Run (Run Duet #1) (9 page)

My phone rings and I sigh as I pick up my iPhone 6 and stare at the number. It says restricted but that don’t mean nothing. I’ll find out where the little cunt is hidin’.

“Hello,” I answer, keeping the slur out of my voice.

“Joe, it’s me—”

“Goddamn it, Annabelle, I know it’s you. Where the fuck on God’s green earth did ya disappear off ta? You know you just can’t get your little skinny ass up and run where ever the fuck ya please, baby. I gotta keep a short leash on you, baby. Everyone knows what I do. Is it the cops that took ya? Tryin’ to turn my girl against me?”

“No, it wasn’t nothin’ like that. I tole you, I’m safe, and as long as I am, what does it matter to you?”

I took another sip of moonshine and squinted as the burn continued down my throat in the pit of my stomach. It gave me the will and the strength to say what I had to express to this dumb bitch of mine. “You get your ass back to Nashville now, Anna, or you ain’t gonna like what I’m gone do. I know about your cousin and his cunt girlfriend. What if I happened to just turn a dime on them—”

“Goddamn it, Joe, you leave my cousin alone. Liv too. What they runnin’ from ain’t none of your business.”

“It is when my gash of a girlfriend decides it’s all right to leave me an’ end up God knows where, and won’t even have the
decency
to tell. Don’t you know what I can do, girl? I can’t get to you right now but I can fuck up the cozy little lives of some of yer kin.”

“Joe, if you do that, I swear to God we’re through.”

I ended the call and looked at my cell phone. “Guess we’re through bitch until I can get a bead on ya.”

I gathered my wits, and called The Baker first. He didn’t seem too pleased but he accepted the information all the same. The Hammer was another can of worms entirely. He started shoutin’ in his Commie language before he addressed me again on the phone.

“You sit back, relax and just enjoy the show. I don’t need your help. I will make their execution public so no one will ever try to fuck with me,” The Hammer said in heavily accented English. “Besides, I need your product and I can’t allow anyone to touch a hair on your head. Isn’t that right, my boy?”

“Whatever you say, Povikov. I got your back if you need some home grown help.”

“Not necessary. I have enough men of my own who will happily die for me. Stay out of this. You got it?”

Some moonshine went down the wrong pipe and I coughed a bit, lit a Marlboro Red and inhaled. “Yeah, I got it. Just to let you know . . . they’re probably at one of the fancier hotels. I know that pretentious little fuck ain’t gonna have his favorite girl at no fleabag motel—that’s for sure. And if they weren’t so goddamn predictable, I’d say they’d be going shoppin’ tomorrow for clothes. They definitely will pick an upscale mall—no dime store shit for them. Shaw has always had delusions of grandeur.”

“Why, Joe, you surprise me. Some of the words from your mouth—why, I didn’t even know you knew what they were let alone pronounce them,” The Hammer said and all it did was make me see red.

“You think I’m just dumb hick who can’t read and write? Well let me tell you somethin’, you motherfuckin’ Commie bastard. My family been in this country for
generations
I tell you. We ain’t some newbies fresh off the boat like you and and your whole fuckin’ family. We know this land so good, we could make it across with our eyes closed. When your men step into Tennessee, we ain’t the visitors, y’all are. So don’t treat me like I’m stupid ‘cause if I wanna send a few of your
boys
home in a body bag, don’t think I’ll hesitate. I’m runnin’ a multi-million dollar operation here and I am a bit of a history buff.”

I dragged on my cigarette deeply before exhaling. “You know the phrase, ‘Those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it?’ Well that’s a phrase George Santayana came up with first. He was a philosopher and damn smart for a dago. So, let me make somethin’ real clear to you, Povikov: you come in my city, you do your business and get the fuck out? Are we understandin’ each other? Do you hear me now? Am I comin’ in clear enough for ya?”

“Crystal,” The Hammer replied.

“Good, now do what you gotta do but I’d speak to The Baker first. I wasn’t gonna approach you without some kind of insurance policy. You’ve got deep pockets but his run deeper ‘cause he’s been runnin’ most of the dope trade in Boston for years. And unlike you, he ain’t no fresh off the boat mick—he’s been here for a bit, you know like the coons we got here in the south, and what not? He’s got some heavy ties so I’d tread real carefully with him if I was you.”

The Hammer contemplated before he hung up on me.

Motherfucker!

