disappeared and a smile spread across his face. “Oh, thank you very much, sir. Thank you.”

Val nodded dismissively and picked up his paper. Malkinov got the hint. He gave Pyotr his address and scuttled out the door while the fat manager was still scribbling. Val ignored them both, staring at the newsprint in front of him but reading nothing.

Oleg. We have you.

He let the exhilaration flow through his body, then forced himself calm. He waved Pyotr over. The manager brought him the slip of paper with Malkin’s address on it.

“Send Natalia out here,” Val told him, folding the piece of paper and putting it into his pocket. Pyotr nodded and disappeared into the back. Val flipped opened his cell phone and dialed Black Ivan’s number.

“Yes?”

“Pick me up at the coffee shop,” Val said. “We have work.”

“Yes,” Ivan replied.

Natalia emerged from the back of the store, wiping her hands on her apron. She approached with an expectant, hopeful expression. “Yes, Valeriy?”

“Go home,” he told her. “I may come to see you later. Even if I don’t, you will tell anyone who asks that I was with you from eight-thirty onward. Do you understand?”

She nodded, smiling. “Of course. Would you like me to cook for you, or-”

“Just go home,” Val told her.

Crestfallen, she turned to leave.

He flipped open his phone again and dialed Sergey’s number. While it rang, he admired the curve of Natalia’s hips and her trim calves. Who knew? Maybe he’d finish in time to have dinner with her. Or that something more she was trying to snare him with.

Sergey answered his phone. “Hello?”

“We need to talk,” Val told him. “It is important.”

Part III

The right man is the one who seizes the moment.

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

TEN

2031 hours

Graveyard Shift

Thomas Chisolm sat in front of his locker, considering his options. He pulled on his boots and laced them up. He’d given some thought to how he should approach Battaglia and Carson, or if he should even talk to Carson at all. In the end, he only knew one way to talk to people. Talk to ’em straight.

If talking to Batts worked, he wouldn’t need to talk with Carson. If Batts didn’t respond, then maybe he’d see if Carson were receptive. That probably depended on how entranced she was with Mr. Anthony Battaglia.

Chisolm stood and buckled his pants belt. No time like the present. He wandered toward the back of the maze-like locker room, listening for O’Sullivan’s rolling Irish lilt or Battaglia’s more guttural Italian Brooklynese. He heard the clanging of lockers and general clamor of twenty-plus cops gearing up for a graveyard shift, but none of the usual banter. Just one more sign something was up.

He rounded the corner of the last row. Battaglia and O’Sullivan stood next to open lockers. Sully buckled his gun belt and closed his locker.

“See you out there, paisan,” he said to Battaglia.

Batts gave him a distracted nod.

Sully walked past Chisolm with a casual hello, and Chisolm clapped Sully on the shoulder as he went by. Battaglia put his head through the opening in his ballistic vest and pulled the straps into place. He pressed the Velcro together, then glanced up at Chisolm.

“Hey, Tom,” he said, his voice subdued.

“Hey,” Chisolm answered. “We need to talk.”

Battaglia gave him a puzzled look. “Sure. What’s up?”

Chisolm glanced quickly around the locker room. No one was left in the same bay, but he could still hear activity all around them in other rows. He lowered his voice.

“It’s about you and Carson,” Chisolm said.

Battaglia’s expression changed to surprise, then melted into anger. He turned away from Chisolm and reached inside his locker for his uniform shirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said forcefully.

Chisolm shook his head. “Let’s not bullshit around,” he said. “We’re cops. We live in the real world.”

“Really? Do people mind their own fucking business in this real world you’re talking about?”

Chisolm ignored the tone. “Anything that happens on this platoon is platoon business,” he said.

“I see,” Battaglia said. His eyes flashed with anger. He buttoned his shirt with rough movements. “And you’re the appointed spokesman for the platoon? Is that it?”

“No. I don’t think anyone else realizes that you’re sleeping with her.”

“Who says I’m sleeping with her?”

Chisolm gave him a dubious look. “I’m not standing here because I think something is going on. I know what’s going on, and so do you.”

Battaglia stared back at him and said nothing.

“And it needs to stop,” Chisolm added.

Battaglia finished buttoning his uniform shirt. He continued staring at Chisolm as he tucked in the shirt and buckled his trousers. Then he said, “Don’t tell me how to run my life, Tom.”

“Run your life however you want. Just keep it away from the job.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chisolm shook his head. “You know, if you want to step out on your wife, that’s your business. You’re an asshole for doing it, but it’s your business.”

Battaglia snatched his gun belt and strapped it around his waist.

“But when you start banging another cop, one we all work with, then it’s platoon business,” Chisolm said. “My business. Because I’m the one who’s counting on you or her to be one hundred percent when you’re here. Not worrying about playing patty-cake after shift at her apartment.”

Battaglia froze in the midst of buckling his gun belt. His glare turned venomous. “You’re a fucking snake, Tom.”

“The truth is the truth,” Chisolm said. “A distracted cop is a dead cop.”

Battaglia snorted. “What are you going to do? Tattle to the sarge on me?”

Chisolm clenched his jaw to keep his composure. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I? Not him.”

Battaglia said nothing.

“So if you want to mess around on your wife, go find yourself some badge bunny at Duke’s. Maybe you can grab up some of Giovanni’s castoffs. Or if it absolutely has to be Carson, then one of you needs to change platoons. It’s that simple.”

“You know what?” Battaglia said, closing his locker with a slam. “You’re not my dad and you’re not my boss, Tom. So mind your own fucking business.”

Battaglia grazed the veteran officer’s shoulder, but Chisolm let him pass without responding to the challenge. He watched Battaglia stalk away. The creaking sound of his leather equipment punctuated each step.

Chisolm tried to relax his clenched jaw. Frustration chewed at him.

That could have gone better.

2041 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat in the passenger seat of the gold Honda parked in Sergey’s driveway. He pulled his cell phone away from his ear and pushed the cancel button. He drew a line through the third name on his list. Then he dialed the last name on the list.

Sergey stood in the kitchen window, staring out at him. Val nodded to say that all was well. Sergey didn’t return the gesture.

The telephone rang several times before a woman picked up. “Fuck you want?” she asked in a drunken slur.

“Put Krueger on phone,” Val said in a cold voice.

“Who’s this?”

“I speak to Krueger,” Val said.

There was a jostling noise, then a sleepy male voice answered. “It’s your dime,” he said. “Talk.”

“Krueger,” Val said. “Do you know who is calling you?”

Krueger started to answer, then paused. He cleared his throat and asked, “Uh, is this my, uh, new partner?”

“Da,” Val said. “And I want for you listen very careful. You will do a thing for me. I will explain exactly what and when. You are for to listen.”

2059 hours

Officer B.J. Carson hurried into the drill hall. Being late to roll call and being the rookie were two things that did not go together. Especially on graveyard.

She burst through the swinging door to find all three platoon tables full of her coworkers. Most glanced up when she came in. Some looked away, but a couple of the male officers let their gazes linger appraisingly. A few of the assembled group looked up at the clock out of habit.

One minute to spare, thought Carson, but she glanced at the clock to make sure it was still synced with her wristwatch.

It clicked over to 2100 as she slid into the rookie chair, which she had started to think of as hers. Across from her, Battaglia did not look up from the intelligence flyer. Chisolm gave her an unreadable look that made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t at all like the looks Kahn sometimes fired her way, which were obvious leers or overtures. In fact, although she was nervous around Chisolm, it wasn’t him that made her nervous. It had more to do with his status as the veteran on the platoon and being a near legend on the department. What Chisolm thought of someone was usually echoed by most other graveyard cops.

Maybe that was the key. Maybe she needed to show Chisolm that she was a good cop, like Katie said. But Katie hadn’t suggested the Chisolm part. Just the good cop part.

Lieutenant Saylor strode through the drill hall door. The chatter from all three tables fell off, then stopped as he stepped up to the lectern. Saylor read the information on the hot board, which consisted of two new stolen vehicles and a subject wanted by Detective Finch for a pair of stabbings downtown. Then he turned things over to the platoon sergeants.

“I only have a couple of items,” Sergeant Shen told them. “First up, we’re still tasked with relieving day shift on the babysitting detail with the feds.” He looked over at Carson. “Officer Carson, you’re up.”

Carson flushed for a moment, wondering if her near tardiness was the reason. “Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Head up to the Quality Inn on Division,” Shen told her. “Room 420.”

She nodded.

Kahn chuckled and muttered something about her turn in the barrel, but no one acknowledged him.

Shen continued. “Second up, on that stabbing suspect-”

Battaglia cleared his throat. “Uh, Sarge?”

Shen stopped. “Yes?”

Battaglia glanced at Carson, then at Chisolm. “I’ll take that babysitting detail.”

Shen’s expression did not change, but there was a question in his eyes. Carson could understand why. No one wanted to babysit prisoners or witnesses. It wasn’t real police work. Most cops, her included, thought that details like that sucked.

She felt the eyes of the platoon flick from Battaglia to her. She could almost hear the collective eyebrows go up.

Great, she thought. Why don’t you just announce it to the world that we’re screwing?

“Are you sure?” Shen asked. “It’s her turn.”

“Yeah,” Battaglia answered. He cleared his throat again and then cast a dark look toward Chisolm. “I’m not feeling so hot tonight. Sitting around watching TV is probably just what I need.”

Shen studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “All right. Officer Battaglia will cover the detail with the FBI.” He looked back at Carson. “It looks like routine patrol for you tonight, Officer Carson.”

“Think you can handle that?” Kahn rumbled.

Carson nodded, not caring if it was interpreted as an answer to the sergeant or the abrasive Kahn. She had an unsettled feeling in her stomach. Something was going on.

Shen continued with roll call, then dismissed the team with his customary “Be safe.” Battaglia rose first and walked straight out of the drill hall. As badly as she wanted to talk with him, she wasn’t about to go running after him. That would set even more tongues wagging.

Instead she gathered her patrol bag and headed down to the basement sally port with the rest of the group.

2112 hours

Sergey opened the door before Val had a chance to knock.

“You have made the calls?” he asked.

Val nodded. “Everything is in place. I am going now to finish it.”

“Who are you taking?”

“Yuri will drive. Black Ivan will accompany me inside.”

Sergey nodded. Then he said, “I am coming with you.”

Val frowned. “That is too dangerous.”

“Life is dangerous,” Sergey snorted derisively.

“This is an unnecessary risk,” Val said. “Ivan and I can take care of matters.”

Sergey smiled darkly. “No doubt. But I think people need to hear how it was Sergey who traveled to the hotel room where the traitor hid. That Sergey fired the gun that ended the man’s life.”

“You have ordered it,” Val said. “And it was your reward that brought the information forward. That will be enough.”

“No,” Sergey said. “No, Valeriy Aleksandrovich, I don’t think so. It might be enough for business as usual. But it isn’t enough for the legend.”

“Legend?” Val asked.

“People don’t follow men,” Sergey said. “They follow great men. And every great man has a legend about him. This will be an important piece of my legend here in America.”

You are a fool, Val thought. That will be your legend.

Val’s frown turned into a grimace. “It is a risk, that is all. But you know best.”

“Best that you do not forget that,” Sergey told him. “Now, let’s go.”

2117 hours

Chisolm walked down the stairs behind B.J. Carson, watching her ponytail bounce and bob with each step.

Should he talk to her? Would it do any good?

He tried to remember what it was like to be a rookie. He’d come on the job already battle-tested from the jungles of Vietnam, so it was different for him. The closest thing to it, probably, was his early days in the military. Had someone pulled him aside?

Chisolm smiled slightly. Hell, when he entered Special Forces, it felt like Captain Mack Greene pulled him aside every day with some sort of wisdom or another.

But police work was different than war. In some ways, it was harder, more limiting. But the prospect of getting your ass shot off didn’t happen quite as frequently as in combat, either.

So what do you say to a rookie today? If it was a man, he could use the tried and true warning about the two things that get most cops in trouble-booze and broads. Or as he heard it more often put, “A wine glass and a woman’s ass.”

