Micah

 

I had to give Kaci credit. Of all the women who'd spent the night at my house, she'd been able to pull off two firsts: not getting laid and trying to poison me.

 

The first one, that was pretty understandable. After all, I'd drugged her and left her in the guest room, and didn't even bother to undress her.

 

The second one, I had to admit was a bit more surprising. Thank God she'd over-poured whatever it was she'd poisoned my drink with. She'd put enough in there to make it smell like the inside of a meth lab.

 

As she and I headed out to my grandfather's, with her riding bitch on my bike, I couldn't help but wonder why. Why try and kill me? Last night was the first time I'd met her, before that I didn't know her from fucking Eve.

 

Had it been the spanking? Inside my mind, I shook my head. Nah, no way. Unless, of course, she was real batshit crazy. A life on the fringes of everything could get into your head, though, make you do things no sane person would ever do. People like us, we lived by different rules than your suburbanite middle Americans.

 

Could she think I was responsible for something else, that I really did own her now? Like, she was going to be sold to me that night, and the only way to get her freedom was to off me?

 

Or, maybe, there was a more sensible option. One that, as she tightened her arms my waist and trailed her long nails over my six-pack, I didn't want to admit to myself. Not because it wouldn't make sense, but because it would show just how stupid and trusting I was when it came a pretty face.

 

What if she was sent by the Thunder Kings MC, our biggest rivals? What if they knew we were meeting with Abram, somehow, or they'd set it up to begin with, and she was meant to assassinate me?

 

Whatever her reasons were, though, her little plan hadn't worked. And, as we made our way up I-55, across the edge of Lake Maurapas, I aimed to make sure things stayed that way. After all, I still had some repair work to do around my Grandpa's place.

 

# # #

Kaci

 

As I shook Micah's grandfather's hand, I realized for the first time just how crooked a man could be. Honestly, I was surprised that the president of the God’s Hellfire MC could even walk straight.

 

“Wow,” I said as I looked around the den, “all these FBI medals are yours?”

 

Quentin laughed a big belly laugh. Even for a man in his seventies, you could tell he liked to laugh and have a good time. And, from that belly that produced such a great, full laugh, you could tell the man liked his Cajun. Cap it all off with a shock of silver hair and great, big, bushy eyebrows, and you had the perfect picture of a doting grandpappy. “Yep, all mine,” he said, “earned 'em back in my prime, when I was just a little older than my grandson, here.”

 

I whistled low and gave him a winning smile. “Come on, Quentin,” I teased him, “you ain't even hit your prime, yet, and you know it.”

 

He laughed again and nudged Micah with his elbow. “I like this one,” he said. “She strokes the ego just the right way.”

 

But, as I watched the way the grandpappy and grandson got along, and as I looked around the den of the older man's home, I realized one thing: I couldn't ever go to the cops about my problem, or about the criminal organization I knew the Don was running. As corrupt as the local cops were, and boy were they corrupt, I'd never thought it would go all the way up to Washington. Not like this.

 

Any whiff of trouble, and Micah's grandpappy would just yank him out of the fire before the cops even knew what happened.

 

Micah was protected, virtually a made man.

 

Which meant that, as nice as Quentin seemed, he was just as crooked as his grandson. There was no two ways about it.

 

That meant I'd have to stick with my original plan, after I'd gotten Sydney out. Weasel my way in, get in under his skin, then strike. Cut the head of the snake and the body dies. Then, maybe, I'd have my revenge.

 

But, as I watched the two men interacting, it was hard to reconcile what I knew to be the truth with what I saw right in front of me. Just two men that seemed to love each other.

 

“Shoot,” Quentin said, snapping his fingers, “I sure am a poor host. Y'all two want tea or a beer or anything?”

 

“Tea for me,” Micah said. “Still gotta get to the repairs and stuff. You, Kaci?”

 

“Beer?” I asked.

