For Everything a Reason (17 page)

“To get Jake.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re in trouble, real
trouble,” Joseph said.

“From what?” she asked.

Carter turned to her and said,
“God only knows.”

Chapter
Thirty-Two

Viktor Mikhel sat alone now. His previous audience had
vacated the room, leaving the crime boss alone with his trusted right-hand man,
Pyotr Krylov. The Georgian was standing by the main door, sentinel-like, as if
trouble could present itself at any moment.

Viktor stared with bleary eyes
at the half-filled glass. The clear liquid in it had already done a good job at
numbing his senses and had, for the time being, vanquished the demons that
scratched at his brain. Hard times were afoot. Things were changing rapidly.
And some of these changes were slipping through his fingers like running water.

The Russian crime boss looked
around the room, suspicion and tiredness turning his eyes into tight slits. His
earlier rant about hidden cameras had not been unreasonable, considering the
level of trouble he was in. Both the FBI and Viktor’s own boss, Sergei
Mikhailov – the head of the Solntsevskaya Mafia based back home in Moscow, were
putting the squeeze on old Viktor.

The FBI had him under
surveillance 24/7, his phone lines were probably tapped, bank accounts being
monitored, and any number of his civil liberties were being breached. Viktor had
come to the US expecting free will and democracy: an open market for him to
excel in. Instead, here he sat, a prisoner in his own home.

Home?

Yes, Viktor thought dismally,
this vile place had become his home.

The Big Apple!

What a joke.

Sergei Mikhailov had sent him
here in the early 90s, and Viktor had come without hesitation. Eager to make a
name for himself, he’d arrived with enthusiasm and ambition - his two closest
comrades - ready to plunder this new Promised Land. Sergei had set him up with both
business and manpower, and Viktor had first begun operating in the Russian
émigré communities in New York’s Brighton Beach district.

Extortion had been his business
plan. He’d used the muscle Sergei had obtained for him, a group of hardened
Ex-KGB and Afghan war veterans, who had years of experience behind them, and
all looking for work and wealth now that the old communist regime had fallen.

Viktor started to demand
protection money from local businesses to begin with. A couple of hundred bucks
here and there, before extending into illegal gambling dens, some of which were
frequented by public figures, their palms already greased by Sergei Mikhailov.
Next, a steady flow of sex-workers arrived, some under the promise of stardom,
others simply desperate to get away from the economic collapse of a once great
nation. All were forced to work off their debt, willingly or not.

Before long, Viktor was
amassing a serious amount of annual turnover. The vast majority was returned to
his homeland, were the money was quickly laundered. Sergei was a master at
turning dirty money into clean untraceable riches. He had inside men,
accountants on his payroll, who were adept at filtering these funds without
detection. The Afghan War Veterans’ Association was one such institution that
had been added to the list of business fronts.

Then, in the late 90s, Viktor
had struck gold.

Back home, Sergei had laid his
hands on a Soviet-era submarine, an old Scorpion b-427. The vessel was
earmarked for decommissioning, but the Muscovite crime boss had managed to gain
ownership of it. Viktor had returned home briefly, before leading a contingent
of ex-navy and army to South America. Their new-found Colombian friends had
taken a deal, whereby Viktor supplied them with a small crew and navigational
charts, allowing the submarine to enter American waters undetected. Unwilling
to sell the vessel directly, Viktor had negotiated 10% profits on all shipments
brought into the eastern states.

However, the new millennium had
brought many new hazards with it. The newly formed successor of the KGB, the
FSB, had started to take back some control. And the police’s elite Berkut – or
Eagle – force was conducting high-profile commando-style raids. Inevitably,
many people were cutting deals to save their own necks, giving valuable
information to the authorities, who were more interested in catching the bigger
fish. These days, it seemed, nearly every organisation had a mole or rat,
making it almost impossible to do business.

Viktor tipped the remainder of
his glass back. The fiery Vodka scorched his throat. He placed the empty glass
back down and rubbed at his tired eyes. His little empire was now under threat.
Someone who once served this enterprise had ratted him out.