It didn’t really matter how you put it, though. The important thing was that someone warn the newer cops about the pitfalls they faced in their upcoming careers. Not just what the bad guys did or what the administration might try to do, but what stupid things cops did to themselves.

The cluster of graveyard troops reached the basement sally port and stepped out through the double doors. A ragged line of patrol cars filled the center lane. Swing shift officers exited the vehicles, collecting their bags of gear and trudging away, while graveyarders jockeyed to get the lowest mileage vehicles.

Battaglia made straight for the first available car. He threw his bag into the trunk, got in, and drove out of the sally port without inspecting the vehicle or checking the lights or the shotgun.

Chisolm noticed Carson cast a concerned look after Battaglia’s car as it sped up the ramp. He definitely needed to talk to her. Not here, though. Not after the way Battaglia reacted in the locker room, and at roll call. No, he’d wait until after the initial rush of calls on their shift tapered off, then ask Carson to coffee. That’d be the best way to go about it.

Satisfied with his decision, Chisolm headed toward an empty car near the front of the line, ready to take on whatever River City had to offer.

2204 hours

Carson cruised through West Central with her windows down. A variety of smells floated through her police car as she patrolled the neighborhood: latent barbecues, motor oil, freshly cut grass, dog shit, and the musty smell from poorly maintained houses. A real potpourri for the nasal passage.

She tried to focus on the things outside her open window, but her thoughts kept coming back to one thing. Battaglia.

She needed to break it off with him, she knew. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was charming and said all of the things that made her feel good. But he was married.

What the hell am I thinking? And why do I always end up in relationships like this?

Her mind raced back through the catalogue of wrong men. Her best friend’s boyfriend. True, he wasn’t married, but it happened before he really stopped being her best friend’s boyfriend. Her poli-sci professor. Married. Then the assistant manager at the Bon Marche, also married. His wife had even invited her over for Christmas one year when she found out that Carson wasn’t able to go back to Wyoming for the holidays. That had been awkward.

At every stop she found herself falling into situations with married men. She used to call it bad luck, but one thing that she learned at the police academy was how to apply critical thinking. And critical thinking clearly told her that a trend like this wasn’t simply bad luck. There was more to it. But what?

She ignored the question. Instead she wondered if maybe it was different with Batts. Maybe she’d only taken up with him because she was a still a rookie.

“That’s stupid,” she whispered to no one. There was a big difference between being accepted as a fellow officer and gaining Battaglia’s acceptance by sleeping with him. Carson shook her head at herself. No, that wasn’t it.

Be honest.

She sighed. Whatever it was that drew her to married men, she could examine it at greater length sometime later. Right now, she had to decide how to handle Battaglia.

Would he really leave his wife, as he hinted in her bedroom, wrapped up in her legs in the early morning hours? Was she really something special, like he told her? Or was she really just the opposite? Something to be used, like a tissue, then thrown away?

Carson swallowed. All her life she’d felt like the tissue. Maybe this time, though, it was different. Maybe Batts was true love.

“Charlie-147 and Charlie-148 for a fight call,” squawked the radio. She glanced down, surprised at hearing the south side dispatcher’s voice. Then she realized she had the radio set to scan both frequencies.

“Charlie-147.”

“48.”

“Charlie-147 and -148, start for Liberty Park. A crowd of seven to ten black males are engaged in a large fight. The complainant reports seeing bottles and baseball bats.”

Carson flipped a U-turn. North side was uncharacteristically quiet, so she decided to go help the south officers. If nothing else, it would it give her something to think about. And maybe a chance to prove something.

As she reached for her microphone, the north side dispatcher barked out her call sign. Carson jumped. Then she grabbed the microphone and answered up.

“Also for Baker-124,” the dispatcher continued, “we have a fight at Dutch Jake Park between an unknown number of Hispanic males. Caller says it may be gang members involved. Unknown weapons.”

“Copy,” Carson said. She flipped another U-turn and headed down Broadway, her heart racing.

2206 hours

Chisolm dropped down Alberta Street, heading for West Central to back Carson and Baker-124, Matt Westboard, if they needed it. He heard Sully answer up. A moment later, Kahn’s gruff voice announced he was going to the fight call as well.

Chisolm left his radio mike on the hook. He’d leave the air open for one of the responding units in case the fight was still hot when they arrived on scene. A lot of fight calls were pretty much over by the time dispatch was able to get the information out, but you never knew.

“Adam-112,”came the dispatcher’s voice.

Chisolm reached out and depressed the mike button without removing it from the holder. “Twelve,” he hollered.

“I’m getting a report of a strong-arm robbery at Mission and Hamilton. Caller claims that three skinheads attacked her and took her purse. Suspects are still in the area. I’ll start you a south side unit to back. Mission and Hamilton.”

“Copy,” he yelled into the microphone. He hung a left on Wellesley and put on his lights and siren.

“Welcome to the circus, ladies and gents,” he muttered. “All three rings.”

2207 hours

Valeriy Romanov removed the small earphone and turned off the police scanner. He looked over at Sergey in the seat next to him.

“All three diversions are in place,” he told his boss. “The police are running around like puppies chasing their own tails, all far away from this end of the city.”

Sergey nodded. “Good. With luck, Oleg will be dead soon.”

“Not luck,” Val said. “We will make it happen.”

Sergey smiled. “Ah, Valeriy. I know you plan well. And you carry out your plans even better. But even the best plans need some measure of luck to succeed.”

Val didn’t reply. Instead, he caught Yuri’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Let’s go,” he ordered.

As Yuri pulled out of the grocery store parking lot and drove north on Division, Val pulled on a pair of thin rubber surgical gloves. From a paper shopping bag on the floor he removed the.44 Magnum. He felt the heft of the large-caliber revolver, rocking it in his hand almost lovingly. Then he extended the handle of the gun to Sergey.

Sergey didn’t move. “No, my brother. You will be my hand here. Bring me the traitor alive or leave him in a pool of his own blood.”

Val withdrew the gun, mildly surprised. For all his blustering, it turned out Sergey had lost his taste for the dirty work. His insistence on coming and being the one to pull the trigger was just one more way for him to exert his authority over Val.

Plans. Always plans within plans.

“You honor me,” Val said. He slipped a speed loader into the pocket of his jacket and held the.44 in his lap. Val looked out through the windshield. Two blocks ahead of them was a large hotel sign.

2208 hours

Carson rolled up on Dutch Jake park with her headlights darked out. All was silent. She reached for her microphone to report that the fight was over and the suspects gone. Out of the darkness, a voice rang out.

“?Chinga tu madre, puto!”

She swung her gaze left. A half block from the park, a pair of young males were shoving each other. Carson hit her overhead lights and accelerated toward them.

As soon as the lights came on, the pair rabbited away in opposite directions. Carson reached for her radio mike.

“Adam-128, I’ve got two subjects running from me. We’re about a block south of the park.” B.J. Carson’s voice was slightly elevated.

Chisolm clenched his jaw but kept driving. There were three other units headed her way, all of which were closer than he was. He had to continue to his call. There was a robbery victim there and the bad guys were still supposed to be in the neighborhood.

Still, it went against his every instinct not to back up another cop when it was obvious his help was needed. The victim he was going to help was probably fine. And the suspects were likely long gone.

Probably this or probably that. You’ve got your mission, soldier.

He pushed his accelerator down just a little more.

Anthony Battaglia sat in the hard desk chair in the hotel room, shaking his head. What he had figured would be a shit detail was turning out to be just what he needed-a vacation from his problems.

Oleg Tretiak sat across from him, studying the two cards in his hands. He looked up at Battaglia inquisitively. “These cards only mine?”

“Yeah,” Battaglia said. “Just yours. And these”-he pointed to his own two hole cards-“are only mine.”

“Okay,” the Russian said, nodding. “Ponimayu. I understand.”

Battaglia smiled. He didn’t think the Russian quite understood Texas hold ’em yet, but he seemed to be getting the bluffing part down. He doubted that whatever Tretiak was holding would beat his pocket aces.

He flicked out three cards into the center of the table. “These are cards we can both use,” he said. Then he flipped them over. An eight of spades, three of hearts, and jack of diamonds showed.

Tretiak nodded, his eyes studying the face-up cards. “Which one I use?” he asked.

“All of them,” Battaglia said. “Or any of them.”

Tretiak squinted. “Which ones you use?”

“Same. I can use any or all of them. So can you.”

“Who pick cards first?”

“No one,” Battaglia explained. “All three cards are for both of us to use. I’m going to put two more down, too. We share them all.”

“Share?”

“Yeah. They’re called community cards.” Battaglia chuckled. “Come on, you should understand this. It’s like communism. Everything in the middle belongs to all the people.”

Tretiak nodded, a smile spreading slowly across his face. “And these,” he said, holding up his own cards, “are for Communist Party members only.”

Battaglia laughed a little louder. “Exactly.”

“Okay. We bet?”

Battaglia took a deep breath and glanced at the bathroom door. Agent Leeb had been in there for twenty minutes. From the initial sounds that he could hear over the fan, the guy had a case of the runs. He’d probably be in there for a while yet.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?” He pulled a money clip from his shirt pocket and peeled off five ones. He dropped one next to the flop. “Buck a turn?”

Tretiak removed something from his pocket and fiddled with it underneath the table, out of Battaglia’s view. Battaglia half expected him to come up with a handful of rubles or something, but he had a wad of George Washingtons in his hand. Tretiak dropped a crumpled dollar bill on top of Battaglia’s.

“Bet!” he exclaimed.

Battaglia shook his head. He wanted to say he was going to hate taking the Russian’s money, but that would have been lying.

“Here comes the turn,” he said, and burned a card. Then he flipped over a six of hearts.

Tretiak’s eyes narrowed. He picked up his hole cards, then threw out two ones. “Bet two.”

Battaglia almost told him what a buck a card meant, but it was his money, after all. He tossed in two bills.

“Call,” he said.

2209 hours

Carson let the suspect that ran through the apartment complex go. She tried to keep the other one in sight as he scampered back through the small park. She contemplated driving up onto the grass, but decided against it.

She depressed the PA button and shouted, “Police, stop!” Her voice sounded far too shrill to her. It was no surprise that it only made the dark shadow run faster.

She accelerated and cut into a parking lot next to a row of houses. She drove straight at the fleeing suspect, who stopped suddenly and stared at her. She dynamited the brakes at the last second and the front end of her cruiser skidded to a stop. The push bar nudged the suspect. The young man’s eyes flew open, then narrowed with rage.

“Jesus!” Carson yelled at him.

“?Puta!” he shouted back. Then he turned and sprinted for the nearby fence, vaulting over it into a back yard.

Carson sat in the driver’s seat, her heart pounding.

“Adam-128, I’ve lost both suspects,” Carson broadcasted.

Chisolm shrugged. He wasn’t surprised, but it didn’t matter much. There probably wasn’t a victim there, anyway. Just two guys duking it out. And now no officers were in danger, either.

“Baker-125,” Kahn transmitted. “I’m close to that strong-arm robbery. I’ll take the female victim.”

Chisolm snorted. Of course he would.

“Copy. Adam-112, you can disregard.”

Chisolm pressed the mike button. “Copy.”

He slowed down as he approached Monroe and turned off his overhead lights. Back to routine patrol.

Battaglia burned a card. “Ready for the river?” he asked.

Tretiak shrugged. “What is river?”

“The final card,” Battaglia said. “It’s called the river card.”

“Why river?”

“Fuck if I know. You ready?”

Tretiak nodded. “I ready.”

Battaglia flipped the card over. Eight of clubs. He tried not to smile. That gave him two pair, aces and eights.

“Three,” Tretiak announced, dropping the money into the center.

Battaglia considered. There were a number of hands that could still beat him. Any pocket pair that matched up, for instance. But that wasn’t the question. The question was could Tretiak be bluffing him?

He looked the wily Russian in the eye. Tretiak stared flatly, grinning at the same time. “Three,” he repeated.

The toilet flushed in the bathroom. Battaglia realized this might be the only betting hand they’d get if Leeb came out and kiboshed the whole thing. He was an FBI agent, after all. Battaglia had to decide. And there was no way he was going to back down. Not with top two pair.

