I took a sip of my mimosa. “Do you think I’m a bitch?”
“What?” She reached for her drink. “A bitch? No, why? Did he tell you that?”
“No,” I said. “I was just wondering. I mean, you know how they talked about us in school.”
“We went to school with bitches,” she hissed. “They were stupid and they said stupid shit.”
I didn’t totally agree, but I agreed with her nonetheless. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
“This guy with the big dick and the kung fu moves. He’s hot?”
“Way hot.”
“And he’s an investor?”
“Uh-huh.”
“In what?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. Opportunities. That’s what he said.”
“That’s funny. What kind of opportunities? Maybe he’s a sex trafficker or something gross. Ever think about that?”
“He’s not gross. And he’s not a pimp or something nasty. He wears a suit to work and drives a BMW.”
“Just sayin’. You never know.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve been to his house. He’s a neat freak. Everything’s spotless.”
“So, because he’s got a BMW and a clean house, you trust him?”
“No, I trust him because he’s given me no reason not to.”
“Well,” she said. “Sooner or later your dad’s going to find out. And when he does, you’re going to be in a fuckin’ mess. So, if you really like this guy—” She cocked an eyebrow and raised her drink. “Figure out how you’re going to handle that before your dad finds out.”
Michelle was right. At whatever point my father found out about Michael, if I hadn’t already addressed it with him, he would simply go ballistic. He would send one of his underlings to try and hurt Michael, and that wouldn’t end well. The last thing I needed was for my father and Michael to be at war with one another.
“Maybe I’ll just tell my father about Michael and set something up for them to meet. Not like right away, but pretty soon,” I said, knowing I would wait as long as possible.
“You need to talk to him first,” she said. “He’s going to shit when he finds out who you are.”
“I know,” I said. “And, I know, he is.”
“And your dad’s gonna shit too.” She took a drink and coughed as she swallowed. “Big bricks.”
My father may be able to easily dismiss Michael as substandard because he wasn’t Italian, but I sure couldn’t. As far as I was concerned, he was perfect for me.
I just needed to get my father to agree.
Chapter Ten
Michael
I motioned toward the road ahead of us. “Don’t turn here, turn on 23rd. Fredrick is one-way the other direction. It’ll let us pull up right behind the parking lot, and you can see everything from the street.”
Cap turned off the turn signal and stepped on the gas pedal. “You got it, Boss.”
Halfway down 23rd, he asked the inevitable. “You thinkin’ these Bulgarians are going to give us some trouble?”
“I hope not.”
“Why you got Lucky posted up across the street with eyes on the drop-off?”
“Just being cautious.”
He laughed a dry laugh. “When was the last time you went on a run?”
I peered down Fredrick Avenue toward the scheduled drop-off point. “Don’t know.”
“I do,” he said as he turned the corner. “You haven’t. Now, before I pull in here, what’re you thinkin’?”
“I’m thinking these guys are unpredictable, we’ve got $200,000 in weapons, and they’re one of only a few of my customers who demand that they don’t pay in advance. So, we’re doing a $200,000 cash deal in a parking lot at night. You do the math. There’s no room for error. That’s what I think.”
He slowed down as we approached the lot. “Sounds reasonable.”
“It’s just...”
I paused and grabbed my buzzing phone. “What’s it looking like, Lucky?”
“Three Slavs in a Mercedes G wagon. Place is clean.”
The parking lot where we were scheduled to do the drop-off was chosen by the customer. Based on the location and being under the cover of darkness, I believed we were exposed to minimal risk. In an old warehouse district with virtually no traffic on any of the side streets, the area minimized the possibility of being hijacked or surprised.
An empty lot across the street was the perfect place for one of my employees to sit and observe the transaction. One could never be too careful on a $200,000 cash deal in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse—especially at night.
“Roger that. We’re turning in. You stand tight until the money changes hands.”
“Roger that,” he said. “Standing by to stand by.”
I hung up. “Lucky says the place is clean. Pull up beside the Mercedes.”
As with most of my larger deliveries, I had rented a box truck and loaded it with the firearms. Typically used as residential moving vans, the vehicles received very little attention from onlookers, and the customer could simply take the vehicle and return it to the rental agency when they were finished unloading it.
The parking lot was illuminated by overhead light poles, and the Mercedes SUV was parked directly under one of them. As the van came to a stop, I gave my instructions to Cap. “Stay in the vehicle, locked and loaded, until Lucky pulls in to extract us.”
“Roger that.”
I stepped out of the vehicle and approached the Mercedes. My point of contact, sitting in the rear seat, got out and gave a nod. A square-jawed six-foot-four Bulgarian, Svetli rarely laughed or cracked a smile for that matter.
I nodded in return. “Svetli.”
“Good evening, Tripp.”
I patted my hand against the side of the van. “We’ve got all two hundred, in crates of ten. There’s two magazines for each weapon in the bottom of each crate.”