 

“Anything for you, sweetie pie,” Quentin said, then turned around and bustled off into the kitchen. I could tell from the way he was acting, he just seemed tickled that Micah had brought someone along with him. And even more tickled that someone happened to be a pretty girl.

 

“He's in a good mood today,” Micah said after his grandpappy was out of earshot in the kitchen. There was a certain satisfaction to his voice, and I could tell he was happy that he brightened the older man's day.

 

“It's because he thinks I'm your girlfriend,” I said in an almost sing-song voice as I sidled up next to him.

 

It took him a moment, but eventually Micah made a face as he realized I was right. “Shit,” he groaned.

 

“Ain't my fault,” I said, grinning as I twisted the knife, “I'm just along for the ride. I ain't the one breaking the old man's heart.”

 

“You like to cook, Kaci?” Quentin called from the kitchen. “You should come in and see this kitchen, if you do.”

 

I raised an eyebrow at Micah, but he just shrugged. “It really is a nice kitchen,” he said.

 

I could barely make mac and cheese from a box without setting the whole block on fire. But, still, being a working girl meant being an actor. I headed into the kitchen and put on the proper face, one of astonishment and awe. In this case, it wasn't too difficult. The kitchen was all granite and chrome, with a great big professional-looking cooking range and a fridge big enough to store a dead gator in.

 

“Impressive, huh?” Micah said from behind me.

 

“Yeah,” I agreed as I walked further in.

 

“Take a seat,” Quentin said, gesturing to a set of barstools that were pulled up to the counter. “Take a load off.”

 

“You know, Gramps,” Micah said, “there ain't exactly a law saying every woman need to know how to cook nowadays.”

 

Quentin laughed that huge laugh of his again, filling the kitchen up till it felt like the windows were bowing out in their frames. “Oh, I know, Micah, I know.” He turned to me, smiling as he placed an open Abita in front of me. “You see, Kaci, Micah's Grammy couldn't cook a lick. Not a dang lick. This was all for me.”

 

I grinned back at him and took a swig off my beer. It went down smooth and cool.

 

He slapped his belly and laughed. “See this? Liking food's the Marlow curse.”

 

“Always figured the Marlow curse was more about liking the food too much, Gramps.” Micah said.

 

Quentin Marlow laughed again, and I swore I heard the window panes almost crack.

 

We talked a little more after that, going back and forth and dithering on certain topics. Quentin didn't pry too hard about my past, or my age, and I made up lie after lie about my childhood. It came out of my as habit, this need to protect my past, my privacy.

 

Finally, though, when there was a lull in the conversation, Micah added something that was a little unexpected. “Hey, Gramps,” he said after a moment. “Caught the news last night. You hear about that executive getting killed in the Hilton? That Abram Ivanovich guy.”

 

My ears perked up immediately. Abram Ivanovich . . . was an executive? What? I thought he was just some skeezy gangster-pimp, tied up with God’s Hellfire!

 

The old, retired FBI agent's face went sour, like he'd bit into a bowl of etouffee expecting crawdad, but got a cockroach instead. “Yeah, I saw,” he said, almost spitting the words. “Serves the bastard right, I'm sure.”

 

Micah made a face as he took a sip of sweet iced tea. He set the sweating glass down on the granite counter. “You alright there?”

 

Quentin shook his head and waved it off. “Oh, it ain't nothing. Just that whole company that guy was tied up with, Petrov, it never should have been allowed to start in the first place. We told the State Department and the ATF not to let the licensing go through, but they wouldn't listen to me or my partner.”

 

I cocked my head to the side. Abram worked for some company I'd never heard of, but the government was involved somehow with it. That was interesting.

 

Micah clearly thought so, too. He leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes intently locked on the old man. “This is juicy,” he said, grinning.

 

“Oh, Kaci don't wanna hear any of my old stories from back in the Bureau,” he said, suddenly self-conscious.

 

“Sure I do,” I said, taking another big suck off my beer. If it was tied to the man who murdered my brother, I was all fucking ears.