He heard the water from the bathroom sink come on.

He reached for his own money.

A knock came at the door.

2210 hours

Carson shut off her overhead lights. After a moment’s thought she dumped her headlights, too. She pulled back onto the side street and rolled slowly along, watching for a shadowy figure moving in between houses.

She wanted to find this guy. She didn’t know what puta meant, but she doubted it was something good. But it was also a matter of proving herself. If people figured out what was going on with her and Battaglia, she knew they’d call her police abilities into question. It was a stupid thing, and a sexist thing, but she knew it was a very real thing.

Graveyard cops respected hard-edged police work. That meant catching bad guys. Sometimes it meant fighting them. Maybe she could get some of both on this call.

If she could find this son of a bitch.

Battaglia set his cards on the table face-down. He glanced away from the door to Tretiak.

“Did you order room service?”

The Russian shook his head.

“Pizza or something?”

“Nyet.”

Battaglia rose from his chair and walked cautiously toward the door.

The water in the bathroom shut off.

There was another knock at the door, no harder than the first.

“Don’t answer that!” Leeb called from the bathroom.

“I wasn’t going to,” Battaglia snapped. “I’m just going to look.”

He leaned forward and put his eye to the peephole.

As soon as Val saw the peephole darken, he fired three times. The.44 erupted, bucking in his hand with each shot. The wood splintered and tore with each blast.

Val stepped aside to make room for Black Ivan.

Battaglia’s world exploded. Concussions buffeted his chest. Sharp wood chunks bit into his face and throat.

He staggered back, staring stupidly at the door. Then he reached for his gun. As his hand came to rest on the handle he veered awkwardly to his right. His legs felt heavy, then suddenly weak.

He collapsed toward the wall as if in slow motion. His mind screamed out at him: “Let go of your gun and brace yourself!” But he couldn’t force his body to obey.

He crashed face-first into the wall and slid down sideways.

Black Ivan took a giant stride toward the door, a twelve-gauge shotgun clutched in his huge hands. He drove his foot into the door just beside the handle.

“Go!” Val ordered, but he didn’t have to. The large Russian was already through the doorway. He gave the wounded cop a brief look, then walked right past him.

Oleg Tretiak had moved into the far corner. Black Ivan raised the shotgun.

“Wait!” Val ordered, following Ivan inside. Shots rang out before he could give a further order. Hot zipping sounds flew by him like angry hornets. Val didn’t hesitate. He turned his.44 on the bathroom door and returned fire. He emptied the revolver, moving deeper into the room as he fired.

Another shot answered his own, then two more.

Val flipped open the cylinder and reloaded. He caught Ivan’s eye and jerked his head toward the bathroom door.

Ivan fired at the door. The shotgun’s sharp booming filled the room, followed by the menacing racking sound and another shot. The rounds tore fist-sized holes in the flimsy bathroom door. Val heard the heavy thud of somebody falling into the shower door.

“Keep that covered,” he ordered.

Ivan nodded, keeping the shotgun trained on the bathroom door.

Val turned his attention to Oleg Tretiak, the traitor.

Battaglia saw red, then black.

He blinked.

The world became a hazy, bright fog. He saw a giant shape pause in front of him, then rumble past. He drew in a rasping, gurgling breath.

I’m shot.

Panic started to seep in. He tried to control it but it was like an avalanche. The sensation enveloped him. For a moment he thought it would grab onto him and drag him down into darkness. He could feel the constant pull at the edge of his consciousness, an insistent tug toward blackness.

He wanted to draw his gun and return fire, but he couldn’t move his hand. He couldn’t move at all. He could barely breathe.

Then the pain hit, fiery and pounding. He tried to cry out, but all he could manage was a wheezing whisper. What did all the training say? He forced his mind to focus on those in-service days, sitting in the academy classroom, watching videos about critical incidents, reading all of the officer-killed summaries. What did all of that tell him?

Simple. If you knew you’d been shot, you were still alive and would probably survive.

Survive, he thought. I have to survive.

More shots rang out, but he didn’t feel any impact. Maybe he was too far gone to feel the bullets hitting him. No, that couldn’t be it. The shots were missing him. Or they were meant for someone else.

He focused on his left hand. It dangled off his hip, just a few inches from his radio. He willed it to move. First, twitch the fingers. It seemed to take forever, but finally his first two fingers responded. He forced his hand upward to the radio on his belt. He fumbled blindly for the notch near the antenna. His index finger found it, skipped over the top, then dropped back inside.

Push the button, he told himself. Call for the cavalry.

He twitched his finger and pressed downward.

The huge booming sound of a shotgun erupted.

An alert tone came over the police radio. Chisolm immediately turned the volume up.

“Signal 98,” the dispatcher said, her tone elevated. “Signal 98, Officer Emergency.Officer Battaglia at the Quality Inn on North Division. Room 420.”

She repeated the broadcast a second time, but Chisolm was no longer listening. He engaged his lights and siren and punched the accelerator.

Val savored the moment as he took two steps toward Oleg. He flashed the traitor a cold, hard smile.

“Did you think we wouldn’t find you, musor?” he asked, his tone conversational.

Oleg shook his head. “I knew you probably would.”

“Why would you betray your own people?” Val asked.

“Sergey is a fool,” Oleg said. “He is too ambitious. He was going to cause all of us to go to prison.”

Val shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But that doesn’t explain why you would skim money from us.”

“Fuck Sergey, and fuck you,” Oleg snarled. “You barely even missed what little extra I took. You drive BMWs while my wife must work at the laundry. Why should I be loyal to that?”

Val raised the.44 and pointed it at his head. “Because we are your people,” he said simply.

“My family is my people.”

Val pressed his lips together. “Come with us now, if you want to live.”

Oleg spat on the carpet in front of Val.

He had to admire the man. He knew that a more painful, torturous death awaited him if he left the motel room. But most men would trade that death later for a few more moments of life now. Oleg had a warrior’s heart. A black, traitorous warrior’s heart.

“Stukach,” he said, and squeezed the trigger.

Oleg’s head jerked backward. Blood and brain matter speckled the wall behind him.

Val turned away before the body had even hit the ground. Ivan followed him out of the room with his weapon trained on the bathroom door, acting as a rear guard, just like so many times before.

In the hallway Val pulled down a fire alarm. A loud clanging bell filled the motel. He and Ivan took the stairs down to the first floor.

Clockwork, he thought. Now just out the side door to the sedan where Sergey and Yuri are waiting.

2211 hours

Chisolm broke the light at Francis and Division, barely slowing for cross traffic. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a pickup truck skidding through the intersection. One second difference and he’d have T-boned Chisolm. Or the other way around.

The thought flit through his mind and was gone again. He focused on the motel that was still eight blocks ahead.

Carson drove faster than she ever imagined possible. She could hear sirens all around her.

“Fire is responding to an alarm at the Quality Inn,” the dispatcher announced.

Fire?An alarm? Carson didn’t have time to think about it as she approached an S-curve on Maple. She steered through the turn using both lanes.

High, low, high, she recited automatically, just as she’d done during emergency vehicle operations training at the academy.

She took a hard right onto Francis and headed east. She saw a fire truck rolling out of the station ahead of her at Jefferson. In what seemed like less than a second she was right up on the rear of it.

Carson dropped her foot onto the accelerator and whizzed around the huge fire engine without a second thought.

Val opened the car door and slid into the back seat while Ivan clambered into the front.

“How did it go?” Sergey asked, his voice a little strained.

Val started to answer when a bullet shattered the rear window. Sergey jerked forward, then tipped sideways toward Val. Sergey’s head flopped onto Val’s lap with a wet slap.

Yuri cursed and punched the accelerator.

Val looked up to see a slender man in a white shirt and tie shuffling toward the car. Bright red blood had soaked through his shirt from his right shoulder, and his right hand hung limply at his side, but he extended his black automatic pistol toward the car with his left. His expression was one of grim determination. He fired another shot.

An electric buzz whipped past Val’s face and struck the windshield.

Yuri cursed again.

Val raised his.44 and fired back several times. The fiery blasts from the muzzle blinded him momentarily, and then Yuri came to the corner of the building, where the savvy driver took a hard right and accelerated toward Division.

Chisolm heard the shots as soon as he pulled into the motel parking lot. He saw the flashes of gunfire around the corner reflecting against the trees to the rear of the hotel. He gunned the engine and slid his.40 caliber Glock from his holster.

As he rounded the corner he saw a solitary figure in a white business shirt staggering away from him. The man’s entire right sleeve was soaked through with blood.

Chisolm swung his car to a stop at an angle, slammed the gearshift into park, popped his door open, and planted his left foot on the pavement. He pointed his gun sight squarely center-mass in the middle of the man’s back.

“Police!” Chisolm boomed. “Don’t move!”

The man slowed, then lowered his left hand. Chisolm immediately recognized the black metal shape of a gun and his index finger shifted onto the trigger.

“Drop that gun!” he yelled at the man. “Drop it, or I’ll blow a fucking hole right through your spine!”

The man looked over his shoulder at Chisolm with a slightly dazed expression. Chisolm saw the clean-cut features and the loosely knotted tie. A lanyard hung from his neck, the identification card tucked into the shirt pocket. A small gold badge was on his belt just to the right of the buckle.

“Who are you?” Chisolm called to him, though he already knew the answer.

The question pierced the man’s confusion. “FBI,” he shouted back. “Special Agent Greg Leeb.” Then he pointed in the opposite direction with his gun. “They went that way. A white Mercedes. At least three suspects.”

Chisolm lowered his gun. “Are you all right?”

Agent Leeb nodded. “Go.”

Thomas Chisolm jumped back into his car and dropped the hammer.

2212 hours

“Take a left at Lyons,” Val ordered. “More cops will be coming. We need to get out of sight.”

Far ahead of them Val saw a large fire truck navigate the turn at Francis and Division. A smaller set of lights hurtled toward them from even closer. He looked back through the shattered rear window in time to see more red and blue lights pull out of the motel parking lot.

“Go left,” he repeated to Yuri.

Yuri didn’t answer, but swung the car in a hard left turn at Lyons, then sped up even more.

Val watched to see if either police car followed. The first one whipped past Lyons toward the motel.

He smiled.

The other police car turned on Lyons and sped toward them.

Carson ignored the other patrol car headed south. Battaglia was at the motel. She had to get to the motel.

She hooked a left into the parking lot and the patrol car bottomed out as she drove over the entryway. She screeched to a stop at the sally port, leapt out of her car, and sprinted past the guests filtering out. She flung open the glass doors and searched frantically for someone in a uniform.

A man with a nametag that read “Clyde” stood near the front desk, ushering people toward the exit. Carson grabbed him by the arm and he yelped in surprise.

“Room 420!” she yelled. “Where is it?”

He pointed at the stairwell. “Up the stairs and to the end of the hall,” he recited.

Carson ran.

Chisolm kept the pair of rocketing taillights in sight as he urged every single ounce of horsepower out of the Crown Victoria’s V-8 engine. He closed ground quickly during the straight stretches, but the small Mercedes cornered much better than he could. Plus the guy was a good driver.

He should get on the radio and put out this pursuit, he knew. But the air was full of useless traffic as the entire city seemed to be responding to the motel. The harsh buzzes and beeping clicks filled the airwaves as units covered each other’s transmissions.

He kept on the white Mercedes, yoyoing from just a few car lengths behind it to half a block as it took turn after turn. As he drew near during a straight stretch on Crestline, a muzzle blast flashed from the back seat. The bullet struck Chisolm’s windshield on the passenger side and sent spider-web cracks radiating outward.

Chisolm shifted left and gunned the engine. He reached out and depressed the microphone button. “Adam-112, shots fired!” he shouted.

Suddenly, the radio became very quiet.

Carson found the door to room 420 hanging awkwardly inward, held up by the bottom hinge. She rushed inside.

A man in a bloody white shirt squatted in front of Battaglia, who was crumpled in a heap, his back pressed to the blood-smeared wall. His dark uniform shirt was torn open and his vest hung loosely over the top of the attending man’s hands. Battaglia’s face was speckled with cuts and drying blood.

