First Blood

  was too much bother to come investigate. British coppers these days

  were more concerned with issuing eighty-pound sterling fines for

  littering. Easy money for a state on the verge of economic collapse.

  He turned away from the blackening and twisting photo and

  studied the two large whiteboards he'd installed to keep the operation

  visually present. He was a visual thinker. Flow charts and mind maps

  helped him keep track.

  There was Zaitsev in the middle, surrounded by his entourage and

  his main rivals. He'd just removed Andrei from the picture to keep

  matters simple.

  There were no loose ends, so he could take Christopher Gibson

  off the operational map too. The photo was of Chris in Andrei's house,

  near the window. He'd shot the photo when preparing to enter that

  house. That pensive look seemed very unlike Chris, but Nikita

  suspected a hidden depth behind all the acidic humor.

  No matter. As entertaining as Chris Gibson had been, he was not

  part of the current situation. Nikita pulled down the photo and gave it a

  weak toss toward the ashtray. It fell short, fluttered to the ground,

  landed under the camping table. He shrugged it off as not important and

  turned back to the boards.

  He looked at the other board and Yuri Shkadov, the central figure

  there. Shkadov would have looked like a benevolent uncle if not for the

  dark, hooded gaze that gave nothing away. He, now, was a proper vor,

  a “thief” of the old mold, tattoos, connections, and an unhealthy dislike

  of any kind of authority, especially as represented by the state. Nikita

  remembered a sentence Shkadov had spat at him more than ten years

  ago: “I’ve seen three regimes come and go—I’ll still be around to see

  the fourth!”

  But he didn't wait around in Moscow for that to happen. Instead,

  he'd established himself in East Berlin, using old contacts in the GDR

  and among Germany's large Russian expat community. He could

  summon leg breakers from just about anywhere in Germany, and his

  tentacles reached into Poland, the Baltic States, and of course,

  Amsterdam, which was another stronghold of his operations, largely

  because he delivered fresh women to the brothels and meat markets.

  Nikita had probed the depth and width of Shkadov's operations

  and thought by now he understood how most of it worked. For his

  purposes, it was enough that Shkadov and Zaitsev had each other by the

  balls—they'd worked with each other on occasion, whenever Zaitsev

  needed something done that expensive English lawyers couldn't

  accomplish. Another connection was Zaitsev's taste for young girls,

  which Shkadov could supply in seemingly unlimited quantities.

  In short, Shkadov was perfect to take the fall when Zaitsev got

  killed.

  BERLIN was a john's paradise and a hell of a lot cheaper than Vegas,

  Chris thought as he cruised the street, hands shoved into the pockets of

  his leather jacket, Ray-Bans shielding his eyes even as the sun was

  setting. He'd been here a couple days, ostensibly on business, gathering

  intel for GORGON to get their foot back in the door of the flesh trade

  case.

  He'd learned quickly that a lot of flesh was traded on these streets

  with sadly too much of it of the subprime type. Like the bleached

  blonde with a few missing teeth, and the buxom true blonde whose

  fishnets had seen better days and fewer holes. He watched a frumpy

  hausfrau type bitch-slap a couple skinny brunettes who were barely

  legal, if that, and he decided they were probably Bulgarians. He'd

  heard there were a lot of Bulgarians walking the streets because they

  were the cheapest at five to ten bucks a pop. And rumor had it the

  Eastern European girls flooding the area were brought in by Russians.

  Well, one Russian mostly. Guy by the name of Shkadov who'd been

  top dog in these parts for a long-ass time.

  He was quite the stereotypical scary motherfucker, all menacing

  glares and old school tats and, evidently, a sometime alliance with

  Chris's old buddy Zaitsev, the one who'd hired him to carry out the hit

  on Andrei.

  Chris checked his watch and cut across the street, shaking his

  head at the hookers who tried to call him over. He headed to a little

  chain coffee shop called Balzac Coffee, which looked like a rip-off of a

  Starbucks located a block away. He was slated to meet with a local

  contact who was working with a prominent support organization for

  hookers.

  Chris removed his shades when he entered the coffee shop and

  scanned the fringes for his contact. There she was, all conservatively

  dressed, her sandy hair pulled back in a tight bun, her makeup light and

  impeccable. The dark-rimmed glasses she wore gave her a serious case

  of intellectual sex appeal. Why he hadn't tried to get her in the sack

  since meeting her a day ago was a riddle he didn't feel up to tackling.

  He slid into the seat across the small round table from hers. “Hey,

  babe, whatcha got for me?”

  “He's planning for company this evening,” she said before

  sipping her coffee. “And rumor has it that they aren't getting along as

  well as they might, so you should probably hurry. They're at a club

  near the river Spree, a former warehouse, part of the area's makeover.

  It's easy to spot. The surrounding buildings are still being renovated.”

  She tapped his folded tourist's map and marked the building with her

  fingernail when he pushed it over.