 

Quentin sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He wasn't exasperated, or anything, but I could tell he was collecting his thoughts and getting all his ducks in a row. He leaned back on the counter behind him, perching his butt right on the edge.

 

“Alright,” he began, “so back in the late 80s, early 90s, the USSR collapsed, right? Well, in all that chaos that happened, there was a big spike in organized crime. Russian Mob types. There'd always been underground crime, of course, cause there always is. That's just facts. But, the reds, they kept everything tamped down real tight, managed it. When the government collapsed, though, all that scum rose to the top, like when you're making a good chicken broth.

 

“Now, out of these, rose up a man named Efraim Petrov, called him The Bear. He made his money running guns into Chechnya, before and after the collapse. Eventually, though, this wasn't quite as lucrative anymore, not for how dangerous it was. So, he started running arms elsewhere, to little hotspots we might've had an interest in at the time, places like Central America-”

 

“Wait,” Micah interrupted. “So, the owner of Petrov is an ex-gun-runner?”

 

Quentin nodded and Micah whistled low. “But, don't interrupt, boy,” Quentin admonished. “Save all the questions to the end, so this old man don't lose his train of thought. Where was I again?”

 

“Gun running for the government?” I supplied, by way of a question.

 

Quentin nodded. “Right. So, eventually, the Russian government starts to rebuild itself, starts to pick up the pieces at the end of the 90s. Well, when it comes to well-connected men with lots of money, Russia's the place to be, right? They love their oligarchs, them billionaires, and they might as well be gods among men over there.”

 

“Right,” Micah agreed, nodding. “But, if that were true, why did Petrov come over here?”

 

“Remember that whole Chechnya gun running part of the story?”

 

“Yeah,” I said, nodding along with him, completely enraptured in this little story about my dead boss's big boss, “back in the early 90s?”

 

“Yeah, well, that. You see, the Russians just love a man with money, because money is power, but that Chechnyan independence thing is a real kicker. Their government cracks down on that hard. So, eventually, The Bear had to flee Russia. He smuggled as much as he could out of the country and applied for asylum here.”

 

Micah laughed, shaking his head. I could tell it was in as much disbelief as anything else. “You're telling me, a Russian mob boss applied for asylum here, in the States? I think I've heard everything.”

 

“Not everything,” Quentin reminded him. “Cause, surprise, surprise, he got it. Despite all my warnings. Certain people in the government thought he'd be a useful asset.”

 

I didn't know the first thing about international politics, or any of that CNN crap. “A useful asset?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well,” Quentin said, drawing out the word, “sometimes, when you gotta get certain things into corrupt countries, places with dictatorships, you need a man who specializes in that kind of thing, things like smuggling and hiring certain kinds of people.”

 

“So, people like Efraim Petrov,” Micah added. “Sometimes, you don't want blood on your own hands.”

 

“At least,” Quentin said, “so as no one can see. But, that wasn't the real kicker. Real humdinger was that the ATF somehow rolled over and let him get a license for the manufacture of firearms. He took all that money he'd brought over and, right around 9/11, started investing it in Petrov Arms. The rest, as they do say, is history.”

 

“Wow,” Micah said, taking another drink of tea. “Sounds like a pretty bad dude.”

 

“Yeah,” I agreed. I focused on my bottle, started working away with my thumb nail at the edge of the damp, colorful Abita label. “He ever get into other things, though? 'Sides guns and stuff, I mean.”

 

He nodded. “Sure he did. All sorts of stuff. Those mobs, girl, they do all sorts of frightful things not fit for a lady to hear about. But, I'm sure of it.”

 

So, guns, women, drugs, more than likely. But, still, Abram was meeting with Micah, and kept calling him The Don. Whoever he answered to, though, I couldn’t interrogate Abram now. He was stretched out on slab somewhere, keeping cool as a winter night.

 

Of course, Micah had no idea about any of this. That, or he was a better actor than I assumed.

 

Whatever the truth was, I was gonna find out, though. And, when I did, someone was gonna pay. Romeo deserved that much.