Finally, the man stood tall and sniffed in such a way that Dez was convinced they were screwed.
He pulled out a cell phone—a different one from that phone he’d been checking all day—speed-dialed someone, and said something in what sounded like Russian. Although Dez didn’t know. She spoke English and Brooklyn-English, which involved some Spanish, and mangled Italian and Yiddish. But that was it.
With a nod at the contact, he packed up his crap and walked out without a word.
“Well?” Dez asked the contact.
The pretty girl smiled and gave a thumbs-up.
With a relieved sigh, Dez unclipped her cell phone from the holster attached to her jeans and called Vic. “It fuckin’ worked,” she said in Brooklyn-English. “I can’t believe it, but it fuckin’ worked.”
Vic put down his phone and looked at the three badgers and panda he was playing Texas Hold ’Em with at the kitchen table. Livy, Jake, Jocelyn, and Shen. He looked and said nothing.
As one, the four shifters turned and looked out the sliding-glass doors where Melly yelled into her cell phone, “You will never stop loving me! I will kill you first!” She burst into tears. “Please don’t stop loving me,” she sobbed. “Please! You motherfucker! ”
They faced forward again, shook their heads, and went back to playing their game.
CHAPTER 36
Bayla Ben-Zeev reviewed the finances for each of the department heads who reported to her.
Unlike her predecessor, Balya did not nitpick each and every dime spent. If a fellow grizzly liked to spend BPC money on honey or a nearly eight-foot polar needed to invest in an extra-strong office chair designed for his four hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, she wasn’t going to argue. There were always more important things for her people to be doing than worrying about the cost of chairs.
Besides, Bayla occasionally liked this kind of busywork. Adjusting numbers, deciding which department needed more, which could survive with less. This kind of work had always been a nice break from what her real work was, which at first had been protecting the Israeli people. But now, it was protecting her fellow bears.
Both jobs she was exceedingly proud of.
Bayla’s office door was thrown open and a large grizzly stormed in.
He threw his arms wide. “Bayla, my love!”
Bayla sighed, already apologizing to her ears for the next few minutes of onslaught.
She leaned back into her chair. “Vladik Barinov. I’m not surprised to see you in my office.”
“Really?” He dismissed Bayla’s assistant with a wave of his hand.
But the Bronx native black bear wasn’t so easily sent away. She looked at Bayla.
“It’s all right, Judith. You can go.”
The door closed behind the She-bear, and Vladik dropped his mighty bulk into the chair across from Bayla’s.
“You are looking good, my dearest one. This New York City life agrees with you.”
Bayla ignored the compliment. Instead, she went back to her paperwork and said, “I’ve been hearing things about your son.” She thought a moment. “Victor.”
“My wonderful boy! So very handsome! Just like his papa!”
“Unfortunately, Vladik, he’s become friendly with a rather unsavory element.”
“Honey badgers have right to be pissed, do they not?”
“Do they?”
“Rostislav Chumakov is not a friend, my dear Bayla.”
“He gives BPC lots of money.”
“Is that why you protect him?”
Bayla looked up from her work. “I protect Chumakov as much as I protect you or any other of our kind. I need proof before I condemn a bear.”
“You will have proof.”
“Will I?”
“Oh yes. But he must know, Bayla—that retaliation of any kind would be foolish on his part.” Vladik grinned. “You know me. I am friendly bear! Everyone loves Vladik! But if he tries to kill my son’s lovely little badger again—I will cut him up into little pieces and bake him in pie. My grandmother did that once to a full-human she did not like in a neighboring village.” His smile faded. “She fed him to his family—and laughed while they ate him.”
His grin returned. “For we are jovial bears, the Barinovs! And we do not like unnecessary strife. What is the point, yes?”
Bayla leaned back in her chair. “I’ll make sure everyone’s clear on this issue. As you know, I believe in protecting hybrid bears as much as their full-blood brethren. That’s important to me.”
“Hearing that brings me joy, beautiful Bayla.”
“But for this to go any further than just warnings, Vladik—I better have proof he’s been protecting Frankie Whitlan.”
“Do not worry, my dear—as I said, proof you will have. Most likely more proof than you could ever want.”
Livy woke up when someone touched her arm. “Jake?”
“Chumakov’s in town.”
She nodded and said to her cousin, “You know what to do.”
“We’re already on it.” Her cousin walked out. Livy looked up to see that Vic was awake, his gaze focused on her face.
“Already on what?” he asked.
“Keeping an eye on my mother.”
“Your mother? Why?”
She yawned, snuggled back into his chest. “It’s something she used to always tell me when I was growing up. Kowalskis never forget . . . but Yangs never forgive.”
“We promised my father we wouldn’t make a move on Chumakov until we had proof. And even then . . . we should still go through the BPC.”
“Don’t worry. Balt will keep her busy. How, I don’t want to know. But we should be fine. At least until Chumakov heads out again.”
“Good.” Vic rubbed her back. “Besides, I doubt he’ll be staying in the States for long. Not once he gets the news . . .”
