A Touch of Torment, page 3
part #7 of Nick Bracco Series
Mean eyes now. “Fuck you.”
“That offends you somehow?”
Malkin turned his attention toward the narrow path of tire tracks in the asphalt in front of them, steering the vehicle to gain as much traction as possible. There was hardly any traffic, so the road was even darker than usual.
“You feel Sicilians are inferior?” Tommy asked.
“Something like that.”
“I see.”
A car pulled up next to them and drew even with Tommy. The passenger window was half-open so he could see the guy’s face. Tommy casually reached over and fastened the seat belt around his waist.
“You know Sicilians have a lot of black blood in them,” Malkin said.
“I could only hope.”
“You think that’s a good thing?”
“Why not? As long as some of that black blood lingers around my schlong.”
“You are sick.”
“So I’ve been told.”
There was a sudden jerk as the car in the next lane sideswiped them, pushing the Crown Vic into the sidewalk while Malkin fought for control. Their vehicle lost traction, and the front end bumped against the curb and the car bounced sideways. It felt like they were gliding across a frozen lake. Both vehicles were sliding down the snow-covered road, side-by-side.
“Fuck!” Malkin shouted.
The back end climbed the sidewalk as the car slid into a snowdrift. Tommy covered his head with his arms to mitigate the impact. As the laws of inertia took over, the Crown Vic jolted to a stop. The car next to them stopped. The passenger door opened and a man jumped out with a rifle and ran to the front of the Crown Vic. A thin red laser beam penetrated the windshield and left its mark on Malkin’s face.
Malkin had already shoved the pistol up against the cage and pointed directly at Tommy. “You are dead, you understand?”
Tommy’s heart hiccupped, but he knew he wasn’t quite dead yet because once Malkin pulled the trigger, he signed his own death sentence.
A man wearing a heavy black overcoat stepped out of the car from the driver’s side. With snowflakes streaming down, he approached the Crown Vic and knocked on the window with leather gloves.
“Roll your window down,” Tommy said. “Listen to your options.”
“I have no options.”
“Your family deserves to see you again. Don’t do this to them.”
Malkin’s face got more severe.
Another knock on the window.
“C’mon,” Tommy said. “Don’t you want to know how this ends?”
“I already know.”
Another knock.
“Aw, fuck,” Malkin said, rolling down the window, but keeping his pistol on Tommy.
“What are you doing, Malkin?” the man said through the open window.
“How do you know my name?” The guy had twisted completely around and had his back to the windshield in the passenger side of the car, all the while training his pistol at Tommy.
“It’s my job.”
Tommy didn’t like the look on the Malkin’s face. It was a look of desperation and it caused his stomach to lurch upward.
“Who . . . who are you?”
“Special Agent Nick Bracco,” he said. “That guy out there with the rifle pointed at your head is my partner Matt McColm. He’s the FBI’s top sharpshooter.”
Malkin looked like he had a million questions. “How the fuck did you—”
“Cara called me,” Nick said, glancing at Tommy in the back seat. “She sensed something was wrong. I tracked Tommy through the GPS on his phone.”
Malkin’s hands quivered. Maybe the cold, maybe the situation.
“I want you to listen to me, Malkin,” Nick said. “I know what you’re thinking and you need to stop. I’m better at this than you are.”
“What am I thinking?”
“You’re thinking about dying right here and taking Tommy with you. Trust me, there’s a better option.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Think about Sasha and Liza.”
Malkin’s eyes darted back and forth between Nick and Tommy. His lips quivered. “How do you—”
“I told you,” Nick said. “It’s my job.”
Malkin shook his head, not believing or not wanting to believe.
Nick leaned over and put his elbows on the door. “Here are your options. Put the gun down and I’ll charge you with impersonating an officer. That’s it. No kidnapping, nothing else. You’ll get two years max and probably spend a few months inside at the most.”
“That’s not bad,” Tommy said, his heart pounding like a woodpecker in his chest.