The man looked up at Carson. His face was grim. “I’ve called for medics,” he said.

“They’re coming,” Carson said, her voice squeaking. “I passed them.” She stood frozen in the doorway, suddenly afraid to approach Battaglia any closer. What if he were-

“That’s for the fire alarm, which is a diversion,” the man said. “They might not know about the gunshot victim. You should go guide the medics in so they can treat this officer.”

Carson didn’t move.

“Officer?” the man repeated.

Carson shook her head. “You go,” she said, finally stepping forward. “I’m staying with him.”

The man gave her a hard look and opened his mouth. “All right,” he said. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed her wrist. Carson started at the suddenness of the motion, but his grip was firm. He drew her downward. “Press here,” he said, forcing her hand against Battaglia’s abdomen. Warm blood seeped through her fingers.

“The bullet went through the vest,” the man told her.

No. Oh, no.

“Harder,” he barked.

Carson put her other hand on top and pressed hard with both hands. Battaglia moaned in pain.

“I’ll bring in medics,” the man said. He left her alone with a dying Anthony Battaglia.

2213 hours

“Adam-112, go ahead.”

Another shot flashed out from the rear of the Mercedes. Chisolm heard the loud clunk as it struck the doorpost on the passenger side of his patrol car.

He reached out and pushed the mike. “I’ve got the suspect vehicle southbound on Crestline from Rowan now,” he transmitted. “A white Mercedes with at least three occupants.”

Instinctively he tapped the brake and jerked the car to the right. At almost the same moment another shot rang out from the back of the Mercedes. He had no idea where the bullet went.

Chisolm pushed the button again. “They’re firing out of the rear of the vehicle.”

“Copy, Adam-112.”

Another mishmash of transmissions filled the airwaves.

“Goddammit,” Chisolm yelled. “Stay off the air!”

He veered left and accelerated. He was going to end this right now.

Carson stared at Battaglia’s bloody face. His eyelids fluttered open. He didn’t seem to recognize her. He moved his lips, but no sound came out.

She leaned closer. Her hands were warm and slick with Battaglia’s blood.

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes misting over.

She heard a weak rumble in his throat. He drew a wet, gurgling breath. Then he breathed out one word. Despite the deafening sirens that filled the air and the squawk and buzz of her own portable radio, she heard him clearly.

He said, “Rebecca.”

“Ivan! Shoot him with the shotgun!” Val ordered.

Black Ivan leaned between the front seats and extended the barrel of the shotgun past Val. Val leaned toward the side window, pulling Sergey’s limp form with him.

The loud boom of the shotgun filled the car’s interior. Flame extended out of the barrel. Yuri jerked, causing the vehicle to whiplash from side to side.

Behind them, the police car dropped back half a block, out of the effective range of the shotgun. This one was smart.

“Go to the warehouse,” he ordered Yuri.

Yuri swung a left on Wellesley and accelerated. The rotating blue and red lights kept pace.

“Soon there will be more police,” Val said. “Maybe even a helicopter. We need to switch cars.”

Carson stared into Battaglia’s eyes. His face was ashen, his expression almost childlike. Carson’s vision blurred as she blinked away tears.

O’Sullivan burst into the room behind her. “Batts!” he shouted. Carson looked up at him.

“Oh, no!” he yelled. “Oh, fuck, no!”

Sully fell to his knees beside Carson. His hands searched for injuries, brushing hers aside. “I got you, buddy,” he told Battaglia. “You’re going to be fine. Just hang tight for a little while. Medics are coming and they’re gonna fix you up.”

Battaglia turned his gaze to Sully. Carson watched the recognition come into his eyes. The beginnings of a wry smile touched the corners of Battaglia’s mouth, then dropped away. He mouthed something.

“Don’t talk,” Sully said. “Just hang in there.”

Battaglia shook his head slightly and moved his lips again.

Sully looked at Carson. “Go bring in medics,” he ordered.

She didn’t move. Instead she opened her mouth to tell him that the guy in the white shirt was already doing that. But Sully cut her off.

“Now!” he shouted. There was no room for compromise in his voice. Carson rose slowly to her feet. Sully turned his attention back to Battaglia. “Hang on,” Sully told him.

Battaglia’s wet, rasping words drifted up to Carson.

“Rebecca,” he said, his words coming out as a moan.

“You’ll see her soon,” Sully told him. “I’ll call her on the way to the hospital.”

“Tell her…” Battaglia started to say, then he closed his eyes and grimaced.

“I don’t need to tell her anything,” Sully assured him. “You can tell her yourself in a little while, okay? It’s going to be fine.”

Battaglia opened his eyes again. His expression grew more panicked. He raised his hand clumsily and beckoned Sully toward him. Sully leaned in.

Battaglia whispered something Carson couldn’t hear.

Sully pulled his head back. “No, no, no. None of that, goombah,” Sully said. His voice sounded strained. “You hang in there. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Battaglia’s eyes flicked up to Carson, then back to Sully. He opened his mouth again, but his eyes glazed over in pain and rolled back in his head. He took a deep, wavering breath that never came out.

“No,” Sully whispered. “No, no, no, no!”

Carson stood frozen next to him.

“Don’t you leave me, Batts,” Sully croaked. “Don’t you dare leave me, you fucking guinea bastard.”

Battaglia remained still.

“Goddamn it, Batts,” Sully sobbed. “Don’t you leave me!”

Carson watched him lower his forehead to Battaglia’s. Tears rolled out of Sully’s eyes and splashed onto Battaglia’s face, streaking the blood.

Next came a rush of heavy footsteps as firemen and medics burst through the door and brushed her aside.

“Let us in!” one of them ordered Sully. “Get out of the way!”

A crowd formed around the fallen officer, milling frantically in an effort to save him. Sully’s wailing voice mingled with the short, chopping exchanges of the medics as they worked on Battaglia. Carson stood back, transfixed. Then, slowly, she lowered her gaze to her own bloody hands.

2214 hours

Yuri pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse. The police car was half a block behind them.

“Pull right up to the door!” Val ordered.

He looked down at Sergey. He sought a pulse in the man’s throat, but there was nothing.

Sergey was dead.

The car screeched to a halt.

“Get the door!” Val yelled. He turned to Black Ivan. “Get out and cover us!”

Both men exited the car. Val used his shirttail to wipe down the handle and trigger guard of the.44 Magnum, just in case. Then he pulled Sergey up into a sitting position, put the gun in his hand, and wrapped his left hand around it. He squeezed Sergey’s finger on the trigger, sending a shot in the general direction of the pursuing patrol car.

He fired again. Then he dropped Sergey’s hand, which still clutched the heavy weapon. Now Sergey had the gun that killed Oleg and the policeman.

He scrambled out of the door and ran for the warehouse.

Chisolm slammed on his brakes as the shots exploded out of the rear of the Mercedes and struck his patrol car with a plinking sound. He jammed the transmission into park and flung open his door.

A lone figure bolted from the Mercedes and ran for the warehouse. A smaller man stood holding open a door. A third, hulking form stood with a shotgun pointed in Chisolm’s direction.

Chisolm drew his Glock.

The man with the shotgun fired. The spattering of buckshot ripped into the front of Chisolm’s car. The shotgun wasn’t nearly so devastating at this range.

Chisolm level his handgun and squeezed off three quick rounds. The large man ducked down, but the other two disappeared inside the warehouse. A moment later the big man popped up and cranked off another booming blast from his shotgun.

Chisolm ducked and heard the pellets biting into the car. He might be on the outside of the shotgun’s effective range, but that didn’t mean those pellets couldn’t do some serious damage.

A quick glance told him that the big man was holding his ground. He reached inside the car and depressed the microphone, shouting out his number and current location. He should have backup within thirty seconds. Until then-

Another shot tore into Chisolm’s car. One projectile whizzed past his foot along the asphalt.

Chisolm rolled out from behind the doorpost. He cranked off two shots, paused, then fired two more. Just as he was about to roll back into cover, the suspect popped his head up with the shotgun. Chisolm fired as rapidly as he could, peppering the target area with lead.

After eight shots his slide locked to the rear. Smoke billowed out of the barrel and the ejection port. Empty.

Chisolm ducked down and reached for his magazine pouch, dropping the spent mag from his pistol while he pulled out a fresh one. He rammed the magazine into the well, which popped the slide loose. It snapped forward and chambered a round.

Chisolm peeked over the top of the dashboard. No movement. He scanned the area for any sign of the suspect. When he saw none, he turned and crouch-walked to the rear of the patrol car. Using the cruiser for cover, he worked his way around to the far side and looked cautiously around the corner.

The large man lay sprawled out on his back several feet from the Mercedes. The shotgun sat harmlessly on the ground an arm’s length away.

Dead? Chisolm wondered. Or trying to draw me in?

The smart money was to wait for backup. Get the warehouse contained. Call in SWAT. Get the hostage negotiators out here to try to talk them out. Or gas the living shit out of the place and force them out. All better options than going forward from his position now.

Chisolm didn’t hesitate. He worked his way back to the driver’s side, got behind the wheel, and rolled his cruiser forward. Steam rose from the engine. The temperature gauge was pinned. When he got within ten feet of the Mercedes he killed the engine.

Chisolm moved tactically to a position of advantage behind his cruiser. At this distance he could see the dark wetness on the pavement beside the man’s chest. Chisolm took a deep breath and let it out. One down.

He worked his way back to the driver’s side. His radio was full of frantic cross-traffic. He hunkered down beside his driver’s doorpost and considered his situation again. Maybe the best thing to do was to hold his ground. The suspects might escape out the back, but going in after them was way too dangerous.

Chisolm reached for the radio to direct units into the area to set a perimeter. What he heard stopped him cold.

“Medics will be transporting Officer Battaglia to Holy Family Hospital,” a broken voice that he barely recognized as Sully’s transmitted. “I need officers to block intersections along the route.”

“Copy,” replied the dispatcher.

“Update his condition,” Lieutenant Saylor directed over the clear air.

There was a short pause, then Sully came over the air briefly. “Probably DOA.”

Chisolm holstered his pistol. Instead of reaching for the radio, he hit the button for the shotgun release.

2215 hours

Val ran through the dim light of the warehouse, nearly slipping in a small puddle. The slender Yuri scampered ahead of him like a rabbit.

He wished he’d had the foresight to bring a second gun. He’d heard gunshots being exchanged between Black Ivan and the cop outside, but now it was silent. If Ivan had won that battle, he’d already be joining them inside the warehouse. So the cop must have killed Ivan. That meant he was coming for them.

Yuri reached the far side of the warehouse and opened the door, but the small room was even darker inside.

“Wait!” Val shouted.

Yuri pulled up short. Val could see his outline in the darkness as he turned back toward him.

“Give me your pistol,” he ordered, holding out his hand. “I’ll hold off the police while you get the car ready.”

Yuri didn’t hesitate. He held out the butt end of his black 9 mm. Val took it, racked the slide, and rested his thumb on the safety. Yuri disappeared into the dark room. A moment later the outer door popped open and swung wide. Light from a streetlamp flooded in, haloing Yuri as he passed through the door.

Val looked away, searching the interior of the warehouse for the far door that he’d come through. The streetlight had taken away his night vision, so the best he could make out was a guess at the general location. He held the pistol loosely in his hand and waited.

Chisolm racked the shotgun to chamber a round. Then he made his way toward the door that he’d seen the other two suspects run through.

This is the stupidest thing you’ve done outside of Vietnam, he told himself.

He shook his head. He needed to focus. If they were waiting inside the doorway to ambush him, he was toast. He needed to get inside and buttonhook out of the fatal funnel, then move to some kind of cover.

His mind flashed back to a summer night several years ago when he tracked the Scarface robber’s blood trail through a field. He remembered the hatred in his heart as he followed the man who’d killed Officer Karl Winter and wounded Officer Stefan Kopriva.

Now one of these bastards had killed Battaglia. Maybe it had been the one with the shotgun, but it might’ve been one of the two who’d run into the warehouse.

Thomas Chisolm wasn’t taking any chances.

There would be no mercy.

Val heard Yuri pulling the tarp off the car behind the warehouse. A moment later a car door opened and the engine rumbled to life. Val smiled.