The FBI had seized an employee
of his – on New Year’s Eve of all days – an accountant, who had struck a deal
with the District Attorney. This accountant had been working with Viktor for
years, laundering money over here by using national and international charities
and business start-ups, fronts no less, and maintaining the books for Sergei’s
pleasure. The Rat, Viktor’s way of identifying him, had taken a job in one of
their ‘charitable trusts’, looking to make his mark. The guy had the Midas
touch. He’d shown – taught – Viktor’s guys how to make vast sums of money by
setting up hedge funds, macro hedge funds, no less. The simple premise had been
for Viktor and Sergei to target a specific sector – manufacturing, for example
– and then they would put the squeeze on the organisations and businesses that
operated in such sectors. They’d simply make life hell for that particular
division, forcing equity and shares to plummet. The accountant and his team
would then invest heavily, buying large amounts of shares at rock-bottom
prices. Finally, Sergei would call off the dogs completely, focusing on other
areas; and before long, the industrial sector would quickly stabilise, allowing
the accountant to cash in on sky-high share prices. It was a simple case of
manipulating the local economy – and it was easy.

It hadn’t taken long for Viktor
to take the accountant under his wing. Then the real fun had started. Viktor
had increased his percentage with the Colombians, explaining that the Scorpion
submarine required more maintenance and personnel to run efficiently. It had
been a small percentage increase, just 0.5%, not enough to draw too much
attention back home from Sergei, but enough to keep both Viktor and the
accountant happy. In just two years, they’d amassed a small fortune, all at
Sergei’s expense.  

But then things had started to
change. Viktor’s hold on the organisation was becoming tenuous at best. Some of
his men had started to drift away, returning to the homeland, where they were
needed to help run Sergei’s outfit, now that he was battling against the
revived Russian government and the constant threat from rival gangs. The
Chechen gang, Obshina, had already started to monopolise the firearms market
within East European countries.

Viktor knew without doubt that
the FBI were looking to nail both him and Sergei, working in conjunction with
the FSB, and were now busying themselves with collating as much evidence as
they could. Why else had they not yet come knocking on his door? The accountant
must have squealed like a pig, giving them much to think about.

The Rat had just disappeared
one day, simply not returning to his place of work after taking his lunch
break. At first, his manager had failed to report this fact to Viktor,
something that would not happen again, now that he was buried somewhere in the
East District of Jersey. Viktor had immediately sent his men looking for the
accountant. Then, two days later, an article had been printed in the Times,
stating that a man had been found dead, burned beyond recognition. The car,
though, was clearly identified as the accountant’s. Later that week a second
article was run, now confirming that the body had been Viktor’s man.

Viktor thought otherwise.

Nothing rang true. Everything
seemed too convenient. The car wreck had been found twenty yards down an embankment,
somewhere just off the I97 turnpike. The news article stated that it was
believed the driver had lost control and had gone over the embankment and
crashed into a line of trees at the bottom of the hill. Okay, that was more
than feasible. But cars just didn’t simply explode on impact, nor had there
been any reason for the accountant to be so far out of town, at a remote place
like Liberty State Park, during his short lunch break.

Viktor had started to dig
deeper.

How and why had he travelled
from the Brighton Beach area – where he worked – all the way over to Jersey
City, with just an hour to spare? No, Viktor thought, the accountant hadn’t
planned on making the return trip. Something or someone had been waiting for
him, over in Liberty State Park. Further investigation revealed that no
official funeral had been held for the accountant, just a short memorial at the
hospital chapel where his body had been taken. Only his aging father had
attended, and then the trail had simply disappeared.

It had taken many calls and
heated discussions with many of Viktor’s associates for him to discover that
the accountant was actually alive and well – now under the supervision of the
Witness Protection Program. The accountant and his cohorts were now preparing
to tear Viktor’s empire down in one fell swoop.

Still, Viktor wasn’t going to
simply lie down and let that happen. He’d put his own plans into action. Unable
to get directly to the accountant, he’d formulated a plan to draw the
supergrass out of his vile lair.

Tomorrow would bring its own
problems, namely, Presley Perkins. Don
‘Dolly’
Perkins’ son was turning
out to be a real pain in the ass – that was for sure. Whatever his criminal
involvement, Viktor was in no rush to harbour a known cop-killer. That just
brought too much potential exposure, even for him. He should have put a bullet
between the guy’s eyes the moment he’d arrived here. Yet the promise of
returned profit had halted that decision. Presley would indeed get his ticket
out of here – that was for sure.

Viktor had a plan for Presley
too.

He had plans for everything.

Plans that would involve the
slaughter of innocent and guilty alike.

Chapter
Thirty-Three

As if time had somehow been unable to find its way
inside, kept out by sentiment alone, the room in which Eugene Profit sat in was
devoid of anything modern or new. The chair he rested in looked like an
antique, thick leather armrests with studded ends, and a back wide enough to
seat a colossus. A TV stood silently in one corner, a simple wooden box that
showcased dust instead of motion pictures. Black and white photographs on the
mantel above the fire showed pictures of a younger Eugene and his wife,
Elizabeth.