After handing over three and a half million American dollars, four of his men packed the Matisse away and took it out a back door of the small Greek grocery store where they’d met the full-human contact who had the painting.
Rostislav Chumakov was so happy with his purchase—three and a half million for a Matisse, stolen or otherwise, was what Americans called a “steal”—he didn’t notice anything was wrong when he stepped out of the small store and onto the Manhattan street until his eldest boy stopped walking right in front of him.
Rostislav leaned over a bit and he forced himself to smile. “Bayla Ben-Zeev,” he said, walking around his son and over to the She-bear resting her big bear ass against his limo. “You look wonderful as always.” He kissed both her cheeks.
“It’s good to see you again, Rostislav. What brings you to the States?”
“A little business. I can’t stay long.”
“That’s fine. Probably for the best. I heard you’ve been making some enemies lately.” Ben-Zeev shook her head. “Badgers? You’re pissing off badgers now?”
“I didn’t know the BPC involved itself in a bear’s personal business.”
“We don’t . . . unless it threatens what we have. When you told me I could use my people for more important work because you had a handle on the Whitlan situation”—she shrugged—“I took you at your word. A bear’s word is very important to me, Rostislav.”
“And I do have a handle on it. My men will track him down any day now.”
She dramatically winced. “You may be too late on that.”
“I do not understand.”
“It’s my understanding they may have found him. Whitlan, that is. In fact, I think things are already on the move.” She pushed away from the limo, pressed her hand against Rostislav’s expensive suit. “If I were you, I’d let things play out . . . and just let it go.”
“What?”
“Let it go, Rostislav. For your own good and the good of your family. Let it go.” Bayla stepped away. “Safe trip back, old friend. Safe trip back.”
They watched the She-bear walk to the corner, get in her own limo, and drive away.
/> “I wouldn’t worry, Papa,” his eldest sneered after Bayla. “I’m sure everything at home is—”
Rostislav focused on his son. “If you say the word ‘fine,’ I will beat you to death in this street.” His boy said nothing else, which was good. “Now get me home,” he ordered. Even though Rostislav already knew he was too late.
CHAPTER 37
Boris Krupin was bored. But his boss was a powerful bear who paid his people well. So if Rostislav Chumakov wanted them to protect a full-human, that was what they would do.
Still, Boris was happy when he heard the first wolf howl. Normally, a wolf howl this close to Chumakov territory just pissed Boris off. But tonight it did nothing but excite him. He relished the thought of slapping around some wolves.
Boris looked at his fellow bears and they all nodded, shifted, and went after those infiltrating wolves, leaving behind three bears to keep an eye on the useless full-human.
Frankie Whitlan heard the howling ring out and pulled his .357 Magnum. He went to the window and stared down at the front of the house. He watched several of the guards shift to bear and run off into the night. They were chasing wolves? Really?
These fools were here to protect him, not chase after local wolves like the filthy animals they were. These idiots were supposed to be smarter than their non-shifter counterparts. And yet they seemed just as stupid and worthless.
He decided to get them back so they could do their goddamn jobs. Frankie spun away from the window toward the study door but stopped short when cold yellow eyes, like a dog’s, stared at him.
“Hi, Frankie,” a voice growled from behind a massive beard and thick black hair.
Frankie immediately raised his weapon, but a big hand caught his and held the gun off. Then he saw a flash, and a blade rammed into Frankie’s neck, instantly cutting off his ability to scream and breathe.
But that wasn’t enough for the man killing him. He twisted the knife, forcing Frankie to the floor.
“That,” the beard and black hair growled out as everything went dark for Frankie, “is for making me bring my hillbilly ass all the way to goddamn Russia just to kill you.”
Eggie Smith of the Tennessee Smith Pack watched Frankie “The Rat” Whitlan die. The full-human tried not to, but the one real skill Eggie had was knowing how to kill a man. When the breathing and the heart stopped, Eggie knew he could leave.
He’d only do a job like this for his little girl. But she’d only ask him if it was real important. She knew that Eggie didn’t like leaving his Darla unless he really had to.
Eggie walked out of a surprisingly tasteful study—considering the tackiness of the rest of the home—and into the hallway. That was where he found three bears waiting for him. They were armed but hadn’t pulled their weapons yet. Probably figured they didn’t have to for just one wolf.
One of the younger bears said something in Russian and started toward Eggie. But the older bear, a grizzly with lots of silver in his hair, pulled the boy back.
He said something to Eggie but, again, it was in Russian.
“What?”
The older bear’s head tipped to the side. Very slowly, in thickly accented English, the older bear asked, “Who are you, doggie?”
“Name’s Eggie Smith. Nice to meet’cha.”
Color drained from the older bear’s face and he pulled the younger bear back by his T-shirt.
The younger bear didn’t like that, arguing the point. But it was all in Russian, and Eggie didn’t understand a dang word. So he patiently waited.
Got a little heated after a time, but then the older bear must have said something real pointed because the boy stopped and pointed at Eggie. “Smith?” he asked.
“Da. Smith,” the older bear said.
All three bears looked over at Eggie—and Eggie smiled.