The door swung open across the warehouse. A shadow flitted through and disappeared into the surrounding darkness.

Val raised his gun and fired.

Chisolm ducked behind a half-filled pallet of boxes as the shots rang out. Rounds skipped across the pavement near him, but none hit him. He recognized the sound as a small caliber handgun. Probably shooting at a distance, maybe even from across the warehouse. Which made his shotgun less effective.

Chisolm waited a moment, then rose to a half crouch and fired in the general direction of the shooter. He knew it wasn’t the best tactic. For one thing, it gave his position away. But he wanted the son of a bitch to know he shot back.

Where was the second gunman? Chisolm dropped into a low crouch and shuffled around to the far side of the pallet. He waited and listened. He heard the faint sound of a car door close. Tires chirped and an engine raced.

Then it was silent.

“Drive quickly,” Val ordered, “but not too fast.”

Yuri nodded, steering the car out of the alley behind the warehouse and onto the main road. Val could hear the approaching sirens.

“Go that way,” he directed, pointing in the opposite direction from their arrival. “I don’t want to pass police cars on their way in. They may not be looking for this car, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

Yuri accelerated away from the warehouse.

Val looked over his shoulder. In the distance he saw flashing lights, but all of them clustered toward the warehouse. He smiled and turned forward.

“Police,” Yuri said, nodding ahead of them.

A single patrol car hurtled toward them, lights flashing and siren blaring.

Val’s smile melted. “Do as you’re supposed to,” he said. “Pull to the side and let him pass.”

Yuri’s face darkened for a moment, but he obeyed. He pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped. The two men sat in stony silence as the police car approached at Mach 2.

“If he stops, you go,” Val said simply.

Yuri nodded.

Val curled his hand around the pistol and waited.

The car flew past them toward the warehouse.

It was Yuri’s turn to smile. He looked at Val and raised his eyebrows. “We go?”

Val nodded.

It was done.

2216 hours

Chisolm stood at the rear of the warehouse, staring down at the car tarp on the ground.

Son of a bitch. They were gone.

He clenched his jaw and walked back through the warehouse. As he came through the front door, several patrol cars screeched to a halt in the parking lot. Chisolm held up four fingers, indicating that the situation was Code Four, under control.

Except it really wasn’t. Two of the shooters had gotten away.

Chisolm glanced down at the large man with the shotgun. The chest wound had continued to bleed, creating a large dark pool around his left side. Chisolm moved to the car and looked inside.

He saw another suspect lying on the back seat with a large revolver in his right hand.

Chisolm raised the shotgun. “Don’t move!” he yelled.

There was no reaction. Chisolm kept the barrel of the shotgun trained on the figure. Kahn and Hiero ran toward him with weapons drawn.

“I think he’s DOA,” Chisolm said. “But I’m not sure.”

Hiero crept up to the opposite side of the car and peeked in through the rear window. Then he lowered his pistol. “Head shot,” he explained. “This one’s dead.”

“Nice job, Tom,” Kahn said. The admiration in his voice was sincere, but Chisolm shook his head.

“Two of them got away,” he said. “It’s all shit.”

Part IV

Poetry escapes my heart today.

The words elusive, hidden, refuse to stay

Long enough to take the pain away

Or push and mold it in the recesses of my heart,

Like clay.

— Rebecca Battaglia

ELEVEN

Saturday, July 19th

0027 hours

Detective Ray Browning stood in the doorway of the hotel room, staring at the smeared blood against the wall. He didn’t use his detective eyes to examine the pattern or direction of the smear, though his mind clicked through those facts automatically: Victim fell against the wall sideways, slid down. Was likely turned to the right, back against the wall, prior to transport.

Mostly he just stared and thought to himself how that was Battaglia’s blood.

When was the last police officer death he’d investigated? Karl Winter, back in ’94? That had been something of an ambush, too. The driver of the vehicle later gave an account that mirrored what he and Detective Winokur, now retired, had determined from the examination at the scene. Here, though, he had the eyewitness testimony of the wounded FBI man, Agent Leeb. Too bad he was in the john at the time.

The tell-tale holes of a large caliber handgun in the door tied in perfectly with what Leeb had told him. To the right and down, he saw the scuff of a bootprint near the doorknob. His gaze drifted over to the doorjamb. The wood near the bolt receptacle was shattered. Browning ran his fingers over the splinters.

This was a carefully planned operation. Just like the gang shooting.

He stepped into the room and scanned it carefully. Small chalk marks showed where Battaglia’s body had been. That had been Officer Westboard’s doing. The quick-thinking patrolman did the same thing for the Russian lying in a heap in the corner, who’d been so obviously dead that the medics had left him in place.

Browning noted the large holes in the bathroom door, corresponding with the shotgun Leeb had reported. Several pellets of double-aught buck had torn into the agent’s right shoulder and knocked him back into the bathtub. Browning could see the torn metal on the outside edge of the tub. Falling into the tub had probably saved him.

The table against the wall had three chairs pulled up to it. Battaglia’s sunglasses sat on one side next to a pair of cards. Another pair were tucked neatly under a coffee cup in front of the chair opposite him. A small stack of dollar bills lay next to five upturned cards in the center. Browning wondered who had won the hand.

It didn’t matter. They both lost tonight.

“Detective?”

Browning looked up. A female rookie he didn’t know stood in the doorway holding the sergeant’s cellular phone.

“Yes?”

The rookie extended the phone. Her hands were clean but her sleeve and cuff were soaked in blood. “It’s for you.”

“Who is it?” he asked.

The rookie gave him a hollow, apologetic shrug. “Sergeant Shen just told me to give it to you.”

Browning strode to the door and took the phone. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, but tears glistened in her eyes. “Is Batts going to make it?” she asked him, her voice tremulous.

She’d obviously missed the radio traffic that Officer Battaglia had died before he reached the hospital. “What’s your name, Officer?”

“B.J.” she whispered. “Carson.”

He pointed to her sleeve. “How’d that happen?”

Carson looked down at the bloodied uniform sleeve. “I got here and he was shot. I tried to stop the bleeding, but…” She shook her head, then looked back up at Browning. “Is he okay?”

Browning paused. She was pretty shaken up. He was going to need longer to break the news than he had right now with someone, probably Crawford, waiting on the phone. Plus he’d need to interview her for the case.

“I need you to keep everyone outside of the inner perimeter,” he directed. “I’ll come talk to you in a few minutes, okay?”

The rookie seemed grateful for the task. She nodded and hurried back to the edge of the crime scene tape.

Browning put the phone to his ear. “Detective Browning.”

“This is Lieutenant Crawford,” came the gruff voice from the other end of the line. “I’m on my way up.”

Browning didn’t answer.

“Browning? You there?”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant.”

“I said I’m on my way up.”

“I heard you.”

“Well, goddammit, what do you have?”

Browning took a breath before answering. “Lieutenant, I’ve been here five minutes. All I can tell you is that I have a dead Russian and a murdered cop.”

“That’s it?”

“And that this was well planned and executed.”

Crawford cursed into the phone. “Do you need me up there?”

“No. I’ve got crime scene coming up to start processing. I’ll send Finch and Elias up to the hospital to do a more thorough interview with the FBI agent who was wounded after they finish canvassing for witnesses here at the hotel. Unless you want to make a statement to the media…”

“No,” Crawford said. “Not yet. I have a feeling the chief is going to want to handle this one.”

“That decision is above my pay grade.”

Crawford grunted. “I’ll head over to see Tower at the secondary scene. Call me if you need anything.”

“Will do,” Browning said, and hung up.

He glanced back to the scene, staring again at the bloody smear on the wall, which told him everything even though he didn’t want to see any of it. Then he turned away and went to talk to the shaken rookie.

0031 hours

As far as Detective John Tower was concerned, things had gone from horrible to not so bad to just about great and back again.

When he received the call-out, along with the news that an officer had been killed, that was the horrible part. His stomach was tight as he threw on his jeans, T-shirt, gun, and badge as Stephanie slept soundly on the bed behind him. He remembered when Karl Winter had been shot. He’d still been in Sex Crimes when that happened, so he hadn’t taken part in the investigation. But the loss of a popular officer less than a year from retirement had been… well, it had been horrible.

It stayed horrible for the entire drive to the Hillyard warehouse, where Crawford had sent him instead of the primary scene at the Quality Inn. It was probably a bit of a jab from the Crawfish, but the reality was that the lieutenant needed his most veteran investigator at the primary scene. That was Browning, no question. The fact that Crawford seemed to have it in for Tower probably didn’t have anything to do with his decision. Probably.

Crawford still seemed to blame Tower for every failed investigation that ever happened in the Major Crimes Unit. Just last year he’d worked on the Rainy Day Rapist case. Thanks to Renee, he’d managed to solve that case, even though it seemed to be going nowhere for the longest time. But all Crawford remembered was that the suspect attacked Officer Katie MacLeod before Tower managed to figure out his identity.

That was par for the course with him and Crawford. He wondered if it would ever change. He doubted it. Most likely it would just get worse.

By the time Tower arrived on scene at the warehouse, Chisolm had set up a solid outer and inner perimeter. He walked Tower through the scene, pointing out anything he thought was important. Tower followed along, sipping burnt coffee in a Styrofoam cup from the 7-Eleven and admiring how calm Chisolm seemed to be.

When the patrolman pointed out the dead suspect lying on the ground with a shotgun an arm’s length away, Tower smiled grimly. It didn’t get much easier than that to prove a case of justifiable homicide. And that was something better than horrible.

The dead body still clutching a.44 Magnum inside the white Mercedes definitely sealed the deal. Things at this crime scene were most assuredly not so bad.

Then FBI Agent Maurice Payne had shown up. That’s when things springboarded to just about great.

First, the patrol officer on the outer perimeter had refused him entry. After he flashed his federal credentials and berated the poor rookie, Payne ducked under the tape and stalked toward the inner perimeter. Tower sipped his coffee and watched him approach. Even in the dull light from the streetlamps he could see that Payne’s face was red and his features contorted with anger. He started shouting before he even reached the crime scene tape strung up between the power pole and a patrol car.

“What the hell happened?” he screamed.

Tower thought he was yelling at him. The tickle of annoyance at seeing Payne burst into full-fledged anger. Before he could reply, though, he realized that Payne was looking at Chisolm.

“Answer me!” Payne yelled. “What did you do to screw up a federal investigation?”

Tower looked over at Chisolm, whose face was stoic.

Uh-oh, Tower thought. This guy’s in trouble.

“Stay out of the crime scene,” Chisolm growled at Payne. “This is a city police scene.”

Payne was apoplectic. “A city scene? Officer, this is a federal case. And once I figure out what you did wrong here, I’ll have your badge. In fact, I’ll have you up on federal charges!”

Chisolm snorted. “For what?”

“You wait and see!” Payne shouted. He raised the crime scene tape.

“If you come inside this scene,” Chisolm said quietly, “they will have to bury you here.”

Payne stopped.

Tower raised the Styrofoam cup to his lips to disguise a grin.

Payne looked around for witnesses, but only Chisolm and Tower were within earshot. His expression grew frantic, then a sort of childish, helpless anger took over.

“Fine!” he snapped at Chisolm. “But you can add threatening a federal agent to the list of whatever charges you’ll be facing!”

“Go away, little boy,” Chisolm said.

Payne looked back and forth between them. Then, much to Tower’s surprise and extreme delight, Payne actually stamped a foot on the ground before turning and marching away. He stared after the agent in disbelief.

Chisolm shook his head. “He’ll never get it.”

Tower looked at Chisolm with new admiration. “Tom, you more or less just told a federal agent to go fuck himself.”

Chisolm grinned. “Second time this week, actually.”

And that, Tower decided, was just about great.

A moment later he saw Lieutenant Crawford’s unmarked car pull up, and that was the end of that.

“Here comes horrible,” he muttered into his coffee cup.

0112 hours

Captain Michael Reott rode in silence. Chaplain Timothy Marshall sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. Once he’d received the initial briefing from Reott, he’d remained quiet and thoughtful. Every so often he flipped open his bible and marked a passage with a bookmark.

