Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
“He gave away a birthday gift from his wife?”
“Ex-wife.” Her red lips stretch into a humorless smile. “What can I say? He ran out of money to pay the whore.”
“I’d still like to speak to him.”
“Suit yourself.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I hope you shoot him.”
I only smile. That depends.
She rambles off a telephone number. “Since I kicked him out, he’s bunking with a friend from the bar where he drinks when he’s not fucking.” She flicks the cigarette on the floor and grinds the butt under the sole of her high-heeled sandal. “Black Horse Inn. It’s a dive.”
I know the place. It’s not officially under bratva control, but they do run some of their drugs through there.
I look at Ulysses, who stands next to me with his phone in his hand. He nods to indicate he’s saved the number.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I straighten my tie. “I appreciate your help.”
She crosses her arms and stares after us as we walk away.
“Check with the manager of the club where Naomi worked,” I tell Ulysses as we get into the car. Taking my gun from the holster, I leave it in the glove compartment. “Ask him what he knows about this guy.”
Ulysses fires off a text message. A moment later, a notification pings on his phone.
“I sent him the photo we pulled from the internet.” Ulysses turns the screen my way, showing me a photo of a bald man with a round face and a ruddy skin tone. “He knows the guy, all right. Says he’s been a frequent client of Naomi.” He pauses to read something as another ping sounds. “He asks if he should be worried.”
He obviously saw the news about Naomi Foster’s death on the news.
I turn at the intersection, taking the road that leads to the outskirts of the city. “Tell him he doesn’t have to get his panties in a knot. None of this reflects on him.”
The bar stands in the middle of a parking lot. At this hour, the lot is empty except for an old Buick and a Chevy parked at the back. The numberplate of the Buick corresponds to the one registered in Gavril Dmitriev’s name.
I grin as I park near the back exit. “Bingo.”
Ulysses pulls his gun. “Backup?”
I cut the engine and lean over Ulysses to take my gun from the glove compartment. “That won’t be necessary. This isn’t bratva territory.”
Sav and I have established clear boundaries. As long as we keep off each other’s territories, we don’t bother them and they’re not stupid enough to bother us. This guy may be moving drugs for them, but he’s not part of their organization. If he conspired against me, they won’t stand in my way when I deal with him just as I won’t stand in their way if the situation is reversed.
We get out and cock our guns. The place seems quiet. There’s no music or signs of activity.
I tilt my head toward the door. Ulysses goes ahead and positions himself next to the door to cover my back as I go over and knock. I keep my gun behind my back, not wanting to give the guys the wrong impression. I’m here to ask questions first. I’ll only kill if necessary.
A tall man in a wife beater and jeans with tattoos on his face, neck, and arms opens the door. He drags a gaze over my suit. “You’ve got the wrong address, man. This is a private bar.”
He starts to close the door, but I press a hand on the wood. “I just want to talk. Do I need to introduce myself?”
He squints, taking a better look at my face. Recognition registers in his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “No.”
“Good.” I smile. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”
At us, he stretches his neck to look around the jamb.
Ulysses salutes him.
He clenches his jaw but opens the door wider and stands aside.
The somber interior smells of smoke. A bar built from crude logs runs along the back wall. Tables and chairs are scattered across half of the floor. Pool tables take up the other half.
I step inside.
Ulysses motions for the guy to follow me.
A few empty beer bottles are lined up on the bar counter. I quickly take stock of the doors. One leads to the back, which I presume to be a store and cooler room. The second one has a WC sign above it, and exit written in fluorescent letters lights up the third door.
I’m about to move toward the bar when, from the corner of my eye, I spot movement behind one of the pool tables. A fraction of a second later, the glint of a blade catches the dim ceiling lights as a knife barrels through the air.
My reflexes are fast. I duck to the left, barely missing the blade that was aimed at my heart. Instead, the sharp point grazes my upper arm.