  “Any idea if Zaitsev's coming in person?”

  “Well, my friends at the Hotel Adlon Kempinski say a Russian

  checked in whose bodyguards are pissing off the hotel security.” She

  tapped the side of her glasses. “Seems tensions are high.”

  “Any idea why?”

  She shrugged. “I guess money and power. It's always that.”

  “And control. That tends to be a prominent ingredient in the mix.”

  He shoved the map back into his jacket pocket. “Thank you, honey.”

  “Be careful. You have my number if you get into trouble.”

  That's where I already am, Chris thought, but he just grinned.

  “See you soon, sweetheart. I'll report back to you and let you know

  what went down between those two Russkies.”

  She smiled and curled a wispy strand of hair around her index

  finger. Chris gave her a wink but turned and kept going. He went back

  to his rental car, all the while wondering if he should be concerned that

  his dick hadn't even tried to give his cute contact so much as a half-

  hard salute.

  Darkness was settling in when he reached the nightspot. Scattered

  amongst the party crowd vying for admission was some serious muscle

  giving one another the evil eye, their jackets stretched taut against pecs

  and biceps, their stances letting their rivals know they were packing

  firepower. Chris smirked and slid his hands into his pockets. Probably

  carrying a bunch of fucking Makarovs. Inaccurate, heavy pieces of shit.

  Another car pulled up and parked near his. Chris gave it only a
br />   cursory look, noting the heavy tint on the windows. He'd see who was

  inside soon enough. He switched into his “business walk,” that self-

  assured swagger that let the doorman ahead know he wasn't about to

  cool his heels waiting with the hopefuls to get inside.

  As expected, the bouncer gave him a once-over but let him pass.

  The club was jumping, the air smoky and filled with the scents of

  booze, perfume, and sweat-dampened flesh. Lightning blue strobes

  flashed in Chris's vision, and he was distracted for a moment by go-go

  dancers in the tiniest of leather and latex outfits, women and men, a few

  of them hoisted up in polished chrome cages, grinding and gyrating in

  time with the thumping disco beat, sometimes in pairs, both het and gay,

  and clearly tasked to turn people on.

  Chris located the bar area to the back. In keeping with the

  industrial feel of this huge brick building, the furnishings were all done

  in wrought iron and chrome, from the bar to the tables. Bar staff raced

  to fill drink orders, and Chris spotted a fair collection of local meat

  plying their trade at the bar and tables further back.

  Ah, there was a walkway further up, almost right under the roof,

  and from the four bouncers looking like they were protecting their balls

  with both hands, he assumed that was where the meet would happen.

  He sauntered to the bar, ordered a beer, and found himself a

  vantage point to see the walkway without being obvious. He scanned

  the place like he was cruising for a hook-up, pausing for just a moment

  when a strobe flash illuminated an alcove across the way.

  Oh ho, there was his old friend from Paris. Zaitsev. Chris moved

  away from the wall, stepped closer to the bar, and began chatting up a

  cute guy who'd brushed by him when he'd come in.

  Chris half listened to the guy make small talk, his focus on the

  local crime lord Shkadov, who headed with his muscle to an iron

  stairway back near the restrooms.

  Zaitsev and his minions soon followed. Chris raised his beer

  bottle in a quick salute when the Russian noticed him. Chris broke eye

  contact and bent down to peer at the cute guy, who was still rambling

  on about his foreign exchange student days in San Francisco.

  After a moment Chris glanced up. That bank of square windows

  rimming the catwalk was a sniper's dream, and he almost wished he

  had orders to take one or both of those fuckers out. It would be easy

  enough. The shot could be done from the roof or from one of the

  surrounding buildings that oversaw the club. Maybe even one of the

  cranes standing around. He noted the place for later reference, just in

  case.

  The two Russians settled in and began to talk. From their

  animated gestures, he assumed they were negotiating, possibly having a

  heated argument.

  One of Zaitsev's bodyguards played with his mobile phone, semi-

  hidden behind a steel beam, possibly texting his girlfriend. Chris

  noticed he wore a cast under the suit and a black sling to go with the

  suit. Head of security, probably, or he wouldn't have been on duty

  while injured.

  Zaitsev stood, angrily, and violently enough to topple their drinks,

  and marched off. Chris noticed how the bodyguard glanced around, did

  something on his cell, slipped it into his pocket, and followed his boss

  along the catwalk. There was a strategic distance, though; he looked

  like he knew he should catch up, but he didn't.

  Zaitsev passed the windows and suddenly stumbled. No wonder,

  because most of his head was missing.

  Chapter 7

  DAMN fine shot, that. Brilliant, really, and Chris wondered what

  weapon had done it. He would have chosen a Remington 700.

  Blood and brain matter rained upon a woman near the restroom;

  Russian voices boomed from above. Patrons near the back panicked as

  the realization of murder hit home, and they stampeded for the exits.