As they turned onto Battaglia’s street, he asked Reott, “Her name’s Rebecca, you said?”

Reott nodded.

“And the two children are Margaret and Anthony?”

“Right.”

“Nicknames?”

Reott cleared his throat. “Uh, I don’t know.” He realized how little he knew about Anthony Battaglia, though the officer had worked under his command since he’d taken over the patrol division five years ago. He felt ashamed, though he knew it was impossible to know the intimate details of the 150 men and women he commanded.

Or is it?his inner voice asked. Reott ignored the question. Now was not the time to answer it.

He pulled into the driveway, verified the address, and got out of the car. Chaplain Marshall did the same. As they went up the walkway, the chaplain asked, “Do you know what denomination the Battaglias are?”

Reott shook his head. For all he knew, Anthony Battaglia was a Buddhist.

“No problem,” Chaplain Marshall said.

Reott reached the door. He wasn’t surprised to find the porch light on. Rebecca Battaglia was a graveyard cop’s wife. You always keep the light on until he comes home, the tradition went.

Reott ignored the metal knocker and rapped with his knuckles. There was no answer. He opted for the doorbell. A light upstairs went on after a moment, then a trail of lights throughout the house headed toward them.

Rebecca Battaglia opened the front door wearing a wine-colored satin nightgown. A white terrycloth robe hung untied in front of her. Her hair was disheveled and a line from a pillow seam ran down her left cheek. Reott spied a crucifix dangling low on her chest before she closed the robe about her, her expression questioning. At least that would help the chaplain do his part, if it meant that she was religious.

“Mrs. Battaglia?” he asked. “May we please come in?”

Then he saw the question leave Rebecca Battaglia’s eyes.

“No,” she whispered. “Oh, please God, no.”

After that, Reott didn’t speak another word. He let the chaplain handle the rest.

0314 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat in the living room of Sergey’s home. Marina’s weeping had tapered off in the last ten minutes, though there was still an occasional hitching sob. She lay with her head in his lap, her arms wrapped around his waist.

Across from him, Pavel sat in his father’s chair, his face white and unbelieving.

“I will kill all of them,” he whispered for the tenth time. “Every fucking cop in this city.”

Val would have expected Marina to correct the boy’s language and sentiment, but she was too wrapped up in her own grief. So he took it upon himself, though he didn’t imagine his sister would approve of his answer.

“All in time,” he told Pavel. “Better to kill a thousand one day at a time than try to kill a thousand in a single day.”

His nephew glared at him rebelliously. Val returned a hard, flat stare of his own. After a few moments, the younger man squirmed and looked away.

Val knew it would not always be so. He would have to win the boy’s loyalty or break down his resistance. If he couldn’t do either one, then that left only one other option.

As if on cue, Marina let out a low wail. The sound of her voice vibrated against his legs and stomach.

“What will we do?” she asked. “Where will we go?”

Val stroked her hair. “Everything will be fine,” he said. “We will go nowhere. I will take care of you.”

“How?” Pavel asked.

“I am your family,” Val said. “I will take care of my sister and you.”

Pavel shook his head. “No, I mean how will you do it? After tonight, the police-”

“The police will lower the hammer,” Val agreed. “They will do what they think is harsh to destroy us. But we will not be destroyed. We will remain when they are finished. Smaller, but stronger.”

“But my father had plans for this city,” Pavel said. “He told me about them. About controlling all of River City, and then even Portland or Seattle. Perhaps in a few years, we would move inland, to Idaho and Montana. He spoke of an empire-”

“Your father’s plans were ambitious,” Val said quietly. “But his plans must die with him.”

Pavel’s eyes flared. He pressed his lips together but said nothing.

“We will survive with what we have here,” Val said. “There is plenty to make us comfortable, if not rich.”

“It is a beggar’s empire,” Pavel said, his voice hard but shaky.

“Wealth is best measured by love,” Val said, quoting an old proverb, “not gold.”

Pavel did not reply. He swallowed and looked down at his hands.

Marina squeezed Val tightly at the waist. “You are such a good man, my Valera.”

Her words touched him in a way no other person could. Now that she was widowed, Marina was his. It would only be a short matter of time before he would move into this house with her and Pavel. She would be his woman, his companion. He would take care of her, love her, cherish her, and she would do the same for him. He would keep Natalia or some other suka on the side for certain needs, but in all other ways he would be loyal to his sister. His Marina.

Val smiled.

TWELVE

1123 hours

Renee sat in her office, reading through the first reports on the Battaglia homicide. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a Seattle Mariners T-shirt with the number eleven and her favorite ballplayer’s name on the back. Behind her, the coffeemaker gurgled and hissed.

She’d seen the light on in the chief’s office. The parking stalls belonging to several of the top brass, usually empty from Friday afternoon until Monday morning, were all full. It didn’t take a fortuneteller to know they’d be having a high level meeting today, given last night’s events. And it was just as sure that she’d be getting a call at home anyway, so it made more sense to come in on her own and get her ducks in a row.

She’d identified the guy with the shotgun almost immediately as the same Russian that Katie MacLeod had fought over a week ago during a domestic violence call. Ivan Cherny was his name. He had a local arrest history, and a triple-I check came back with several arrests in Seattle before he emigrated east to River City. She had a request in with Interpol, but that’d take several weeks to come back. Maybe she could get the chief to call and explain that they were investigating a slain officer. That might speed things up a bit, but she didn’t see the point. Cherny was a thug. He was muscle.

Sergey Markov was another matter.

As near as she could tell, he didn’t have any convictions in River City. Or even arrests. Or either one anywhere in Washington or the United States. She wondered what Interpol would have to say about him. If he had any arrests, they were probably a long time removed.

Markov owned nothing. His car and home were registered to his wife, Marina. He’d filed a tax return the previous year as a business consultant with very modest earnings, but enough to support the home and the car, barely.

And yet, when she’d asked Detective Tower about Markov’s clothing and jewelry, he told her that the dead man was wearing custom cut designer clothes. He had at least twenty thousand dollars worth of gold and diamonds in the necklaces and rings he wore. Plus, he’d been found dead in a white Mercedes that cost more than he supposedly made in a year.

Sergey Markov was a boss. She was sure of it. Proving it would be another matter.

Renee sighed. The last gasping sounds of her coffeemaker filled the room.

“Good,” she said. “I’m going to need the help.”

And then her phone rang.

1207 hours

The chief of police sat behind his large mahogany desk. His usually spartan desktop was scattered with piles of papers, which annoyed him. He went to great lengths to make his life orderly, and this mess was anything but.

Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford sat in front of him. Renee, the crime analyst who had proven to know her business better than some of his commanders, sat off to the side. He was secretly delighted to find her already at work on a Saturday when his secretary called her to come to this meeting.

He contemplated for a few moments. “What do we know that we didn’t know three hours ago?” he asked, looking at Captain Reott first.

“Not much,” the patrol captain answered. “We’ve still got troops on the perimeter to assist Homicide in the investigation, but our part as anything other than supporting the dicks is largely finished.”

“And you’ve notified the widow?”

Reott winced slightly at the description. “Yes. The chaplain and I were out there a little after 0100 hours.”

“She understood why it was you and not me?”

Reott nodded. “She’s a cop’s wife. She understood.”

The chief pursed his lips, thinking. It bothered him not to have been the one to tell Mrs. Battaglia that her husband had died in the line of duty. But he’d been in the early stages of a major crime investigation. It had been what he and his fellow military officers used to call a shooting war. And you didn’t stop to notify widows and orphans while the bullets were still flying.

He turned his attention to Lieutenant Crawford.

“We’ve got CFSU up at both scenes, processing the evidence,” he said. “I have lead detectives at both scenes, along with two support investigators at each scene. They have almost completed the canvassing at the hotel. Finch and Elias just finished debriefing Agent Leeb, the FBI agent from the hotel, about an hour ago.”

“That’s what you’re doing. What do we know?”

Crawford didn’t miss a beat. “Leeb couldn’t positively identify the dead scumbags over at the warehouse, but he said the car was the same one that left the hotel. Since Chisolm jumped on the Mercedes just as it was leaving the hotel, that gives us a good connection. More importantly, the two shooters at the hotel were armed with a shotgun and a large caliber handgun. The two dead mopes at the warehouse had a shotgun and a.44 Magnum.”

“But two got away?”

Crawford nodded. “That’s what Chisolm says. Two men. One of them fired at him inside the warehouse. We found 9 mm casings, so whoever fired was probably not the guy who shot Battaglia through the door. The cop killer was dead in the back seat of the Mercedes.”

“Chisolm shot them both?”

Crawford shrugged. “Hard to tell until the ballistics come back. Chisolm said he never saw the guy in the back seat until he came back out of the warehouse. Agent Leeb fired rounds into the Mercedes as it was leaving the hotel, so it could’ve been him.”

“The FBI agent shoots a 9?”

“Yeah. And Chisolm carries a.40, so we might be able to tell, if we recover any part of the bullet. Also, Tower might be able to tell us something from the blood patterns in the back seat.”

“Like what?”

Crawford shrugged again. “If he took a round at the hotel versus at the warehouse, you might see different smears and patterns. I guess it’s hard to make heads or tails out of sometimes. It’s like fucking voodoo, you ask me, but they say it’s scientific.”

“What’s next?” the chief asked.

“Well, the autopsy is tomorrow.”

“Already? That seems quick.”

“It is,” Crawford said. “But the wife requested that we expedite matters. She wants to bury him Monday.”

The chief nodded. “What else, then?”

“Forensics, mostly. But I don’t know that we’re going to get anything from the scene that will help us much. We may piece together the order of events a little better or confirm that our two dead assholes were in the hotel room, but I don’t know that we’ll get much more than that.” Crawford frowned. “Essentially, this is a solved case.”

“Solved?” The chief looked at him, astounded. “Lieutenant, two men got away!”

“I know,” Crawford said, unfazed. “The driver and the lookout. And I say we rattle every Soviet tree in River City and club the shit out of every Russian that falls out until we find them. But it looks like we already have the shooters. And that’s the core of the case.”

The chief sat and contemplated for a moment. He’d never been a cop nor an investigator, a fact he reminded himself of whenever he thought he might know better than someone who was both. Still, Crawford’s attitude irked him, even if the man was right.

He turned to Renee. “What do we know about these two dead suspects?”

Renee held a stack of paperwork in her hand, but she spoke without referencing it. “The one with the shotgun is Ivan Cherny. He appears to be criminal muscle, based on his arrest record. Most recently, he spent a couple nights in jail after assaulting his wife and then fighting with Officer MacLeod.”

“This is the guy who broke the officer’s leg?”

“Ankle,” Renee corrected. “Yes.”

“And he’s out two days later?”

“Welcome to our criminal justice system,” Crawford interjected. “We bust ’em, the judges let them bail out if they promise to do their homework, feed the dog, and not stay up too late.”

The chief scowled. He knew that jail was largely catch and release, but for assaulting an officer? He shook his head in disgust, then waved for Renee to continue.

“The man in the back seat was different,” she told him. “His name was Sergey Markov.”

The chief squinted at her. The name sounded familiar to him. “Wasn’t that one of the Russians the FBI was looking at?”

Renee nodded. “He was the suspected head, according to the FBI database that I had temporary access to.”

“Do they still think so?”

“I don’t know. When I came in this morning, my access had been revoked.”

“Revoked?”

She nodded.

“At oh-dark-thirty in the morning on a Saturday?”

She nodded again.

That little prick, the chief fumed. The one time having some FBI help might be worth the aggravation of dealing with people like Payne and they revoked her access?

“That sounds like something Payne would do,” Crawford said. “He was at the warehouse crime scene earlier, yelling at Chisolm for screwing up a federal investigation. He even threatened federal charges.”

The chief waved away the comment. He’d take care of Payne later. There was a newspaper reporter in DC who could whisper in the right ears for him, and the guy still owed him a favor from his days at Fort Belvoir, Virginia. And his old division commander worked at the Pentagon now, too. Payne would get his. Right now, though, the chief had some decisions to make.

“What do you think, Renee?” he asked. “Was Sergey the boss?”

