Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“Feds and the police are on their way,” Tom announced, turning around and bracing his hands on his knees. He sounded faraway. Deep in thought. I imagined it was hard for him. I liked Ian, too. But it was never a difficulty for me to say goodbye to people. I’d done it more times than I could count. Moving between foster homes, institutes, units. Death, specifically, did not faze me in the least. It was just another station in life. The last one, to be exact.
Tom could still make connections. Even friendships.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Tom asked. I felt his shoulder brush against mine as he joined me near the shallow grave. He seemed to be alternating between wanting to throw up to wanting to do something about what we’d just discovered.
“Too soon to tell,” I ground out, shoving my hands into my front pockets. “But the initial signs are there. The burial method is haphazard. Whoever did this wanted to send a message, not conceal a body. And unless we find strangulation or bullet wounds…well, he could’ve been buried alive.”
Chechen burial.
Parts of the body were visible for all to see—on purpose. The person was normally buried alive, for extra torture. This was something I was familiar with, as I had worked in the Los Angeles area with Ian himself before retiring, and the local Bratva was fond of getting rid of people that way.
I also knew this from my days in Chicago, when the Italians and Russians tried to slaughter one another on a weekly basis.
“This is bullshit,” I gritted out. “I’m sorry. I know you were close.”
I was sorry. I just wasn’t sure what that meant.
“You want to tell me it stirs nothing in you?” Tom pushed my chest suddenly, baring his teeth. He was angry. He needed to redirect that anger at someone. And right now, that someone was me.
I didn’t know what else there was to be said. I had not wished death upon Ian Holmes. I didn’t wish death upon most people, despite my misanthropic tendencies.
“That’s it?” Tom spat out.
I stared at him levelly. “I wasn’t the one who killed him, all right? Lay off.”
He pushed at my chest again, harder this time. I let myself stumble a couple of steps.
“You don’t give two shits, do you? He was our boss. He mentored us. We worked together. He treated you like a son.”
“I’m no one’s son,” I replied tersely.
“Yes, and you are just so fucking eager to never forget it!” Tom barked out a bitter laugh. “You really love the whole tortured screw-up persona. Makes you feel important, doesn’t it?”
I was getting tired of getting bitched about for something I hadn’t done. Sure, Holmes was one of ours, but I did not consider anyone family. Not even Tom himself. Family was a liability other people had. I had acquaintances.
“Look, this is not constructive.” I sighed.
“You know what’s not constructive?” Tom balled my collar in his fist. “The fact that you don’t have a damn heart.”
“No heart is better than too big a heart. Remember where you came from. Life ain’t pretty.”
He let me go suddenly, and I had the good grace to pretend to stumble back from the impact.
Two minutes later, a few police cars and a black sedan pulled in front of Ian’s front door. We gave them our statements, then our business cards. We weighed in with what we thought had happened. Who we thought could be behind this.
“Kozlov,” we kept saying. “His name is Kozlov.”
Like they didn’t know. Like they weren’t busting their asses trying to catch him this very minute. That is, if they weren’t in his pocket and under his payroll.
They sent us on our way and asked us to give them a call if we remembered anything more. Standard protocol.
During the drive back to Brat’s house, I considered telling Tom I was sorry for his loss, but then remembered he would just use it as a way to club me for not feeling as shitty as he did.
Tom was the first to break the silence. It happened when we glided onto Interstate 5 and got stuck in one of the longest traffic jams known to mankind.
“You know it’s the Russians.” His jaw ticked. He wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his expression, but I had a feeling he was misty-eyed.
“Logic dictates.”
“They’re ruthless,” he said animatedly.
“Most people are. But they’re also fearless. Not a good combo.”
Shortly before I’d handed in my resignation and went private, I was involved in a bloody operation against the Bratva in Los Angeles. These were tough-as-nails criminals who came here after the Soviet Union fell and muscled the Italian mafia out of Los Angeles in less than three years, leaving rivers of blood in their wake. The FBI would probably have been perfectly content with letting the two gangs kill each other off, but during my service, the Russians had gotten sloppy—power drunk—and often claimed civilian casualties.