Dmitri walked a half block from the SUV to Thompson’s house. He saw a light in a second story window. He looked over the house, then up and down the street.
Dmitri knew he should have waited until late at night, when Thompson would be asleep, and no nosy neighbors would be peeking through their mini-blinds.
But he was too mad to wait.
If it were 3 a.m., he could have scaled the wall like a ninja, hopped over the balcony and gone right into the bastard’s room while he was snoring. He could have finished him off quietly with a pillow over the face or his hands around T. T.’S neck.
Kicking the front door down and charging up the stairs was another option. In fact, it wouldn’t have been the first time Dmitri invited himself into somebody’s home that way, and he’d always enjoyed it.
But I want to keep this quiet. The cops show up fast when someone in a rich neighborhood calls 911, Dmitri thought.
Well, I’ll just ring the doorbell. Little Timmy should answer, even after he sees me through the peephole.
Otherwise, he’ll be admitting guilt. He has to plead his case, pretend like everything is normal. Even a dimwit like Timmy knows he can’t hide under the bed forever, Dmitri thought as he strolled up the long walkway to the huge house.
The fucker bought this mansion with my money, and the pay wasn’t good enough? He wanted even more bribes, and he took them from anyone willing to offer.
Dmitri rang the doorbell.
Thompson stepped out onto his balcony in a purple bathrobe and peered down.
Dmitri looked up at him and gave his most charming smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Thompson. Do you have a minute to chat? I don’t trust the phone these days.”
There was hesitancy in his eyes, but Dmitri was right. Thompson knew he couldn’t panic and hide, or he’d basically be confessing. What he didn’t know is that it was too late. He’d already been tried, convicted and sentenced.
“Sure, Mr. Veselov. I’ll be right down.”
Dmitri nodded, then stared straight forward at the door and took a deep breath.
Thompson opened his top dresser drawer, pulled out a snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver and slipped it behind his back, sticking it in the waistband of his silk boxers, hidden by his robe.
He looked in the mirror on his wardrobe, and like Dmitri, inhaled deeply and heavily exhaled.
The politician walked out of his bedroom, down the hall, downstairs and to the front door.
“Mr. Veselov, what a pleasant surprise…”
“Cut the bullshit,” Dmitri said, shoving open the door that Thompson had cracked ajar.
In an instant, he had the small man’s neck in his gloved hand. He shut the door as he held the frightened councilman against the wall by his pudgy throat.
“Okay, T. T., don’t waste my time. I know what you did. Now tell me who you’re working for.”
Dmitri pronounced the nickname T. T. like “tittie.”
Thompson could feel the .38 pressed between his back and the wall. He hoped it would not slide out and drop to the floor.
He did his best to act confused, contorting his eyebrows even as Dmitri choked him. He was used to convincing voters, journalists, and everyone else to believe his endless lies. Normally, he could breathe while doing so.
“Time to sit down,” Dmitri said, gesturing to a chair in the foyer.
He dragged Thompson by the neck and shoved him into the chair. Then he stomped back and forth, not shouting but speaking in a threatening tone. His calmness was somehow even more frightening than rage would have been.
As Dmitri spelled out the details of his knowledge about how Thompson had betrayed the Veselov family, the politician started to sweat.
Sweat ran down his bald forehead. It ran down his back too. Right along the edge of his pistol.
“Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Veselov?”
“No, stay there.”
“As you wish. Oh, is that my wife coming down the stairs?”
Dmitri knew T. T. wasn’t married, but he looked over at the stairs reflexively.
Thompson used that brief distraction to stick his hand into his robe and grab the gun, fumbling with it for a second.
A second too long.
After glancing at the stairway and not seeing anyone, Dmitri knew something was wrong. He looked back at Thompson, who was about six feet away.
Dmitri pounced. The young Russian was big, but he was nimble for his size. He lunged forward and had Thompson’s bony wrist in his fist just before he could cock the gun.
He calmly crushed Thompson’s forearm until the pathetic man whimpered and dropped the weapon.
Dmitri struck T. T. across the face with the back of his hand, which might as well have been a sledgehammer.
Thompson looked shocked. He looked like he wasn’t sure if he should scream or pass out. He avoided both, for the moment. Instead, he begged.
“Mr. Veselov, please. I’ll make it up to you. I needed the money. Gambling debts. I’m an idiot, I know. A weak man. Not a bad man.”
Wham!
Another slap across the face, this time from Dmitri’s callused palm.
“It’s worse to be weak than bad,” Dmitri mumbled, more to himself than to the quivering politician.
Thompson’s voice heightened to a squeal as he pleaded for mercy.
“I’ll sell my house and give you all the money. I’ll sign over my paycheck to you every week. I’ll do anything.”
Thwack!
Dmitri’s knuckles tore into Thompson’s face. He let his fist do the talking this time.
Thompson was hysterical now.
“What do you want? Blackmail info on other politicians? Inside information on stocks? I’ve got it all!”
“And yet you’re broke? Hmm, I don’t think I need you as my financial adviser.”
Dmitri spoke without looking at the groveling man who was now kneeling before him on the floor.
Instead, he picked up T. T.’s .38 and inspected it. It was a finely built weapon with a pearl handle, a sleek stainless steel body.
He spun the cylinder of the revolver. It was silent, and so perfectly crafted it seemed to spin forever without friction.
Dmitri smashed the barrel of the gun across Thompson’s head. The pistol made a sickening thud as it collided with the bald skull. Thompson blacked out.
Dmitri looked at the weapon again and nodded approvingly. It wasn’t bent or dented in the slightest.
Some of the handmade guns he’d used in Russia would have cracked in two if they encountered such a hard head.
He reached down and shook Thompson, jolting him back to consciousness.
“T. T., you fucked up when you betrayed me. The only thing I want to hear out of your mouth now is who you’re working for. Who set up my crew? Who’s trying to move in on my turf?”
“Dmitri, Mr. Veselov, sir. I know you won’t believe me. I know it sounds ridiculous. But I don’t know.”
Dmitri emptied five of the six cylinders of the revolver, dropping the bullets onto the carpet.
“You like to gamble, right? Okay then, let’s play a game from my country. Russian Roulette, you know it?”
Thompson’s face went pale.
“No, please no,” he muttered.
Dmitri spun the cylinder, pulled back the hammer, held the gun to the crying man’s head and pulled the trigger.
Click.
“Oh thank God,” Thompson moaned, tears now streaming down his face.
“Who hired you, T. T.?”
“I swear I don’t know. They kept it secret. I was stupid to work that way, I know. But the cash they sent me, the briefcases of hundred dollar bills. I couldn’t resist.”
Thompson’s eyes were closed as he spoke. He heard the faint cocking of his gun, and braced himself for oblivion.
Click.
“I’ll ask you one more time. Who is it?”
“I’m telling you, they arranged it all in secrecy. Random girls as messengers, throwaway cell phones, like a spy movie. Maybe it was the FBI? I know this sounds crazy, but you’ve got to believe me…”
Dmitri did believe him. This idiot didn’t know anything.
So he raised the gun again.
Click. Click. Click. Bam.
He won the game of Russian roulette, like he always won.
And Thompson lost, like he always lost.