She nodded. “Based on everything I could see, yes.”

“So why the hell is he doing the shooting?”

Renee paused for a moment. Then she said, “Well, sir, the witness they killed, Oleg Tretiak, was pretty much a traitor in their eyes. And being the bookkeeper for the operation, he was in a position to do a lot of damage. Eliminating him was obviously a top priority. And if the boss is the one who pulls the trigger and everyone in the organization knows it…”

The chief nodded. “Got it. Lead from the front.”

“Exactly,” Renee answered. “And send a message to the Russian community that you don’t turn state’s witness.”

“And that the boss is one mean son of a bitch,” Crawford added.

The chief considered. “A risky thing to do,” he said, “but I guess Sergey Markov believed the Romans were right.”

“Romans, sir?”

He met Renee’s questioning gaze. “Kill one, terrify a thousand.”

She nodded.

The chief sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, his mind clicking through information. He thought through several actions, anticipating the different dominos that would fall as a result. He considered the political angle, the community reaction, and the morale of the police officers.

Finally he leaned forward again.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” He pointed at Reott. “I want your patrol officers to work the neighborhoods where the Russians congregate. If anyone so much as spits on the sidewalk or tosses a cigarette butt, arrest them.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to Crawford. “Work every single case with a Russian suspect that comes into the investigative office. I don’t care if it’s a felony or not. Hammer anybody with a last name that ends in ‘-ov.’ See if you can get any of them to give up information on this shooting. If someone is willing, you can deal away any charges you need to except for serious crimes against persons.”

He looked at the collected group. “We are going to, as the lieutenant put it, shake a tree and club whatever falls out. But”-he raised a finger-“we do so carefully. We are looking for information, not vengeance. And understand this-we are only going to be able to apply this pressure for so long. After a while, the ACLU will raise a hue and cry. Then the feds will start looking at us. Those idiots probably already think we screwed up their case instead of them getting one of our officers killed. Even so, the last thing I want to deal with is the Department of Justice slapping a consent decree on our agency. Understood?”

Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford nodded.

The chief took a deep breath and let it out. “Then that is all, gentlemen.” He glanced at Renee and realized he had just excluded her. “And thank you, Renee.”

Renee gave him a tight smile. “You’re welcome, Chief.”

He watched the three of them file out of his office. Reott closed the door behind them. The chief leaned back in his chair and walked through the dominos that would fall now that he’d issued his orders.

He knew that the troops would rejoice at his orders and carry them out with vigor. He’d get a large boost of respect from them as a result. They’d remember how he turned them loose after their brother officer was killed. Sergeants would allow vehicle pursuits to continue a little longer if there was a Russian behind the wheel of the fleeing vehicle. Any call involving a Russian suspect would get answered. Some officers might find their pound of flesh, if any of the suspects were foolish enough to resist arrest or fight outright. He knew all of that as surely as he knew his own name.

Then, once the furor over the slain officer died down, the pendulum would swing. Activists and liberals would start decrying the “genocide” being perpetrated against the Russian immigrants. Cries of ethnic profiling-an accusation that was one step away from ethnic cleansing on the more radical agendas-would start to drown out the cries of cop-killer. It was sad, but he knew it was the way things would go.

He’d have to walk the fine line, reining in the troops before things got out of hand. He’d seen the riots in different cities throughout the years and there was one thing he knew for certain-any time that happened, the chief of police was the first to go. So he’d have to be careful and know when to throw on the brakes.

But in the meantime, he was going to kick some Commie ass. If only for a little while.

THIRTEEN

Monday, July 21st

1007 hours

Val sat in his coffee shop, sipping a Turkish coffee. The harsh black brew helped wake him up, but he didn’t need it to clear his mind. Everything that he’d hoped and planned for was happening. It didn’t go exactly as he’d laid it out, but that mattered little.

Sergey was gone. Now he was the boss.

At least the police were cooperating. Already he could see the emphasis that they were putting on his people. Last night they had raided Marina’s home-soon he would call it his home-and searched the entire place. For what, Val had no clue. They had Sergey, the one they thought murdered the police officer, didn’t they? Hadn’t they found him in the Mercedes, the murder weapon still clutched in his hand?

Of course, Val’s prints weren’t on the gun. Only Sergey’s. That would stop them from looking too far into this case. Their solution was gift-wrapped with a bow. The police had their killer. And Sergey would become the legend he wanted to be.

Even the way the police were lowering the hammer on all Russians played into his hands. With so much happening, he would be just one more foreign name in a crowd. It would only serve to unify the Russian community against the police. People would be even less likely to inform against him or any of his crew. In fact, most would turn to him and support him, just as they had when the Soviet government and the KGB oppressed the people in Kiev. The harder the police pushed, the stronger Val would become.

Everything had worked out as he planned. And as Sergey had observed, he’d even encountered some measure of luck along the way. Val smiled and looked down at his empty cup. Instead of the wasted, watery grounds of coffee in the bottom, he saw a bright future. Life was about to get much, much better.

He decided to have another. He snapped his fingers for Natalia. When she appeared from the back of the store, he admired the curve of her body. She noticed and accentuated the sway of her hips as she approached the table.

“What can I get you?” she asked, her eyes sultry.

“More coffee,” Val said. He allowed himself to relax a little. His smile broadened. “And then I think we will take a drive, you and I. Out into the countryside.”

She smiled back at him. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Bring a blanket,” he told her. “But first, more coffee.”

Natalia turned and sashayed toward the espresso machine. Val watched her go. Then he leaned back in his chair and stared out the window.

Life in America is good, he thought. I am well pleased.

1032 hours

At the cemetery, Chisolm stood straight and tall as the bagpiper played “Amazing Grace.” The mournful sound pierced him in his chest, but he refused to allow emotion to show on his face.

When the trailing end of the tune came, the priest stepped forward again and spoke of commending their brother’s body to the earth. Chisolm looked around at the assembled group. Most had been at Karl Winter’s funeral, too, four long years ago. It seemed like just yesterday when Chisolm had hoped he was attending a cop’s funeral for the last time. Now, here he stood again.

His eyes settled on B.J. Carson. Her expression was transparent, though she tried to put on a brave face. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her chin quivered.

Chisolm tried to imagine what she was feeling, but he couldn’t, other than in the most general sense.

Guilt. She almost assuredly felt guilt. Did he know that feeling? Oh yes, he did.

He wondered if he’d had a talk with Battaglia sooner, would that have made a difference? Would he have broken it off with Carson?

Probably not. Maybe if he’d talked to her, she would have listened. If she’d ended things with Battaglia, he would have never volunteered to take her spot up at the hotel. Then-

Chisolm pushed the thought away. They’d still be standing in the morning sunshine listening to a priest talking over a casket. The priest might be Presbyterian or Baptist and the body would be Carson’s, that was all.

He learned a long time ago that you couldn’t play the what-if game. Things happened the way they happened. Of course, that didn’t change whose fault it was. Or that he had let someone down.

Carson glanced his direction and looked away quickly, her expression momentarily flustered.

Chisolm took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Two honor guard officers lifted the flag from the casket and folded it briskly, snapping it into place and creasing each fold. The lead officer handed the folded flag to the chief of police and saluted in slow motion. The chief returned the salute, then presented the flag to Rebecca Battaglia. Chisolm couldn’t hear the words, but he knew their military equivalent.

Please accept this flag on behalf of a grateful nation.

Tears streamed down Rebecca’s cheeks. She took the flag and held it to her breast. The priest made the sign of the cross and uttered in Latin.

The casket was lowered into the ground.

Chisolm closed his eyes briefly and asked whatever gods may be to welcome Anthony Battaglia into the next life, if such a place existed.

He hoped it was a better world than this one.

1034 hours

Connor O’Sullivan sat with Rebecca Battaglia, her hand wrapped tightly in his. In her other hand she clutched the flag that had been draped over the casket. The chief had presented it, telling her, “Please accept this on behalf of the department and with the gratitude of the entire community.”

Those empty words did little for Sully as the priest spoke over the casket. He watched as they lowered his best friend into the ground. Little Anthony Junior sat on his grandmother’s lap next to Rebecca. Maggie, all of four, sat next to him. She leaned against his side, pressing her little head against his ribs.

The crowd slowly dissipated when it was over. He stayed with Rebecca as the stream of people came to offer condolences. She let go of his hand to accept their handshakes. Then, as some who were closer to the family offered hugs, she handed the folded flag to Sully. He clutched the thick cloth like a security blanket.

Maggie wrapped her arms around his waist. “I want to go home, Uncle Connah,” she said in quiet, earnest tones.

“Soon, sweetie,” he whispered down to her. “Soon.”

But it seemed like the consolations took forever. All the while he could feel a huge tension rising in his chest. He resisted the urge to scream out, to shatter glass and splinter wood with the power of his grief. But he kept his jaw clenched, clutched at the tri-corner folded flag, and stroked Maggie’s hair as she clung to him.

When the last of those offering condolences were finished, he escorted Rebecca and the kids to the waiting vehicle. Rebecca’s dad had already started the car.

He loaded Maggie into the back seat while Rebecca eased into the front. Sully looked at Rebecca. Her tear-streaked face and red eyes cut through his chest like a jagged blade. Part of the poem she’d written and then read at the funeral flashed through his mind.

My inseparable has been torn asunder. My forever is left with unspoken thunder.

His desire to scream doubled.

“I’ll see you later,” he found himself saying. “I’ve got to take care of something.”

Rebecca gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “It’ll just take a little while.” He motioned to her parents. “They’ll take good care of you. I’ll see you all in a bit.”

“Okay,” Rebecca said.

Sully handed her the flag through the open window and tapped the roof twice. The car pulled away, heading out of the cemetery and toward the Battaglia home.

Sully waited until the car was out of sight. Then he turned back to face the grave of Anthony Battaglia thirty yards away. Two gravediggers, who’d stayed at a respectful distance during the ceremony, had begun to fill the hole. He could hear each thud in the quiet morning air as shovels full of dirt struck the casket.

He turned his eyes skyward. He opened his mouth to take a deep breath. Before he was even aware of the sound, he let out a guttural, mourning wail. All of the strength went out of his legs and he sank slowly to his knees.

For a long time afterward, all Connor O’Sullivan could do was kneel and weep.

1115 hours

The Battaglia home was packed. Carson found a corner in the dining room and did her best to hide. She watched as Rebecca Battaglia tried to be a hostess for the assembled group. Every time she tried to do something, some well-meaning person took over the task for her. Carson imagined that she wanted to stay busy, but she eventually surrendered to the intentions of her guests and took to directing activity instead.

God, she’s beautiful, Carson thought.

Rebecca’s dark hair and Italian features seemed a perfect fit for Battaglia. And she was incredibly photogenic. Along the mantel of the fireplace and on the walls, she was confronted with family portraits, photo montages and snapshots, all featuring a beaming Rebecca Battaglia and an equally happy Anthony Battaglia. The photos of the two of them with their kids cut Carson right to the bone.

Maybe he really was happy with her. She was beautiful and gracious. Probably smart, too. Wasn’t that what Batts had told her once? That Rebecca was too smart for him? That he’d been the jock and she’d been the brain?

That was probably all bullshit, she decided. All a convenient story to make them both okay with his fooling around with her. It had to be. He hadn’t loved Carson. He loved Rebecca, and his kids. She was just a strange piece of ass to him.

That’s what it had to be. The only other possibility-that he really did love her, or even could-would make a day like today impossible.

Carson felt smothered by the presence of Battaglia and the photos of him and his wife and family. She felt every bit the interloper that she was. Should she even be here? She’d paid her respects to Battaglia by being at the funeral and the burial, but was she disrespecting his memory by being here?

She looked around. Every other member of the platoon was here, including Katie. It would be out of place for her not to come, even as a rookie. This is what a good cop did. That is, unless everyone knew.

Chisolm did, that much was certain. The piercing stare he’d given her at Battaglia’s graveside had told her everything she needed to know.

Her curse had followed her here to River City.

Cops milled around, talking in muted tones, sometimes laughing, sometimes embracing. The alcohol had begun to flow freely, and she realized that at least half of those present were still wearing their uniforms. Oh well. She couldn’t imagine a more appropriate time to have a drink in uniform.