He motioned for the passenger to get out. “We appreciate for you finding missing fifty.”
Svetli had lived in the United States for one year, and communicating with him reminded me of the many scenes I had seen in action movies where the Russian played the bad guy. Always stone-faced and speaking with a distinct Slavic accent, mistaking him for a Russian would be easy.
“You’re the customer,” I said. “It’s my job to keep you happy.”
The passenger handed me a small leather satchel. Out of respect, I didn’t look inside. A simple nod on my part was affirmation enough of receiving payment in full. I opened the passenger door and tossed the satchel toward Cap.
Svetli motioned toward the rear of the truck. “You mind if look inside?”
I reached in my pocket and removed the key to the padlock. “Let’s have a look.”
Svetli and his passenger followed me to the rear of the van. After unlocking the padlock and handing him the key, I opened the rear door. Twenty handcrafted wooden crates filled the storage area completely.
I pointed at the crate closest to the door. “The top isn’t nailed down on this one. I thought you may want to have a look.”
The passenger jumped inside, removed the top of the crate, and nodded in approval upon seeing the contents.
Svetli turned to face me. “We’re good for go.”
I love it when a plan comes together.
My buzzing phone caused a tingling to run the length of my spine.
I removed my Bluetooth headset from my jacket pocket, unfolded it, and placed it over my ear. The two odd glances I received in return were the least of my worries. I knew if Lucky was calling in the middle of the transaction, there must be a serious potential threat.
Lucky’s statement was concise. “Black SUV. Stealth mode. Your nine o’clock. Headlights off.”
Fuck.
I pulled the pistol from my holster. “We’ve got company.”
Svetli’s face contorted and his eyes narrowed. “What for you mean company?”
In our remote location, the distant sound of the SUV rapidly accelerating was in complete contrast to the silence. I had no time to explain matters further. My military training took over.
I glanced over my left shoulder. “Cap, we’ve got tangos. Your nine o’ clock,” I shouted.
“Got ‘em.”
Lucky’s voice came over the earpiece. “Tangos are coming in hot. ROE?”
“Stand down,” I said. “Only on my command.”
“Roger on your command,” he responded.
I turned toward Svetli and tilted my head at the sound of the approaching SUV. “There’s an SUV coming this direction.”
Svetli pulled a pistol from his waistband and barked something to his comrade in Bulgarian. Immediately following, they both disappeared around the side of the van.
“I’ve got a sniper with eyes on them,” I shouted. “Let me handle this.”
Lucky was armed with a sniper rifle, and was capable of providing us with protection from his remote location in the adjoining parking lot. I was well aware that we weren’t filming an action movie, and I wasn’t at war. Regardless of my chosen profession, I fully realized living in the civilian world limited my ability to react with deadly force.
If the level of threat was deadly, I would have Lucky react appropriately. If it wasn’t, I would respond with a lesser force—more than likely my fists and feet.
The black SUV came into the lot at a high rate of speed, screeched to a stop at the front of the van, and three men jumped out.
Fucking amateurs.
“You got a clear shot?” I asked.
“Roger that.”
Svetli and his partner stood on the right-hand side of the van, both armed with pistols. Their driver, who was still seated in the Mercedes, glared at the new arrivals through the windshield. I was standing at the right rear corner of the van, intending to use the vehicle as a shield if necessary.
“Get out of the fuckin’ truck!” a voice called out. The mixture of Philadelphia and Italian accents made hiding Agrioli’s involvement in the little fiasco nothing short of impossible.
While Svetli and his Bulgarian partner whispered, I stepped to the side of the van with my pistol pointed at the man on my left. “I’ve got bad news, fellas,” I said flatly, studying each of them. “This cargo isn’t going anywhere.”
One of the three men was armed with a shotgun and the other two with pistols. All three were dressed in tracksuits similar to the silent thug who made an appearance at my office.
“We’re taking the fuckin’ truck,” the one with the shotgun announced.
“Clear shot on the mouthy fucker with the shotgun?” I whispered.
“Affirmative on shotgun,” Lucky responded.
“His right thigh on my five count,” I whispered.
“Roger, on your five.”
I alternated glances between the three men. “I’m going to give you one chance to leave, and that chance is now. You, with the shotgun. A sniper has you in his sights right now. Toss the shotgun on the ground in front of you by my count of five, or you will be shot. That is not a threat, it is a promise.”
He shook his head and raised the shotgun slightly. “Fuck you. Have your driver get out of the fuckin’ truck.”
I shook my head. “One. Two. Three.”
He waved the shotgun toward Cap. “Get out of the fuckin’ truck.”
He didn’t deserve a four. “Five.”
From where we stood, there was no indication of the silenced rifle being fired. The distinct sound of the bullet whistling—at least to my trained ears—was the only warning of what had happened. At the same instant the word five was spoken, the bullet tore through the man’s leg. He howled out a high-pitched scream and fell to the parking lot.