Malkin didn’t seem convinced. A pair of headlights came up from behind and Nick waved the car around them.
“Let me give you another scenario,” Nick said. “You pull that trigger, then Matt kills you. Now, on the surface that may seem acceptable. You did your job and die a Chechen hero. Your family will be taken care of by the Chechen Mafia and they’ll lavish them with praise and protection. They’ll get the royal treatment.”
Tommy’s lips went dry listening to the description of his death.
“However,” Nick continued. “I will leak to the media that you were an informant for the FBI and gave us valuable information about the Chechen Mafia.” Nick let that sink in for a minute. “You see where I’m going here? You die a snitch. And your family is . . . well, I don’t need to tell you what happens next.”
“That’s bullshit,” Malkin spat back at him. “You would never do that.”
Nick gestured to the back seat, then gave Malkin a deadly sneer. “That’s my cousin back there, pal. You have no idea what I would do if he were harmed. Don’t forget, Mr. Umarov, I am Sicilian too.”
When Malkin looked over, Nick was nodding his head, selling it with a straight-faced glare.
A drop of sweat crawled down Tommy’s neck.
Nick held out his hand and flicked his fingertips.
Malkin’s demeanor softened. He took his eyes off Tommy and stared at Nick.
“Can you get me probation?” Malkin asked.
Nick frowned and kept flicking his fingertips.
Malkin sighed, then slowly handed Nick his pistol, handle first.
Tommy leaned back and took deep breaths of cold air.
Nick reached into the car and opened the door. Malkin slid out as Nick tapped a button on the door panel and Tommy heard the doors unlock.
Matt came around and cuffed Malkin while Nick opened the back door to the Crown Vic.
Tommy slid across the cold seat and got out. He shoved his cousin and said, “Asshole. Why didn’t you have Matt shoot him?”
“That metal cage is practically bulletproof.”
“Practically?”
“Worst case, it deflects the bullet. You’re welcome.”
Tommy stepped in the snowdrift and moved to the thin slush of the asphalt. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Cara okay?”
“She’s fine. Dority put suspicions in her mind, then her journalism degree took over.”
After Matt locked Malkin in the back seat of their unmarked cruiser, he came over and gave Tommy a fist bump. “You okay?”
Tommy nodded. “How’d you know that guy?”
“Stevie Gilpen,” Matt said. “Best tech in the Bureau. He retrieved the hotel surveillance video remotely, then ran Malkin’s image through the facial-recognition program. Gave us everything we needed inside of ten minutes.”
Tommy stared at Malkin in the back seat. “There’s gonna be a war in Arizona.”
“I know.”
“Cara is going to be a target until this thing resolves itself. And that’s not going to happen until lots of people are dead.”
“Or arrested.”
Tommy looked at his cousin as a swirl of red ambulance lights flashed across Nick’s face. “So, are you going to Arizona for the funeral?”
“That’s where I live,” Nick deadpanned.
Tommy looked at Matt, who added, “That’s where I live too.”
“Well, shit,” Tommy said, looking up at the falling snow. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the sun for a change.”
Chapter 4
Calvin Bennett stood at the bar of Harmony House and admired the latest concept in hybrid entertainment centers. The twenty-thousand square foot complex was Bennett’s latest creation, combining bowling, billiards, golf simulators and a social aspect that included fine wines and upscale appetizers. Bennett was the CFO and originator of the concept. This particular facility was located in the prime real estate of Scottsdale, Arizona. Their eighteenth property in Arizona and Southern California, with plans to open seven more within the next twenty-two months.
It was 5:30 on a Friday night and the crowd was just starting to pick up. Their tavern room was known for excellent food at reasonable prices, with large screen TVs showing every sporting event in the world. Customers would call ahead to request something as obscure as the Colgate-Bucknell basketball game, and Harmony would stream it just for that group. There was no event that Bennett couldn’t find for a customer.