Although it was still early
evening – the hands of a grandfather clock ticking slowly towards nine o’clock – Eugene Profit lay dozing. A man of ritual and rhythm, he was a firm
believer in
‘early to bed, early to rise’
. The old ex-champ’s eyes
rolled beneath their lids as he dreamt about days gone by. Most nights he was
visited by an angel, her face eternally young and always smiling, eager to
share these lonely hours with him, unwilling to be forgotten.

Profit muttered something
softly. “Elizabeth…” Then a contented laugh slipped quietly from curled lips.
Sometimes these dreams turned to despair, as the old pro witnessed his beloved
wife slip from his life, taken into the night without chance or forgiveness.

A bullwhip crack sounded, which
jolted him awake. His eyes opened wide, first turning to the picture of his
wife, before quickly scanning around the room. Darkness pushed against the
window. Occasionally the wind scraped snow against it.

Eugene strained to catch the
sound again.

Silence filled in the gap as he
waited. Briefly, for a second time, the slight sound of a crack reached him. He
climbed to his feet. The apartment he lived in was small and intimate, and had
no hidden secrets left to reveal. A pipe underneath the kitchen sink gurgled
late at night, a symptom of high pressure, brought on by the woman upstairs
using her toilet. And Profit knew every loose floorboard so well that he could
play out a melody by standing on them in sequence.

Yet this noise was unfamiliar
to him.

For a second, he thought it
sounded like the branch of a tree tapping against one of the windows. But here
on the fourth floor no willow or honeysuckle would be capable of such heights.

He stopped in the centre of the
room, waiting. The noise refused to reveal itself. Nothing obvious sprung to
mind and he almost shrugged it off – but then it came again, clear and sure.
The sound came from the hallway. Profit walked around an old sofa and poked his
head inside the next room. The boy he’d come to see as his grandson slept
soundly in his bed, oblivious to the dangers that lurked in the darkness.

Profit closed the door gently
behind him and then entered the short hallway. A door to the right led towards
his kitchen and another opposite offered access to a small closet. Most of the
ex-champion’s boxing mementos were stored there: memories of another life that
the old man had let go a long time ago, too painful to bear witness to, their
triumphant meaning now hollow and pointless since the death of his wife. Just
one small trophy remained in view, between two photos on the mantel, one which
had been awarded to Joseph for representing his country as a young boy.

Profit shuffled along the short
passageway, passing the open door to his kitchen and the closed one to the
closet. He stopped at the front door. A spy hole had been cut out at head
height. He peered through. The magnifying glass revealed an empty landing on
the other side in a fishbowl effect. Nobody stood on the opposite side baring
elongated features. The landing appeared empty. Perhaps he’d been wrong and the
sound had come from elsewhere? Turning his back, he traced his steps back the
way he had come.

He re-entered the living room.
The snow battered against the window in another noisy torrent. Over at the
window, he looked out into the darkness and saw trees bent over with the burden
of ice and wind, stooped low, like old men in a Lowry painting.  

Eugene was just about to return
to the comfy chair when the room turned surprisingly cold. He shivered, the
night finding its way inside. The atmosphere changed too: an inexplicable shift
in the air. He spun around. He took a short step towards the hallway, silently,
instinct warning him to be cautious.

As he entered the hallway, the
pages of a calendar, which was pinned to the wall opposite, fluttered slightly.
Eugene frowned. Like the fingers of an apparition, a draught scraped cold
nails across his cheek, forcing him to look the other way. The door to his
apartment was ajar.

Quickly, he backed out of the
hallway and into the lounge. His arm reached towards the mantel and gnarled
fingers wrapped themselves tight around the boxing trophy. Consisting of a
brass statuette on a solid marble base, the trophy weighed heavily in the old
pro’s hand. He returned to the hall with his weapon ready.

The door was barely open. A
narrow strip of darkness ran down one side. Profit stepped closer. The draught
howled through the gap like a pack of distant wolves. The trophy rose above his
head. Belying his age, he took a couple of quick steps forward and pulled the
door open.

The dark landing beyond jumped
out at him. Nothing remotely menacing lay in wait. No blood-red eyes of hungry
beasts or looming spectres – just the winter’s chill snapped at his bare
ankles. The weight in his hand dropped to his side.

He felt foolish now,
understanding that he must not have secured the lock properly on his entrance.
He chided himself for being a stupid old fool. Turning around, he stepped back
inside. And as he did so, a dark figure rose from the shadows of the open door
opposite, glided effortlessly and silently up behind the old man, then reached out
with one gloved hand.