She moved into the dining room and mixed herself a stiff whisky and Coke. The drink warmed her empty stomach. She made an even stronger one. Then she slipped back to her corner in the living room.

Not many of the other cops talked to her. A few greeted her by way of a quiet nod, but no one engaged her in conversation. She started to imagine a few sidelong glances. By the time she finished her second drink and was mixing a third, she was pretty certain that Chisolm had already spread the word.

Yes, sir, ladies and gents. Now you know. B.J. Carson is the department whore.

How long would it be before someone pulled her aside and told her it would be better if she left? Not just this house that she’d dirtied up, but maybe the department, too?

She gulped down her third drink. Her head was buzzing. Her limbs felt electric. She wanted that fourth drink, wanted to get past the electricity and into the blessed numbness that would surely follow. But now some of those glances seemed cautionary.

Well, who cared if they thought she was a lush on top of a slut?

She put ice in her plastic cup to mix a fourth drink, but spilled the soda when she tried to pour. She cursed. She’d meant to whisper it, but was vaguely aware that it had come out as a slurring shout.

Great, Carson thought. Rebecca composes beautiful poetry for her husband’s funeral and all I can do is scream obscenities in her dining room.

Then James Kahn was there, helping her clean up the mess. He smiled at her, and even though she saw right through it, his smile was a comforting fiction. When he offered to make her drink, she cocked her head and smiled.

“You know what?” she said. “What I could really use is a ride home.”

Kahn grinned at her, shark-like. “I can do that.”

“Good,” she said. “But let’s stop by the liquor store on the way.”

1242 hours

Special Agent Maurice Payne sat at his desk in the FBI office, eating a ham sandwich from a local sub shop. The place was owned by a fireman, but that was all right. It was cops he really didn’t think much of, other than a few of his fellow agents. Most of them were arrogant, self-serving, testosterone-driven monkeys, one step removed from the jungle or the savannah.

Chisolm was a perfect example. What a ridiculous excuse for a cop he was. Payne was willing to bet he’d been riding his tour in Vietnam and that ridiculous scar on his face for his entire career. Well, he’d fix Chisolm’s little red wagon. He had a friend over at the Department of Justice. It wouldn’t be too difficult to come up with something on Chisolm to bring to a grand jury. And what was it they said about the grand jury system?

He smiled and looked down at his ham sandwich. “A grand jury could indict even you,” he said.

There was little doubt he could coax the US Attorney to indict Chisolm. And even if he was eventually acquitted, what would his life be like during that time?

Payne smiled even broader. Thomas Chisolm had no idea the hell he was headed toward.

His phone rang. Payne set the sandwich down and wiped his fingers, irritated at the intrusion. The number on the display had a DC prefix. That caught his attention. He snatched the receiver and put it to his ear.

“Agent Payne,” he said in his most official tone.

“This is Deputy Director Baker,” the man on the other end of the line said.

Payne sat up straighter in his chair. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“I heard you had some movement in your organized crime case out there.”

“You did?”

“Why don’t you tell me about it.” There wasn’t a hint of a request in his tone.

“Uh, well, sir, thanks to the local PD, it’s been pretty much a disaster.”

“The locals, huh?”

“Yes, sir. They failed to provide adequate support on a protection detail. And then-”

“What about Agent Leeb?” Baker asked.

“He was on the protection detail,” Payne said.

“And?”

“And what, sir?” Payne didn’t want to sound like a tattletale, but Leeb had essentially failed in his mission. It wasn’t up to Payne to protect or hide incompetence.

“What’s his condition?”

“Well, sir, he was shot in the right shoulder.”

“I know that. I got your daily summary. I meant, how is he?”

“Oh,” Payne said. “Well, as of yesterday morning, he was stable.”

“Yesterday morning? Your agent is in the hospital with a gunshot wound sustained in the line of duty and the most recent update you can give me is over twenty-four hours old?”

Payne opened his mouth, but didn’t know what to say.

Baker continued. “What are you doing out there, Agent Payne? Sitting around eating tea and crumpets?”

Payne cast a guilty eye down at his ham sandwich. “Uh, no, sir. I’m trying to unsnarl the mess the locals made out of this investigation.”

“The locals again,” Baker said. “See, I heard it differently.”

“Differently, sir?”

“Differently.As in not the same.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“I heard it through the grapevine, Agent Payne, that you blew the operation.”

“Me?!”

“You. I also heard that you spent all your time out on surveillance instead of protecting a federal witness. What exactly did you get from all of your surveillance, Agent Payne?”

“Well, sir, nothing chargeable, but-”

“I also heard that you were rude to pretty much the entire River City Police Department.”

“Not true, sir. I-”

“Are you telling me that I’ve been lied to, Agent Payne?”

Payne hesitated. Depending on who gave Baker his information, that was an extraordinarily dangerous question.

“No, sir,” he finally replied meekly. “But perhaps there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.”

“Really?” Baker’s sarcasm was palpable. “Well, I will tell you what, Agent Payne. Why don’t you hop on a plane and fly back here to our nation’s capital, where you can better explain this misunderstanding to me. In person.”

Payne was struck momentarily dumb. Finally, he stammered, “Y-Yes, sir, I will. Right away-”

But by then he was already talking to a dial tone.

1916 hours

Carson woke suddenly. She’d been dreaming something horrible, but the images were gone almost as soon as her eyes snapped open.

What wasn’t gone was the horrible throbbing between her temples and the nausea floating in her stomach. She glanced over at the nightstand. A half empty bottle of Jack Daniels stood next to two used water glasses.

Two.Her and Kahn.

Carson closed her eyes again.

Christ.

She listened to the sounds of her apartment for a while, but was certain that she was alone. At least that was something.

Carson swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Her head swam and her stomach lurched. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The smell of whisky filled her nostrils and made her even more nauseous. She rose quickly and shuffled to the bathroom. She didn’t make it in time to get to the toilet, so she directed her vomit into the bathtub. The terrible, harsh retching tore at her gut and made her head throb like a pounding hammer.

When she was finished she rinsed her mouth, then gargled with some toothpaste and water. She looked at herself in the mirror.

Here you are again, Billie Jo Carson.

This is what she got. Standing in the bathroom, full of guilt, with the stench of a man she despised and too much whisky clinging to her like a leech.

She wondered how many people Kahn had already told about his latest conquest. The looks that had been surreptitious would come out now without much pretense at all. She’d be fending off every halfway interested guy in patrol before long.

And she knew she wouldn’t say no to all of them.

Especially not the married ones.Especially not now.

“I hate you,” she said to the face in the mirror.

She turned away and staggered back into her bedroom. She curled up on the edge of the bed and tried to cry, but nothing came out. The smells of whisky, sweat, and sex still hung in the air. She wanted to get out of there, clean up and go to work. But the bathtub was full of puke and what waited for her at work was even worse. Besides, she deserved to pay some penance. Huddling on the cold edge of her soiled bed was a start.

All eyes would be upon her, she knew. And with her new reputation, would it take long before Chisolm let it out about Battaglia, if he hadn’t already?

Not long. Gossip was human nature. Put three people in a room and two will gossip about the third.

Carson rocked on the cold edge of her bed, her thoughts bouncing around like a frenetic pinball. This was her life. To make the wrong choices. To never do the right thing.

Oh, God. If it came out about her and Batts, Rebecca would find out. Carson’s chest ached at the thought. She pitied the woman that she’d only envied and resented before. Seeing how Rebecca carried herself at her darkest hour only reinforced her own inadequacies.

And that poem of hers that she read at the service. Not in a hundred years could I do that!

Carson reached for the whisky bottle. She poured three fingers into one of the glasses with a shaking hand. When she brought the glass to her lips, her first reaction was more nausea. But when the liquid burned her mouth and throat and coated her stomach with warmth, she suddenly felt a little better. A little stronger.

She’d never live up to someone like Rebecca. Or Katie MacLeod, for that matter. Never be a good cop, never do the job. She wasn’t that strong. But maybe she was strong enough.

She remembered something she’d heard on patrol. Something that, when you really got right down to it, had brought everything to a head. What was the guy’s name who said it to her? Rod? Rob? The last name was Carew. Even her fractured mind inside her pounding head was able to dredge that up.

“Sometimes you just have to let a person sink to their lowest point,” he’d said.

“Well, B.J.,” she said, her voice gruff from sleep and throwing up, “it doesn’t get much lower than this.”

She took another swallow of the whisky, then a third to finish the glass. She put the glass on the table, stood, and walked to where she kept her off-duty gear. A shiny silver badge with her number gleamed in the yellow light of her bedroom. Next to that was her service pistol, the.40 caliber Glock.

She pulled it out of the holster and carried it into the bathroom.

Once inside, she closed the toilet lid and sat down. She let her mind flash back to the call that her and Batts went on. How had that woman done it? How had she made it so clean, so easy? She’d just toppled over and bled out in the sink.

Carson snorted. To hell with that. Her entire life was a mess. Why should this be any different?

She thought briefly of putting on some shred of clothing, but didn’t have the energy to care. Besides, how fitting was that? The department whore, found in the nude.

“Here’s to silent thunder,” she said with a thick tongue, her voice ragged. Or whatever the hell Rebecca wrote. It didn’t matter now.

Billie Jo Carson put the muzzle of the Glock under her chin, closed her eyes, and squeezed.

2009 hours

Chisolm stood at Battaglia’s freshly turned grave. He gazed down at the deeply etched letters on the headstone. He regretted that their last conversation had been a harsh one, but he knew that it had been the right thing to do. If anything, he should have had it sooner.

“I’m sorry, Batts,” Chisolm said quietly. “I let you down.”

The stone stared silently back up at him. Chisolm felt no sense of relief or forgiveness, but he hadn’t expected any.

“I’ll make it right,” he said.

He’d pull Carson aside over the next few days. He’d help her where he could and steer her to Katie MacLeod for the rest. She was part of the platoon now, and she deserved nothing less.

Chisolm glanced down at his watch. He had to get to the station and prepare for a graveyard shift. Battaglia would understand.

“Take care of yourself,” Chisolm said, “wherever you are.”

2032 hours

Connor O’Sullivan sat in his car, half a block away from Battaglia’s house. The engine idled while his foot rested on the brake. He felt guilty as hell for not coming to the house right after the funeral, but he simply couldn’t. All of the grief that had been pent up inside had come ripping out of him. He didn’t want anyone to see him like that. It was bad enough that the two gravediggers had come scrambling over to check on him. Besides, he wouldn’t have been any good to Rebecca or anyone else at the house. He would have been a burden, that’s all.

Still, he was embarrassed by his actions, so he stayed away a while longer. He ignored the phone when it rang. He didn’t check the two messages that someone left for him, sure that it was Rebecca. Probably worried about him.

He didn’t want to see anyone. What he wanted to do was crawl into a bottle for a few weeks and forget that his best friend was no longer among the living.

But that was wrong, and he knew it.

Battaglia was his best friend. That meant he owed it to Batts, and to himself, to be a good friend to Rebecca and the kids. Besides, if there was anyone in the world who understood how he felt right now, it would be her.

Sully released the brake and headed down the street.

There was more to it, he knew. He had a final message to deliver to her. Battaglia’s final words, muttered and bloody: “Tell her I’m sorry.”

Even as he lay dying, his best friend was thinking about his wife and how it would affect her. That was a great man, as far as Sully was concerned.

Sully didn’t know if he had it in him to be a great man. He’d made his share of mistakes. But he knew he could be a great friend. He could take care of Battaglia’s family for him.

That much he could do.

He pulled into the driveway, stopping short when he saw something in his path. He shut off the engine. When he got out of the car, he saw that it was Maggie’s pink bicycle, complete with training wheels and a bell. A rush of joy washed through him, tempered with sadness. Sully grabbed the bike by the center of the frame and carried it up the walkway with him. When he reached the front door, he didn’t hesitate.

He put a smile on his face.

He took a deep breath and knocked.

Content

Frank Zafiro
And Every Man Has to Die

Part I

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

Part II

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

Part III

TEN

Part IV

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN