Chapter Sixteen
Yefimov opened the door and stepped into a deserted alley behind the Bronze Monkey. James, LT, and Anatoly filed out behind him. Twilight was falling, but Quinn could still easily see the surroundings through James’s and LT’s cameras.
Yefimov spun around and rammed his fist into James’s gut.
James doubled over and groaned in pain.
Quinn leapt to her feet. “Son of a bitch!” She threw off her headset and sprang for the back door of the van.
Yonatan clamped a hand around her wrist and yanked her back into her seat. “You rush in now, you’ll blow up the whole op. Let it play out.”
She conceded his point with a snarl, jammed her headset back on, and checked James’s feed. It rose from his dress shoes to Yefimov’s face. “What the hell?” James wheezed.
Yefimov grabbed James by the lapels and yanked him up straight. He expelled a loud grunt when the Russian smashed him against the wall.
Sharing James’s point of view, she saw over Yefimov’s shoulder that Anatoly had LT’s arms pinned behind him.
Her cheeks flamed hot with fury. “I’m gonna kill that bastard if it’s the last thing I do.”
In a freakishly calm voice, Yonatan said, “Dave, be advised. Yefimov is flexing his muscles in the alley. We’ll let you know if it gets out of hand.”
“Copy,” came his mumbled reply.
Yefimov’s face filled the screen. Nose to nose with James, he spat, “You come to steal my drugs.” He swung at James’s face.
James raised an arm and blocked the punch. He broke Yefimov’s grip on his lapel with the other and threw a right cross. Yefimov’s head snapped around when knuckles connected with jaw.
At the same time, LT spun out of Anatoly’s grasp and put him in a chokehold. The more Anatoly struggled, the tighter LT’s massive arm cinched around his throat. With his eyes bulging, Anatoly’s red, blotchy head looked like it was about to explode like a squeezed balloon.
James stepped into Yefimov, put his shoulder into the other man’s chest, and kicked Yefimov’s leg out from under him. He landed flat on his back with a thud. Panic flashed in Yefimov’s eyes as he stared down the barrel of James’s Sig Sauer.
Panting, James asked, “Steal your drugs? What in blazes are you talking about?”
Yefimov held his hands up to shield his face, as if they would miraculously stop a fired bullet. “You are part of alliance between British and rival Russian syndicate come to take over my drug operation.”
“I don’t bloody know anything about that,” James said.
“I came to you with a simple business transaction, and I get punched in the gut. You know what, mate? Bugger off.” James jammed his pistol back in his holster. “There are plenty of others in this city who will jump at the chance to take my money.” He jerked at the front of his suit jacket and smoothed a hand over his hair. “I’m sure your boss will be very understanding when this business you run for him goes down the crapper after I tell my employer about this little run-in.” His voice oozed sarcasm.
LT released Anatoly when James sent him a sharp nod. The big Russian dropped to his knees and gulped down mouthfuls of air.
Quinn pressed a palm to her forehead as James and LT stepped over the prostrate Yefimov and strode away.
“Come on, Yefimov,” Quinn urged under her breath. “Stop them.” She barely dared to breathe as she watched James and LT walk down the alley.
“Wait!” Yefimov shouted.
James and LT slowed their gait.
“Yes,” Quinn whispered in victory.
“Wait,” Yefimov said again. “One hundred fifty thousand euros. And you speak to no one about this misunderstanding.”
James and LT stopped and slowly spun around. The Russians were now on their feet. “You sucker punched me, comrade,” James said evenly. “One twenty-five.”
Yefimov took a step. “One hundred thirty thousand.”
James stared at him. “Against my better judgment,” he said after what felt like an interminable pause, “you have a deal.”
The Russians hurried forward and joined them.
“You touch me again and I will end you.” The restrained yet menacing tone in James’s voice sent a chill up Quinn’s spine. He meant every word.
Yefimov’s swagger returned as they exited the alley and proceeded down the sidewalk. It was clear he was trying to reassert equal status with James. The furtive, anxious glances he sent James’s way belied his bluster.
Yonatan tapped at the keyboard of his laptop and pulled up a street map. The red and green dots, James and LT, moved toward the blue one, the signal from Quinn’s phone in Mila’s possession.
“Dave,” Quinn said, “James and LT are headed for the target.”
“Roger that,” Dave said in acknowledgement. On the map, his orange dot exited the Bronze Monkey and started for the building one block over, where the kids were held captive and drugs were processed.
