She pushed past him to grab another tray of pastries. “Do you plan on doing something that will get you fired, Ashe? Because I really need the help. Today is always one of my busiest days.”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” Ashe said.
He heard the ring of truth, glared at her, just to make certain she knew he meant business, and he hurried out. I’m on my way, he texted Kyanite.
Did you contact Fyodor?
He didn’t want his brother anywhere near this mess. And it was a mess. By claiming Ashe, he’d made it even messier. Still, Fyodor needed to know what was going on. He called his brother’s number—the one nearly impossible to trace. They used short bursts and always talked in code.
“Yeah?”
He heard the worry in his brother’s voice. He knew Timur wouldn’t be calling on that phone unless they didn’t want cops—or anyone else—to overhear.
“Heading to visit an old friend. Want to come along?”
“Busy.”
“Message me if you can get away later to join us.”
There was a short silence. “I can probably get away. I’ll put work off.”
“There’s no need. I’ll ask him to come around tonight.”
“That sounds good.”
They both hung up. The conversation was seconds only, but it told Fyodor that the messenger had arrived and Timur was going to interrogate him. They didn’t want Fyodor to be followed to the old building where they brought in the occasional prisoner they needed information from. Timur knew a million ways to extract information. He’d grown up learning from the best. His father and two uncles enjoyed their work and they’d made certain to teach their sons everything they knew.
He pulled on his gloves and slid into his car. There was rarely a tail on him. The cops were much more interested in his brother. Sometimes they had someone watching Evangeline’s bakery, but more likely they just went in for the pastries and coffee. Nevertheless, he took evasive action, maneuvering through streets, changing lanes and turning abruptly. He went down two long alleys and made a circle of the outskirts of the city before finally reaching his destination.
He pulled the car under cover. They never parked on the streets. The warehouses had been part of the business Fyodor inherited when he took on the mantle of Antonio Arnotto. There were two auto body garages, one tire shop and a towing company, all strictly legitimate. The cops had investigated often and still sniffed around, but they weren’t going to find anything.
Timur parked in the parking garage that ran overhead, the length of the building. The only cameras were the ones that would tell him if they had unexpected visitors. He took the elevator to the ground floor and then stepped off. He turned right, and then went through a door that led to a hallway between the shops. Six steps in, he unlocked another door and stepped through. A retinal scan got him into the elevator that took him down another story.
Kyanite and Rodion waited for him. They sat calmly playing cards while their prisoner wriggled and thrashed at the end of a rope. He could barely touch the cement floor with his toes. There wasn’t a mark on him anywhere that Timur could see. The two men he relied most heavily on—other than Gorya, who was with Fyodor—could always be counted on.
When he walked in, they put down their cards and rose to their feet. Apostol froze, his gaze on Timur’s face. Timur didn’t deign to look at him. He jerked his chin toward the cards. “Who’s ahead?”
“Kye, because he cheats.”
Kyanite laughed. “I am, because he doesn’t pay attention to what’s been played.”
“That’s true,” Rodion admitted. “I never understood why you like this game.”
“Because we get your money,” Kyanite said, shoving his shoulder into the other man.
Timur wandered over to Apostol. The man eyed him the same way a mouse might a cobra. He didn’t take his gaze from Timur. His mouth opened and closed and then he shook his head repeatedly so hard, Timur was certain if he didn’t stop, he’d snap his own neck. The distinct smell of fresh urine permeated the room.
Apostol Delov was a strong man who kept himself in shape. He had skills in tracking, in investigative work, and he was very good at protecting himself. It didn’t look as if Kyanite or Rodion had touched him, but he was already terrified. They’d done their job well.
“I see my reputation precedes me,” Timur observed, keeping his voice pitched very low. He glanced at Kyanite, who immediately handed him the messenger’s phone. It was already queued to the pertinent material. Send the team. I am on my way to mark the door.
A separate text followed. Is the reward still good for the whereabouts of your nephews?
Yes. Very worried about them.
Timur smiled down, without one iota of humor, at the damning message already sent to his uncle. No doubt there would be two hit teams on the way. He might have even hired some of the bratya that were already in the States. They’d known it was coming, they’d just hoped for more time. Fyodor had taken back his rightful name, no longer hiding under the guise of Alonzo Massi, an Italian. They had talked it over and determined it was better to know Lazar was coming after them then to wonder when he would stumble across their trail and come at them unawares.