Now Bennett was tasting the latest ale from their onsite microbrewery while the bartender waited for the CFO’s opinion.
“Well?” the bartender said, adjusting the music to a jazzier sound from his remote-control device.
Bennett held up the glass to observe its color. “A little fruitier than I expected, but yeah, it’s nice. Different.”
“Add it to the Happy Hour menu?” he asked, placing the remote back on a shelf.
“Sure,” Bennett said. “Make certain the customers know this is exclusive to Harmony. They want more, they need to come here.”
The bartender wiped the bar with a moist towel and gestured to a guy sitting at a small round table in the corner of the tavern. “He’s been here waiting for you since we opened.”
Bennett glanced at the digital clock on the wall. “He’s been here six hours?”
The bartender shrugged. “I told him you might not come in at all, but he insisted on waiting. Said he has a gift for you.”
The guy wore a dark gray suit and had a closely cropped beard with slicked back hair. He looked like he just came from a PowerPoint presentation for a Silicon Valley startup.
Bennett approached the guy with his hand extended. “I’m Calvin Bennett,” he said. “I understand you’ve been waiting for me.”
The guy smiled and stood to shake hands. “Yes, Mr. Bennett. I’m Tapo Pashkov. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“How can I help?”
“I’m the administrative assistant to Mr. Zelman at Entertainment Resources. We sent you the proposal for our latest credit card, the Emerald Preferred Card.”
Bennett sighed. “Mr. Pashkov, I’m sure you know we cancelled tomorrow’s meeting once we reviewed the proposal.”
“That’s why I’m here. I am not certain you understood the dynamics of our offer.” Pashkov spoke with a slight accent that Bennett couldn’t determine the origin. It wasn’t as much an accent as the fact that he occasionally emphasized the wrong syllables.
“Okay,” Bennett said, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ve waited all day for me, I’ll listen. But you must realize that paying 5 percent usage fee is outrageous. That’s more than double the standard rate.”
Pashkov seemed ready for this objection. “You are exactly right about that, however, we offer a 2 percent cashback to users on any purchases from all eighteen of your locations. This will be an exclusive proposition that will not be offered your competition. Bolero Bowl, Top Golf, you name it, our card will not be available to any of these facilities. Our research shows that retailers who accept our card receive an additional 7 percent boost in revenue. That would more than pay for the 2 percent markup.”
Bennett had to smile at that. “Your research, huh? I would love to see how that was acquired.”
“It’s an independent firm who kept careful and extensive data.”
Bennett didn’t believe a word of it. He understood marketing better than anyone in the country. Bennett could twist any data into a favorable weapon to prove whatever point he was trying to make. Heck, he could take either side of a position and work it to his benefit.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Pashkov, but I’m going to have to pass on your offer. Thank you so much for your patience.”
“You should at least give it a six-month trial. I think you will be surprised what a boost it will be for your business.”
“You’re very convincing, Mr. Pashkov, but I really must tend to other locations. I do wish you well.”
When Bennett turned to leave, Pashkov said, “You forgot your gift.”
Pashkov raised a canvas duffel bag onto the table and unzipped the bag. He rummaged through its contents until a pair of pruning shears fell to the floor. When he bent to pick it up, Bennett noticed there seemed to be fresh blood on the blades. A substantial amount of blood.
Pashkov seemed embarrassed about the mishap, but did not appear in a hurry to replace them back into the bag.
“Sorry,” he said. “I did a little gardening before I came over and I got a little careless and cut myself.”
It was such an odd situation. The guy brought his yard tools to a business meeting? And made it a point to show him the uncleaned blood. Bennett wanted to leave and get out of there before anything else fell out of the man’s bag, but he was too slow and the next thing he knew he was staring at his son’s baseball mitt. Pashkov held it out for Bennet to take.
“I was at the park last night and noticed Robbie playing ball with a friend,” Pashkov said casually. “He must’ve left this behind.”