I’d take his disrespect for now because there was always places I could turn to keep my lily white ass safe. I knew the same couldn’t be said for The Hammer. He might have carried weight on the east coast but out here, he wasn’t nothin’. Thank God I had contacts from coast to coast, especially my little Neo-Nazi friends in Black Oak, Nevada. If everything went to shit, I could get outta here and be at their place in no time. I picked up my phone again as I finished my cigarette, ground it into it’s own ashes in an ashtray and called Brooklyn.

“What’s up my brotha from another motha?”

I swore under my breath. For someone who believed in “white power,” he was always usin’ all them Ebonic sayings.

“I might have to pay you a visit. I know it’s last minute but—”

“Come on down. Maybe I can convince you to join our MC. We got enough space for ya here, man.”

“Damn it, you know why I can’t do that. Annabelle is a quarter nigger. She don’t look it but it’s there. I can’t be in no Neo-Nazi gang when my own girl ain’t pure.”

“That’s okay. We got family that ain’t all white. Take my sister, Mira, for instance. Her mama was all kind of half-breed shit but she’s still my sister and that don’t mean I don’t want a white world one day. Life is complicated, bro. Sometimes, you just gotta roll with the punches.”

The moonshine had damn near put a stop to any excuses I could make. “All right then. I’m headin’ to the airport now. I won’t even pack a suitcase. Some shit is about to go down here in Nashville and I want no part of it.”

“I got ya.” Brooklyn lit a cigarette on his end. “I’ll meet ya at the airport. Just call me as soon as your plane arrives—”

“Reno Airport, right?”

“Yeah, that’s it. We’re only a half hour away. You’ll be fine here in Black Oak. Might even learn some of the trade secrets of how to dip marijuana in meth. Not only is it cheaper but it keeps ‘em going for a long time. That’s what you want to maximize profitability, brotha.”

I grabbed my boots, slid them on and grabbed my container of what was left with my moonshine along with my cigarettes. “I’m leavin’ now. I’ll text you my flight number and when I’m supposed to land, okay?”

“Look forward to hearin’ from ya.” Brooklyn ended the call.

I placed another cigarette to my lips, lit it and closed the door behind me, locked up and jumped into my brand new cherry red Ford F-150, gunned the engine and took off down the streets. The cops were paid off so the only chance I had of getting stopped was by a US Marshall and the chances of that happening were slim. No matter how much I imbibed, I could keep a car straight on the road.

Carrie Underwood played on the radio and I turned it up a notch before hearin’ her croon about jacking up a man’s ride after she found out he was cheatin’. Huh, I’d cheated on Annabelle plenty of times but if that bitch ever touched my F-150, she knew she’d be in a heap of trouble. The kind where bodies ain’t never found.

S
tupid, fucking American hicks thinking they could talk to me any way I wanted just because I immigrated to this country.

I’d made it easy on myself. I changed my Russian Orthodox name of Dmitry Smirnov to Abraham Povikov. Yeah, it was the only time in history that being a Jew had its advantages. They let me, my wife and our four children inside the country before I could turn around and blink.

Yelena would sacrifice a lot of things, but pretending she was Jewish was not one of them. She was proud of her pure Russian heritage, not besmirched by Ukrainian, Chechen, Estonian or any other lesser ethnic groups around us. She was my stubborn beauty and my angel.

The kids, apt to agree with their mother, did not take too kind to becoming Jewish either but it was a choice we had to make. I was becoming too much competition for my competitors in Moscow, and soon, I would find a bullet slammed into my brain. America was the land of milk and honey so why not?

Being here, we’d flourished. I’d come with as much money as I could convert to dollars and left the country but when we arrived, we had no where near the amount of money I’d built with an empire of drugs, human trafficking and strip clubs.

I was a man and although Yelena would always be special to me, I’d had my share of affairs. One was with Carrick “Shaw” Shaughnessy’s mother and he was the result. The thought of murdering my son was a definite “no” but he would have to pay with that piece of pussy he had with him. She had too many connections and my poor Shaw—bless his black heart—couldn’t find a flaw within her when she had more secrets than the Kardashian family.

I would send men down to Nashville but their only target was her, not my son. I’d already lost one and I wouldn’t lose another one ever again. He’d earned those stars on his back; let’s just hope she was too stupid not to notice them.

However Liv was anything but that. She’d graduated with excellent grades from Boston University, and why not? She earned every penny on her back or sliding down one of my poles at the strip club she worked. Shaw probably thought he had virgin pussy on his hands but that one—after what she did to my Vladimir? She had to pay and pay she did over and over again. I gave her advice about kegel exercises so when she finally seduced my youngest son, he would think he had a prize on his hands but the truth was she was a whore.