The four men passed a building undergoing renovations, surrounded entirely by scaffolds and green netting, and turned onto a side street. They passed through a set of graffiti-tagged wooden double doors in a brick building discolored by layers of city grime and into a small, gloomy lobby. In its prime, the building would have been impressive, with its façade adorned by small statues and bas-reliefs. Now it was one of many suffering from decades of neglect and urban decay.
They climbed three flights of dingy stairs and walked down a poorly lit corridor lined with apartment doors. Halfway down the hall, Yefimov unlocked and opened a door on their left. They entered a room furnished with several ratty chairs and a sofa from when Saint Petersburg had been known as Leningrad. Two very large men sat on the sofa watching television. One was the burly and certainly armed Viktor. Quinn didn’t recognize the other. But he was equally intimidating. They both rolled to their feet but then sat again when Yefimov informed them everything was fine.
A sturdy, middle-aged woman with hair the color of red bricks came into the parlor from a side door. Her face was pinched, with the corners her mouth turned down in a permanent frown. She warily eyed James and LT from under plucked and penciled-in eyebrows. Quinn recognized the voice and sharp tone when the woman spoke. Mother Olga.
Speaking in Russian, Yefimov informed Mother Olga James was there to check the quality of their drugs before purchasing a substantial quantity. Quinn rolled her eyes when Yefimov bragged he’d so masterfully negotiated the deal James was practically throwing money at him. “What a lying bag of flaming dog crap,” she muttered under her breath.
LT choked and cleared his throat with a rumble.
James followed Yefimov through a different door from the one Olga had come. They walked into a bigger room crowded with three large, rickety tables. Three kids sat at each. From their size, she guessed them to be between the ages of ten and fourteen. Quinn couldn’t tell which was Mila or Pyotr, mostly due to the disposable surgical masks each wore. At one table, three kids moved a variety of colored pills from open boxes into small zip-top plastic bags. At the other two, white powder was put on scales before going into the individual bags. Another large, scary-looking man sat at a desk stacked with currency. He scowled at James before running a pile of euro notes through a counting machine. A thin bottle blonde, presumably Zhanna, hovered over the kids and barked at them to work faster.
“We have high-quality heroin from Afghanistan,” Yefimov said, pointing to one of the tables. “Perhaps your employer would like to offer it to his guests as well.”
James sniffed. “No, thank you. It’s a little too . . . street.”
“As you wish.” Yefimov stepped over to the center table. “Our cocaine.”
James tapped the tip of his middle finger to the mound at the center of the table and rubbed the powder between his finger and thumb. Then he held it near his nose and sniffed. “Very good,” he said and brushed it off his finger. He jutted his chin at the table. “How many workers do you have?”
“Why do you ask?”
“My employer might be interested in acquiring some domestic help. Perhaps we can purchase a couple of these.”
“I have fifteen, but they are prized workers. I can sell you others.”
Quinn hoped the six unaccounted for were asleep and hadn’t been sold off.
“I’ll take it up with him and let you know.” James removed the envelope from his pocket and handed it to Yefimov. “Twenty-five thousand euros.”
He snatched up the envelope and thumbed through the notes.
“You will receive the balance when I come to pick the product here Thursday at noon.” He turned and walked toward the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he looked back over his shoulder. “A friendly warning, Mr. Yefimov. Do not cross me in any way. That would not end well for you.” His words were as precise as they were chilling.
James opened the door and stepped into the hall, leaving an ashen Yefimov behind.
LT trailed James and shut the door behind them.
With long strides, they covered the distance to the stairs and bounded down them two steps at a time.
“Dave, what’s your location?” James asked.
“Across the street from the building,” came the reply. “I’ll stay here until you’re clear and make sure no one tails you.”
“Much obliged,” LT said. He took the lead and opened the doors to the street. Quinn heard a rusty creak behind his voice as he spoke.
Outside, it was now dark. From Dave’s feed, James and LT were nothing more than shadowy figures striding purposefully down the sidewalk. When they disappeared into the darkness, Quinn studied the map on Yonatan’s laptop. “You don’t want to go past the Bronze Monkey again, so don’t turn at this corner,” Quinn said. “Go up another block and turn right.”
“Copy that,” James said.
Three minutes later, the back of the van opened. James and LT climbed in and sat on the floor. Yonatan scrambled into the driver’s seat. He had the engine running by the time Dave hauled himself into the passenger seat.
Yonatan gunned the engine, and as he pulled the van away from the curb, Quinn took her place on the floor next to James. She laced their fingers together and rested both hands on her lap.
He took off his glasses and gazed into her eyes. In his, she saw flinty resolve. “We’re gonna save them.”
She cupped his face and stroked his fake whiskers with her thumb. “Yeah. We are.”