Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I hold up my chair as a warning, but he doesn’t seem to care. He lunges for me, tackling me to the ground so hard the other zip tie snaps. I try to fight him off, but his hand comes over my mouth, and darkness falls again.
24
LEV
Yuri lays three photos on the table in front of me. He pulled their numbers from Marcus’s work phone. As far as we know, they’re his associates. All low-level creeps with ties to other outfits, and it hits me he’s been planning this far longer than I realized.
“Start with him,” I say, tapping the first photo. “He talks when he drinks.”
We drive separately to keep the element of surprise. I go in first with Pavel, and Yuri takes the back with Thom in case the asshole runs. It’s standard procedure, but nothing about this is standard. I’m furious, and this guy will take the brunt of it if he doesn’t tell me what I want to know.
The bar is half full when we arrive. The owner, the man from the photo, pretends not to see me. I turn to Pavel and nod. He slips behind him and locks in a quick, efficient sleeper hold. Once he’s down, we drag him into a back hallway. Nobody in the bar stops us or even looks twice. It’s that kind of place.
I slap him awake once we’re alone. He was out only seconds, but it still takes him a beat to come around. When he sees me, he tries to scoot back, but Pavel stands behind him, blocking any exit.
“Lev Borikov,” he whispers, fear threading his voice. “Didn’t think a man like you would be gracing me with your presence.”
“Cut the shit,” I say. “You know why I’m here. Where’s Marcus Sterling?”
“I don’t know,” he gasps, putting his hands up in surrender. “I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
“How do you know him?” I ask, pulling back my jacket to give him a glimpse of the gun at my side.
“I don’t, really,” he says desperately. “He just came in a couple weeks ago with some money and asked me to organize a hit on some club.”
“Which club?” I ask.
“Some joint on Delancey.” He shrugs like it’s nothing.
But for me, a puzzle piece clicks into place. Marcus has been behind all of it, I realize. He hit the club, he sent the photo of Mari, hell, he probably hired the fake detective. To what end, though? If all he wanted was money, he could have just taken it and run.
“Why you?” I demand.
“I know some guys with Petrov,” he answers. “Low-level guys. They keep my place safe. Marcus told me to get them to hit the club and he’d cut me in on some deal he’s working on. He didn’t give me any money, though, I swear to God. He’s been radio silent.”
I believe half of it, but he’s holding something back. Men like him always lie. They can’t help it.
“When did you say you met him?” I ask, pretending I’m just collecting information.
“A few weeks ago,” he says, right before I pistol-whip him.
“This photo is from months ago,” I say, dropping the photo of him and Marcus on his chest. “Don’t fucking lie to me again, or it’ll be a bullet next time.”
“I’m sorry, man,” he says, clutching his cheek. “Fine, I’ve known him a few months. I swear to God, no longer than that. We met at a poker game.”
He covers his face like he’s expecting another blow, and he probably deserves it, but I spare him this time.
“Who else was in the game?” I ask, standing up. “I need names.”
He starts to stall, but I pull my gun and point it at him. Within a minute, I’ve got half a dozen names, and I text them all to Yuri.
We hit a garage on Huron next, following up on our next lead while Yuri sends men to the addresses the bar owner provided. As soon as we pull up to the garage, half the men square up to greet us. They all brandish their weapons, but the owner tells them to stand down when he sees who we are.
“Forgive my guys,” he says apologetically. “They’re so ready for a fight, they can’t turn it off when royalty shows up. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
“You can tell me where the hell Marcus Sterling is,” I spit at him.
“Sterling?” he asks with faux confusion. “Sorry, pal, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
A small twitch in his face betrays the lie. I turn to Yuri, who nods back at me.
“We really should take this in your office,” Yuri says to the man, but he doesn’t budge.
“Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of my guys,” he answers with all the charm of a snake oil salesman.