  Chris finished his beer before taking his own leave through a side

  door, one in the direction of the shot. He glanced up once he hit the

  pavement, scanning the surroundings.

  Yes, that construction site looked like a good place. He broke into

  a jog, went into the side alley of the building, and jumped one-handed

  over the fence. Evading concrete mixers and piles of building materials,

  he headed for the entrance.

  The building was close to finished—at least the walls and floors

  and ceilings were done, all in pale gray concrete, with rebar sticking

  out where the structure wasn't completed. Up the main staircase that

  had no railings yet, feeling his way around when there was no light

  from outside, then up another floor.

  Fifth floor up, he walked across the open floor and saw that the

  angle was right to shoot into the club. Well played, good choice. Where

  was the shooter? He kept walking and checked the floor and then

  glanced outside when he heard police sirens in the distance.

  Shit. The cops would have no evidence or forensics to pin the hit

  on him, but he didn't need the bullshit time waste that dealing with

  their accusations would bring.

  Angry Russian voices filled the air outside, joining the wail of

  sirens. The pop of gunfire followed. Chris drew his Beretta, stuck to the

  shadows, and remained in them toward the exit on the opposite side of

  the building. There, he spotted two men together, one of them, God,

  that was Nikita, the other the bodyguard with the cast. Shit, inside job?

  The footfalls and voices of more mobsters sounded.

  The bodyguard hesitated. Then he pulled a gun, suddenly

  shouting something in Russian.

  Shots rang out as Nikita ducked away, but Chris thought he'd

  seen him freeze for a moment. He was still moving, though, and Chris

  cursed, firing his Beretta and hitting one man, who went down, lifeless.

  The bodyguard with the cast sought cover, and there was plenty

  of it on the construction site. Chris moved down, carefully keeping an

  eye on the situation. One bodyguard was firing more or less wildly, and

  Chris waited for him to reload before he shot him. Dumbass.

  He waited for the move of the bodyguard with the cast, but the

  man was leaning against a pile of bricks, fumbling with his weapon as

  if to waste time, looking nervously about, especially as the sirens got

  closer.

  Easy target. Too easy. Setup easy. Chris took off in the direction

  Nikita had gone. Shit. Too dark, too much crap from the site in the way.

  Something heavy fell, a groan followed, and Chris darted toward the

  sound, tripping on the same exposed two-by-fours that had tripped up

  Nikita. Where he clambered to his feet, Nikita was still on his knees,

  gripping his side. Fuck. He was bleeding.

  Chris wrapped one arm around the Russian's shoulder, and the

  other hand gripped his right arm and gave a light tug. “Lean on me.”

  Nikita cursed in Russian but relented.

  “How bad?” Chris asked, scanning the dimness, searching for the

  best way to go.

  “Bad
enough.” Nikita grunted with each step. “Car to the left.

  Behind the office trailer.”

  Half running, Chris spotted the car—clever, it was a white

  delivery van, and Nikita tugged the handle. The doors swung open, and

  they climbed inside, pulling the door shut. Nikita released him and

  crouched down to pull a first-aid kit from under the driver's seat.

  “Key's in the ignition. Drive.”

  “Gotcha.” Chris slid in between the front seats, into the driver's

  position, and turned the ignition.

  “Seatbelt. German cops are a pain about that,” Nikita grunted.

  “Sure.” Chris belted himself in and drove the car away from the

  construction site without hurrying, as if he had no clue what was going

  down.

  The cops were now arriving in force, but nobody had locked

  down the streets yet. “Where are you staying?”

  Nikita cursed and gave him an address that Chris typed into the

  navigation system attached to the window.

  “Couldn't find an out-of-the-way place, could you?” Chris shot

  back when they finally reached their destination, a little hole in the wall

  apartment building half an hour away. He undid the seatbelt and went

  to the back. “Dude, that is not good.”

  “Shut up and help me inside.”

  Chris got out of the back of the van first and helped Nikita climb

  down. A large wet splotch soaked through his dark shirt and jacket,

  trailed in a line down his thigh.

  “Go around the back, there's a nosy neighbor out front. She sees

  everything. Second floor up.”

  Nikita was weakening fast, but he didn't appear to be bleeding

  out. At least he wasn't leaving a telltale trail on the street or sidewalk,

  or in the narrow alley leading into an unlit yard that smelled of trash

  and refuse. It would have been much easier if there had been a fire

  escape, but the stupid Germans didn't have those.

  Nikita leaned heavily against the wall, fiddling for his keys.

  When he'd found them and offered them, his hand was covered in

  blood, and the keys were sticky. Just the fact that Nikita gave him the

  keys rather than try and open the door himself told Chris all he needed

  to know. Chris opened the door. Second floor up? He could do that.

  “Time to see if those bench presses paid off.” He adjusted his

  stance.