Dmitri couldn’t complete the whole jigsaw puzzle yet, but he could see enough of the big picture to know where he had to go and that there wasn’t a moment to waste.
It was 3 a.m. Assassins could arrive at any hour, but with cast iron doors on the little beach house and bars in the windows, they’d need a bomb to break in. And that would wake the guards, so nobody stayed up as a night sentry.
Instead, they all got drunk and went to sleep. The big ex-boxer Alexei was lying on the couch, snoring. Josef had passed out right on the floor.
Dmitri was the boss now — Alexei and Josef respected that, at least, even if no one else did yet — so he could do what he wanted. But it was better this way. He didn’t want anyone to try to talk him out of what he had to do.
They couldn’t have changed his mind anyway, but he didn’t even have time for a discussion.
He left a note on his bed. He wrote one of his favorite movie lines from his childhood:
“I’ll be back.”
Then he opened the heavy back door and slipped out into the darkness. The sound of waves crashing onto the beach made him feel calm for a moment, as he closed his eyes and listened, filling his lungs with the salty air.
Dmitri didn’t take the car parked outside the safe house. He doubted that one of his men had betrayed him - or he’d already be dead - but until he had a better idea of what was happening, he couldn’t risk being followed by a tracking device or tailed by someone watching the house.
He climbed over the back fence in one swift movement, landing in the neighbor’s yard with a dull thud. A pit bull awoke twenty feet away and growled.
Dmitri stared into its eyes and growled back, then walked right by it, never ceasing his menacing glare.
Once he passed through the gate, he stood motionless in the shadows, scanning the street for any sign of surveillance. Nobody would expect him to just stroll down the block, so that's what he did.
As he got farther from the house, he became more confident that no one was following him, and he knew it was unlikely anyone would randomly spot him at that hour, even in Sunny Isles.
He walked for two miles, until he got to a rich neighborhood and found what he was looking for. It wasn’t as fast as his own bike, but it would do.
He hot-wired the custom Harley Davidson and took off within two minutes.
By the time the phony “biker” who owned that hog, probably a doctor or banker, came out to get the morning paper and realized his motorcycle was gone, Dmitri would already be driving something else. That way the cops wouldn’t catch him on a stolen bike.
That was the plan, anyway.
Within twenty minutes, he was heading west on I-75. He knew he shouldn’t ride too fast and attract the attention of the police, but it was so late at night, and he was in the middle of nowhere, a stretch of highway called Alligator Alley, which runs through the Everglades.
Pure swampland spreading out for miles under a full moon, not a car in sight. It seemed safe, and he was in a hurry, so before long he was doing over 100 miles an hour.
Dmitri didn’t see the cop car until he passed it. It'd been parked just off the side of the road, probably a small town deputy doing a speeding ticket fundraiser to buy a new ping pong table for the station.
He looked in the rear view mirror. Sure enough, flashing lights, and they were gaining on him already.
He slowed the bike down. He thought about trying to outrun the cop, but even podunk police often have souped-up cars that move a lot faster than you’d expect a four-door Ford sedan to go.
The cop would at least be able to keep up with Dmitri until he had called for backup, then there’d be a roadblock ahead. There were no exits close by, no side streets to disappear on, just open road and alligators.
If he’d had his own bike, he would’ve rocketed that bad boy up to 180 mph and disappeared before his pursuer could finish his coconut donut. But this big Harley could barely break 120 mph.
Dmitri pulled over, and the squad car rolled up right behind him.
The cop would likely soon realize the bike was stolen. The registration was behind the seat, but with someone else’s name on it, that didn’t do Dmitri much good.
He could say his friend let him borrow the bike. Maybe the cop would buy it, if the owner was still sleeping and hadn’t filed a report.
But the cop might radio in to the station and have them call the owner’s house. Or he might insist on searching Dmitri and find the 9mm automatic tucked in his waistband.
If he went to jail, and Ivan’s boys didn’t shank him in the shower with a prison knife, it’d still be at least two days before he could get bailed out.
That wasn’t an option. If Sonya wasn’t already dead, she likely would be by then.
After a few minutes, the cop got out of his car. He called in the license number of the bike first, so the station would be waiting for a follow-up report.
He was about 50 years old and obese. Dmitri couldn’t believe how big the guy’s gut was. Just looking at him in the motorcycle’s mirror, with his huge belly illuminated by the lights of his car, made Dmitri laugh, despite the danger of the moment.
If the cop had parked farther back, Dmitri could have waited until he was a few feet from the motorcycle, then gunned it and taken off while the officer waddled back to his vehicle.
But the cop wouldn’t have far to go, considering how close he parked behind the bike. Maybe he’d fallen for that trick before.
Dmitri felt the form of the gun pressing against his waist. He visualized pulling it out and plugging this guy in the forehead.
“Howdy, son,” the deputy said as he approached.
“Good morning, officer,” Dmitri responded with his most charming smile.
“Oh, you’re a foreigner, eh? You think this is Germany, where they don’t have speed limits?”
“No sir, it was my mistake. I apologize…”
“That’s not gonna get you out of trouble with me, boy. Now let’s see your license and registration so I can get this ticket written up before breakfast. 40 miles an hour over the speed limit? Whew, it’s gonna be an expensive one. The ticket, I mean. Of course breakfast is always free for an officer of the law.”
Dmitri’s charm had failed. This smartass wanted money and nothing else. Dmitri would have just bribed the cop with a roll of Benjamins, but he wasn’t carrying much cash.
He stepped off the bike, popped open the compartment behind the seat, pulled out the registration, then reached for his wallet in his front pocket, his forearm brushing against the handle of his gun.
He offered the paperwork and ID. The cop reached out, and the instant he started to take the documents, Dmitri lunged his hand forward and snatched one of the cop’s plump fingers in his fist.
The man in blue was shocked. He groped for his gun or nightstick or Taser as Dmitri crushed his finger and drove it back toward him, but he was in too much pain to think straight.
Dmitri didn’t flinch or even bother to stop the cop’s free hand from flailing around for a weapon. He just kept bending that fat finger back until the terrified man crumpled to his knees, screaming and begging for mercy.
The finger snapped like the wishbone of a turkey. The cop was now howling in pain. A radio operator might have heard the ruckus and sent backup.
Dmitri gave the cop a hard smack over the head, which sent him face down onto the asphalt. He yanked the handcuffs off the cop's gear belt and locked his wrists around the frame of the bike.
“Be careful, or it will be the alligators who get a free breakfast today, officer,” Dmitri said with a smirk as the cop looked up at him, quivering in fear.
“Sorry, Harley,” he said as he kicked the seat of the motorcycle, sending both it and the squealing policeman into a ditch by the side of the highway.
They’d be on the lookout for the motorcycle. He might as well ride in style. He hopped in the squad car and peeled out.
The dispatcher came on the radio.
“Officer Johnson! Officer Johnson! What’s going on out there!”
“Hellooo. Chinese pizza! May I take your order? Chinese pizza!” Dmitri yelled into the microphone, his awful Chinese accent worse than ever, laughing hysterically.