The bears jerked away like he’d thrown fire at them and stepped back so Eggie could walk by.
He did, but as Eggie passed he stopped because he felt the need to say, “And y’all should be ashamed of protecting that man. Ashamed,” he repeated. When they only stared at him, appearing confused, he added, “Look it up.”
Eggie walked out into the woods surrounding the estate and tossed his weapon at the Volkov wolves whom he’d been surprised would let a Smith anywhere near Russia. Apparently these wolves were friends with that Vic Barinov hybrid. Normally, Eggie would only trust his own connections for a job like this, but his baby girl had said Barinov could be trusted, as could the man’s connections. So Eggie had taken the risk, and it had paid off.
He nodded at the Alpha Male of the Pack, much appreciatin’ the vodka the man had let him taste during their lunch together, and headed toward the waiting car. But before he stepped into the vehicle, he heard vicious hissing.
Eggie watched the honey badgers trot past him and the wolves and head toward Chumakov’s territory. While Eggie had been brought in to make sure the job was done and done right—these honey badgers had come from Mongolia. The Volkovs kept jokingly calling them the “Mongol Horde.” But that was basically what they were. If any bears got in their way, they’d crush them. Why they’d been hired or who’d hired them, Eggie didn’t know. Nor did he care. His job was done.
He got into the car that would take him to the local airport so that Eggie could get right back where he belonged—the United States of America and his Darla Mae.
CHAPTER 38
Vic walked into the bedroom they’d been sharing since they’d been at Novikov’s Rhode Island home and found Livy packing up her duffel bag.
“What’s going on?”
“I need to go back. That feline wedding planner is getting way text-bitchy. ‘When are you coming back?’ ” Livy mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “ ‘Should we hire someone else? For what you’re charging, you should be on-call at alllll times.’ ”
Vic sat down on the bed next to her bag. “Are you sure?”
“She may not really sound like that, but she was definitely being text-bitchy.”
“Not that. Are you sure about leaving?”
“I can’t hide out here forever.”
“But,” Vic said, getting to the heart of the matter, “there’s a pool. I love that pool.”
Livy laughed and put her hand on her shoulder. “I know this will be a sacrifice for you.”
“It really will. But for you, I’ll do it.”
Vic watched Livy shove a bag of dirty clothes into her duffel bag then zip it closed. “Livy?”
“Huh?”
“Are you going back to your apartment?”
“I’d rather set myself on fire.”
Startled, Vic laughed out, “Why?”
“It’ll smell like Melly. Smelly Melly. I can’t have her drunken scent surrounding me. I can crash at Toni’s place, though, until I get another place that’s hopefully snake free.”
“Or you could crash at my place,” he offered, trying his best to make it sound casual, even though it wasn’t. “If you want, I mean.”
With a sigh, Livy moved her bag aside and sat down on the bed next to Vic. “But . . .” she said hesitantly, “you don’t have a pool.”
Sadly, it took Vic a little longer than it should have for him to figure out she was joking. And by then, he was just embarrassed, grabbing Livy and yanking her onto his lap.
Vic kissed her neck and tickled her ribs, loving the way she laughed and tried to wiggle away from him until Livy’s mother strode up to the door. The older She-badger had on her mink and held the handle of her bright red travel suitcase, which she rolled behind her.
“I’m leaving,” Livy’s mother announced.
“Bye, Joan.”
Joan sniffed, tossed her hair, and walked off.
“Is she mad?” Vic asked.
“Who knows?”
“Shouldn’t you ask?”
“Except I don’t really care.”
Vic’s cell phone vibrated once, letting him know he’d gotten a text or e-mail, and he grabbed it off
the nightstand. He opened a picture that had been sent to him and reared back.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
He sighed. “Well . . . Whitlan’s dead.”
Livy glanced back at him. “What?”
He held up the phone and Livy studied it. “Oh . . . yeah. He sure is.”
“I can’t believe Eggie Smith did this, though.”
“That’s not a Smith move. That’s all honey badger.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know my people. Any other shifter would have gone in, ended Whitlan, moved on. But my people . . . we’re a little petty. Very mean.”
Vic looked back at the picture, studied it a little more. “Livy? What’s that? In the house.”
Livy glanced over, shook her head. “It’s a hole. They burrowed into Chumakov’s house. Who knows what they did once they were inside.”
“So, we’re actively pissing off Chumakov now?”
“My family is, apparently. I’m just trying to get ready for this wedding.” Livy stood, picked up her bag. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’m done with hiding.”
It took Chumakov more than two days to get home, including delays and a snowstorm that hit part of Eastern Europe. But when he stepped out of his car and saw Frankie Whitlan hanging upside down and skinless from the front of the house, all his travel exhaustion went away.
It wasn’t that Whitlan had meant much to him beyond always providing the best entertainment. He could find anyone to do that. But he’d given Whitlan his protection. The protection of Rostislav Chumakov. That meant something. Or, at least, it used to.
But that girl was still alive, from what he’d heard. Whitlan was dead. And everyone now knew it.
“Hey, Chumakov,” one of the bears from a nearby village called out. “Nice decorations!”