CHAPTER 26
Soon, the Ford was cruising along at a comfortable 145 mph. But Dmitri didn’t have much time before every copper in Florida was on the lookout for a stolen squad car.
In fact, right then, the APB came over the police radio. Time to go car shopping again.
He saw a vehicle ahead and turned on the flashing lights. It pulled over. Dmitri parked right behind it and got out of the cop car.
“Good day, officer,” the driver said as Dmitri strolled up beside his BMW sedan.
“Good day to you.”
“Hi. Umm, why aren’t you in uniform?” the man asked in a nervous voice.
“I’m undercover. Now get out. I’m commandeering this car for official business. Or wait, just slide over to the other seat.”
The driver stared at Dmitri, motionless. He didn’t know whether this was a real cop or an impostor - he’d heard about carjackings like this in other parts of Florida - but he didn’t like what was happening either way.
“Move over,” Dmitri growled.
The man slid across the leather bench seat. Dmitri hopped in and hit the gas.
Luckily, they weren’t far from the suburbs of Naples, a mid-sized city on the Gulf Coast. So Dmitri could get off the highway and into a residential neighborhood before the cops set up a checkpoint on I-75.
He parked on a quiet street with big houses, the type of place police rarely go.
“We have to watch this house. There are bad guys around here,” he said to his passenger, pointing at a random house down the street.
The man nodded, still stunned and pale with fright.
They waited until daybreak. Once people started leaving for work, Dmitri figured they would blend in with the traffic, so he headed north to Tampa.
Things went smoothly, finally. For a couple of hours, at least. He parked outside of a Wal-Mart.
“Put your head down,” Dmitri said to the man seated beside him. “Farther down, toward the floor. Now close your eyes and don’t open them or move a muscle. I have to chase a bad guy. If I’m not back in one hour, go home. You can even take your car. If I’m back in less than one hour, and you or the car are not here, I will find you.”
“Okay,” the man murmured.
“I said don’t move a muscle. Least of all your mouth muscles,” Dmitri demanded in a low, threatening voice.
He shook his head as he got out of the vehicle. He didn’t understand how some people could be so weak, so passive. Dmitri hadn’t even needed to show his gun or punch the guy to take control of the car, to turn him into a whimpering idiot.
At the same time, he didn’t like to involve civilians in situations like this. But regret wasn’t a luxury he could afford at the moment. He was doing what he had to do to save Sonya.
He walked to the front of the store, where there were two pay phones. The receiver was ripped out of the first one. He slid his finger into the slot, as he had a habit of doing since he was a kid. He pulled out a quarter.
Maybe this is my lucky day after all, Dmitri thought as he stepped over to the other phone, dropped in his new quarter, and dialed Sonya’s number.
“The number you dialed is not a functioning phone number or is disconnected. Please try again.”
Damn it.
He tried again. Same automated message.
This is what he’d expected, but it was still disturbing to know for certain Sonya’s phone had been cut off.
Next to the Wal-Mart, there was a storage facility. One of those shady joints where you can keep anything you want, as long as you pay 100 bucks a month. Renters didn’t even have to show an ID. Just Benjamin Franklin’s frowning face on that beautiful green bill was enough.
Dmitri headed toward the facility, looking back over his shoulder once to make sure the BMW hadn’t moved.
He unlocked his storage unit and lifted the heavy door. It was about the size of a one-car garage, and he’d packed it to the brim. Nobody knew he had any of this stuff. Nobody.
There was a motorcycle in there, pressed up against the wall. A canary yellow Honda, and it had been too long since he’d ridden that badass bike. But that wasn’t what he needed right now. A bike didn’t have enough room for accessories.
The storage unit also had a Mercedes SL500 convertible sports coupe in it. Dmitri had taken it from somebody who failed to pay their debt to him.
Weapons lined the walls. Serious weapons. He stuck an AK-47, Russia’s finest machine gun, into the trunk of the Benz. Next, he added a grenade launcher, a sniper rifle, and a can of gasoline.
He also took a roll of cash out of a small box and shoved it into his pocket.
The luxury car started right up, even though it had been sitting there untouched for a year. Dmitri put the top down, backed up, got out to close the storage unit door, and drove toward Sultan’s Palace.
It was many hours before the strippers would arrive, but he wasn’t interested in getting a lap dance. This was a business trip.