Defying all the logic of an off-the-radar, private meeting place, the idiot Petrov brothers roared into the loading dock driving a ridiculous metallic gold Ferrari.
“Jesus Christ,” I cursed under my breath, shaking my head before sharing a sympathetic, annoyed glance with Dimitri.
The Petrov brothers emerged from the vehicle, wearing matching white and red Adidas tracksuits.
Dimitri shifted closer and asked, “You still carry that .30-caliber Tokarev with you?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Shoot me.”
“I’d rather shoot them, but this is a new suit.”
“Vaska Lukovitch! Dimitri Antonovich!” the brothers called out in unison.
Ignoring them, I paid closer attention to the three thugs they brought with them.
“My friends! You are looking good,” said one brother.
Dimitri and I both stayed silent. It was a useful tactic; most people talked too much. You could be significantly more intimidating for what you didn’t say as opposed to what you did.
The only thing more ludicrous than their car was their appearance and the fact they had deliberately purchased the same luxury watch as Dimitri. Christ, save me from moronic posers. Seriously, I left Mary’s bed for this? It stretched the imagination how these two had managed to get their hands on two crates of ORSIS-CT20s, the latest and best Russian sniper rifles, even counterfeit ones.
One of the brothers, I didn’t know which—they both looked and acted the same to me—said, “Do you like our ride?”
Dimitri smirked. “It’s a great way to spend twice as much as for a Mercedes SL550.”
I snorted. “With none of that annoying good engineering or sleek style.”
“As much as I’d love to chat about cars and watches in a freezing warehouse all morning, I really do have other matters to attend to today,” Dimitri said, sipping his coffee.
I nodded. “Anatoly, Andrei, if you would be so kind as to show us the merchandise? We do have other matters to attend to this morning.”
With thinly veiled patience, we watched the struggle to unload and then open the crates.
I drew out my silver flask and unscrewed the cap, taking a swig before handing it to Dimitri. It was a little early, even for me, but there was no way I was going to survive this encounter with the Petrov brothers completely sober.
Dimitri took a swig and hid a rough cough behind the back of his hand. “Damn you and that rotgut Moskovskaya vodka you like!”
I smiled. No one appreciated good vodka. I kept things real by drinking the vodka of the people, not that elitist crap Dimitri and our friends, Gregor and Mikhail, preferred.
It drew our attention back to the brothers who had each pulled out gold-plated Desert Eagle handguns and were pointing them at each other.
I sighed. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
Dimitri stepped forward. “Gentlemen, if I may?”
He picked up the crowbar and made quick work of the case lid. As we both pushed aside the straw packing, Dimitri snatched up the first exposed rifle. After flipping it over, he handed it to me. I looked to the left of the receiver but didn’t see the expected Izhevsk factory stamp of an arrow in a triangle. Instead, there was a bunch of Latin numbers. They were fakes from Afghanistan.
The Petrov brothers had truly reached an epic level of stupid to try to sell men as dangerous as Dimitri and I fake guns.
“So do we have a deal for both crates?” asked Andrei. “I need to know now. We have many interested buyers, but as a courtesy to the Motherland we are coming to you first.”
I raised an eyebrow and repeated, “A courtesy. Did you hear that, Dimitri, the Petrov brothers were giving us a courtesy.”
I pulled my .30-caliber Tokarev and pressed it against Andrei’s head. Both started shouting and crying.
“Shut the fuck up,” Dimitri yelled.
The hired henchmen shifted their feet but didn’t step in, clearly unwilling to die for whatever the Petrov brothers were paying them.
“Tell your girlfriends to leave,” Dimitri snarled.
“Get back! Now!” called Anatoly.
The henchmen scattered like rats.
“Looks like you weren’t a very good fuck in bed,” I taunted.
Dimitri spoke. His voice was calm and controlled, something I knew would freak out the brothers. “Gentlemen, you have jeopardized a lucrative business deal of ours.”
Andrei tried to speak.
I cocked my gun. “Did we give you permission to talk?”
His lips turned down as his eyes widened in a comical expression. Then I heard piss. I jumped out of the way. “Goddamn it! These are Italian!”
“As of today, you are no longer in the gunrunning business, have I made myself clear?” Dimitri threatened.
“But there’s enough business for everyone,” whined Anatoly.
I shrugged. “I guess you weren’t clear.”
Dimitri shot him in the knee. Over the brother’s screams of agony, he said, “Have I made my point, or do I need to repeat myself?”
I shook my head. “He really hates repeating himself.”
The other brother conceded. “Okay! Okay! No more guns.”
“And you’ll leave the city tonight.”
“Yes! Yes!”
Dimitri nodded as he returned his gun to his shoulder holster. “Good. Since I know you are sorry for the trouble and inconvenience you’ve caused, we’ll accept these crates as an apology.”
I thought about it for a second. “And the Ferrari.”
Dimitri gave me an odd look, but I brushed it off. While it was a stupid car for two grown men, Mary would look incredibly sexy behind the wheel. A beautiful woman deserved to drive a flashy, if impractical, sports car. I would give it to her tonight when I picked her up for dinner.
“And the Ferrari,” repeated Dimitri.
After arranging for a cleanup crew, Dimitri and I tied up loose ends at Midway Airport where the brothers had taken possession of the counterfeit guns before parting ways. I was busy arranging to have one of my crew pick up the Ferrari and drop it off at Mary’s when I got a call from a pawnshop owner.
Dropping everything else, I battled traffic for forty minutes to arrive at the rundown Cash for Gold pawnshop. Pushing open the filthy glass door, I surveyed the cluttered space filled with instruments, old computers, and a dingy glass case displaying black velvet trays overflowing with jewelry, mostly abandoned engagement rings and cross necklaces.
The man behind the counter mopped his brow with a crumpled paper towel the moment I entered. He was pale, with a large face propped up by several folds of flesh under his jaw. I didn’t recognize him, but judging by the fear in his shifty, rat-like eyes, he certainly recognized me. That wasn’t surprising. Pawnshops were just on this side of the law and Dimitri and I were very well known in the criminal underworld.
“Mr. Rostov, I hope I did the right thing.”
“Let me see them.”
He nodded vigorously. “I have them in the back in the safe.”
As he disappeared through a doorway that seemed almost too narrow for his bulk, he continued to talk to me from the other room. “I hope I did the right thing. I recognized your crest from the engraving on the back of one of the cufflinks. I hope I did the right thing.” He returned to the main shop area.