Bennett froze in place. His heart constricted in his chest and forced the air from his lungs. With shaky fingers, he took the glove and searched for signs of blood.
“It is okay,” Pashkov assured him. “There is nothing wrong with the mitt. I took very good care of it.”
Before Bennett could ask any questions, Pashkov tossed the straps of the duffel bag over his shoulder and patted Bennett on the side of the arm. “We will see you at 10 a.m. tomorrow to finalize the proposal.”
Bennett watched the guy walk out the door. The ambient light and jazz music belied how malicious the event was. While his cardiovascular system rammed blood through his arteries like a runaway train, Bennett pulled out his phone and pressed a button. When his wife answered, he blurted, “Is Robbie home?”
“Yes, Sweetie, he’s in the shower. What’s wrong?”
Bennett put the phone by his side and plopped down on the carpeted floor. His legs couldn’t maintain him any longer. A waitress came up and asked if he was okay, but his mind was spinning with thoughts of his family and the need for security. He wouldn’t be making his normal rounds tonight that was for sure.
His wife’s voice became louder in the receiver and he finally put the phone to his ear.
“I’ll be home soon,” he said.
Chapter 5
The Baltimore field office was an unassuming brick building with an American flag and a few royal oaks to shade the complex. It also contained one of the FBI’s most valuable assets: a team of highly trained agents who worked exclusively on domestic terrorism. This team would actually hand over non-terrorist criminal activity they encountered down the road to FBI headquarters in D.C. since their focus was fine-tuned and strategic. J. Edgar Hoover had introduced the trend of specializing when he authorized a special squad of agents to track down John Dillinger back in the ‘30s.
As the team leader, Nick Bracco was assigned to the Baltimore office along with his partner, Matt McColm. They would travel to Baltimore from their Arizona homes once or twice a month. With telecommunicating and digital technology, they could be where the bad guys were and not have to sit in an office to discuss strategy.
Nick parked the car in the back of the field office, then he and Matt scanned their thumbprints on the receptor outside the employee entrance and entered the building. A security guard stood beside a walkthrough magnetometer, which beeped and flashed a bright red light as Nick and Matt passed through it.
The guard rolled his eyes as the two agents bumped fists with him.
“You’re wasting batteries, Herm,” Matt said, heading toward the elevator. “Every employee is armed.”
“Yeah, I put in a request to turn off the audio,” the guard said.
“Good thinking,” Matt said.
Nick and Matt were halfway down the corridor when the guard replied, “That was six years ago.”
They both chuckled as Nick pushed the button for the elevator.
In the basement, a dedicated team of agents worked diligently, staring at their computer screens and satellite images displayed on oversized wall monitors. The work was tedious and stressful, so the agents worked four-hour stretches at a time before taking long breaks. The ceiling displayed a real-time image of the sky piped in from a camera on the roof. It was like having a giant sunroof overhead. It helped mitigate any sensory deprivation.
The sky above them now was cloudless, but you could almost feel the cold. The bullpen of agents offered nods and waves as Nick and Matt headed toward the middle of the room where Stevie Gilpen sat at a long table with three giant computer monitors in front of him.
“What’s up, Stevie,” Matt said as the three exchanged greetings. There was a slight buzz from all the computers humming in a confined space.
“Thanks for the intel on that Chechen character,” Nick said.
“You get him?” Stevie asked, keeping his eyes attached to an image on his middle screen.
“Yeah, we got him,” Nick said. “What are you looking at?”
Stevie pointed to a small shanty of a brown house with an A-Frame roof and dented aluminum siding. “See that shed?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s where they keep their RPG Launchers. The White Brigade. This is just outside Shreveport, Louisiana.”
“I’m listening,” Nick said, well aware of the white nationalist group based out of Shreveport.
“What they don’t have are the warheads.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” Stevie said, then gestured to a blue stretch of tarp wrapped up and lying next to the shed. “Every week they receive part of the rocket launcher. The only thing left is the warhead. Today is delivery day.”