The shotgun clanked to the pavement a few feet beside him.
Immune to the screams of wounded, I turned toward the two remaining would-be villains and gave my command. The man who had been shot wailed in pain and reached for his leg.
The other two men stood with their pistols held at their sides, nervously scouring the lot for a glimpse of who may have shot their partner. Having been in a similar situation on many occasions while at war, I realized it was quite possible the other two men had no idea of the complexity of their companion’s wound. Not hearing the gunshot seemed to take away some of the severity of what the human mind registered.
“Drop your weapons in front of you, get on your knees, and place your hands behind your heads.”
“Fuck you,” the one in the center barked.
“Clear shot on center target?” I asked.
“Roger the center,” Lucky responded.
“Shoot the thigh.”
Instantly, the same whistling sound ripped through the air, and the man in the center dropped to the ground. Still holding his pistol, he bellowed out what I expected were Italian expletives.
“Toss the gun,” I demanded. “Or I’ll have him shoot you in the chest.”
He threw the gun to the side.
“Now,” I said, pointing my pistol at the last man standing. “Toss your weapon, get on your knees, and place your hands behind your head. This is your only warning.”
He tossed his weapon on the ground.
“Cap,” I shouted. “Search him and secure him.”
“Roger that.”
Cap exited the van with his pistol held at the ready. After kicking the three weapons to his rear, he searched the last man, secured his hands with zip ties, and then searched the two wounded men.
“Cut their sleeves off and use ’em for tourniquets. Secure their phones, and search the vehicle.”
“Got it, Boss.”
“Keep eyes on the lot until the van is gone,” I said into the mouthpiece.
“Roger that,” Lucky responded.
I turned toward Svetli. My mouth twisted into a prideful smirk. “Sorry for the delay.”
He tossed his head toward the three men. “For fucking sake. Who are these fucks?”
I didn’t dare tell him of the problems I’d been having with Agrioli. “Italian mafia is my guess, at least they sounded Italian. Looks like they were trying to rob us of your weapons.”
“Agrioli?”
I shrugged, surprised he was knowledgeable of the mafia’s presence in Kansas City. “That’s my guess.”
He shot me a stern glare. “What you do with these fucks?”
“I’ll have him strip the vehicle of cell phones and weapons, and let the uninjured one drive them to the hospital. They can send a message to their boss that I’m not some half-assed wannabe weapons dealer.”
He cracked a smile. “No half-ass nothing. You are fucking gun runner, Tripp. The Gun Runner.”
“That, I am.” I liked the sound of it, especially rolling off of his Slav tongue. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”
He tilted his head toward where Cap was standing guard over the Italians. “I want to take man with me. The one with no bleeding. Maybe for Svetli Slavonovich send his own message to Agrioli. Son of bitch.”
I saw no harm in it, especially knowing the other two men would return a message to Agrioli that the Russians took one of their partners. It was quite possible allowing Svetli to take one of the Italians as a hostage would divert some of Agrioli’s attention away from me.
“Fine with me.”
Cap approached us. “Found an ID in the vehicle. The two wounded don’t have any ID. But number three does. You’re going to love this.”
I shrugged. “What?”
“He’s an Agriol
i. Name’s Peter.”
I chuckled at the thought of Agrioli’s butthole puckering when he found out one of his blood had been taken hostage. “Perfect.”
“Looks like he’s exactly who you want. Take him,” I said with a nod toward Svetli. “After you’re long gone, we’ll let the other two leave.”
“You are man of honor,” Svetli said.
I grinned as I holstered my pistol. “I do my best.”
I tossed my head toward the van. “Cap, secure the van. They’re taking it.”
“Roger that.”
I glanced toward the three men. Cap had duct tape across their mouths and their hands and feet bound with zip ties.
“Lucky, you still with me?”
“Affirmative.”
“Van’s heading out. After the Mercedes and van are out of sight, we need extraction.”
“Roger that.”
Svetli loaded Peter Agrioli in the rear compartment of his SUV, shook my hand, and then drove away with the van, his Mercedes following right behind him. A few moments later, Lucky pulled in the lot in his SUV.
“They gonna live?” he asked.
“They’ll be fine,” I said. “Nice shooting.”
“Semper fi,” he said. “Do or die.”
“Load the cash, their weapons and phones, and grab the ditty bag. I’m going to let them get medical attention. Fucking idiots.”
While Cap and Lucky loaded the SUV, I approached the two wounded men. “I’m going to let you two drive wherever you think you need to go to get medical attention, but not until we’re long gone. That’s a .22-250 round that tore through your leg, it feels much worse than it is. Ninety days of therapy, and you’ll be walking again. Now, listen up.”
Both men had obviously reached a point where they understood moaning and groaning wasn’t going to change things. As with most men who I had seen shot in the leg, myself included, after the initial shock, dealing with the discomfort became much easier with each passing minute.