Like all women—even my own daughter. They’d spread their legs if it meant opportunity. Liv might have thought she could ride into the sunset with my son but she was dead fucking wrong. I’d put a bullet through her skull and get rid of her. As much as I hated to make this next call, I had to. If I murdered the mick around here, I’d have The Baker on me so fast, he’d make the Airbus seem slow. Unfortunately, I would have to get his permission and that didn’t set well with me at all.

I picked up my burner phone, a fifty thousand dollar Ulysse Nardin. Swiss made and one of the top phones on the market. Too bad most people couldn’t afford them therefore the NSA had no way to drop in on my calls. The moment I dialed The Baker’s number, our conversation would scramble and they would hear nothing but a bunch of gibberish.

God bless the United States for their lackluster security services.

I
was busy like always when I got the call from Povikov.

I didn’t trust him—how could I? He wasn’t Irish and had no concept of history. The Irish had always ran Boston, and I, Niall Liam Carter, was one of the most powerful men in the underworld here.

It didn’t matter that I had legitimate siblings that were law abiding and did everything right. My brother and I were just bad seeds in a family of eight children. The problem was my bro didn’t need the money. He ran the Lucifer Saints Boston chapter but his son was famous. He had plenty of money and was now married to a Lennon—our arch enemies but it also kept the peace between the two families. Lennon “Linx” Carter, a superstar with the hard rock band, Winter’s Regret had impregnated his new wife as soon as possible and they now had a beautiful baby girl and boy. The young woman had given birth to twins. She’d sworn after that no more kids but if I knew my nephew, he’d have her knocked up within a year.

They called me the baker because I dealt mostly in cocaine and marijuana. I had the ability to make my cocaine stretch by adding meth to it and everything worked out beautifully. I also added the concoction to my marijuana too so everyone knew what they were buying when they bought from my guys on the street.

Shaw, unfortunately wasn’t one of my guys. He worked for that Commie bastard and that’s why I dropped a dime on his pompous ass and had him sent upstate with his dad in Walpole for four years. It was originally a ten year sentence but with prison overcrowding, his good behavior, and my prison connections, I got him out in four.

It was merely a warning. If he kept dealing with Povikov, then I’d keep setting him up. He knew where he belonged and it wasn’t with them good for nothin’ Russians who set their own grandmothers up for a missing dollar. They were ruthless—no more ruthless than I but I had a system. I was good to my boys and I would never drop a dime on anyone in my organization. Shaw had to see his world—his life was with me and the Carter brothers. Otherwise, what good was he to us?

In fact, if he didn’t change his ways, he was as good as dead.

My burner phone rang. An iPhone I had specifically set up for calls that weren’t for the NSA’s ears. It was Povikov. Interesting to learn what this lying bastard had to say.

“Carter, my main man, how are you doing?” Povikov began in a slight Russian accent he’d never been able to get rid of.

In my pure south Boston accent, I wondered, “What the fuck do you want?”

“I received a call from a very good friend of mine. I thought I might share the good news with you.”

My eyebrows arched. “That wouldn’t be Joe Bob in Nashville, would it? I could tell he’d been deep into the moonshine but the man’s not stupid. He called me too—said he had a bead on Shaw and Liv.”

“Well, my good friend, what are we going to do about it? They cannot live after this. I am sending some men down to Nashville tonight. Expendables, of course.”

I laughed out loud due to the man’s stupidity. “You really think I believe you would kill Shaw? We’re not talking about a lot of money here. Some cocaine that can easily be replaced and fifty grand? That’s a spit in the bucket, Povikov and you
know
it.”

I could hear the other man pouring himself a drink—vodka no doubt. And none of that sissy shit we had in this country. He still had his imported—200 proof and the strongest you could get to moonshine that was legal.

“I will not harm Shaw—he’s an employee. The bitch . . . however . . . well, she’s a fair target.”

“Fair target my ass! Are you fuckin’ drunk already? That girl has too many connections that lead directly back to my family and they would kill every assassin you send after her because they’re just plain better.”

“What are you talking about?” Povikov finished his drink and I could hear him pouring yet another.

“In a convoluted way, we’re family. That’s all you need to know. If you go to so much as harm a hair on her head, you’ll begin a war that you will lose because I have more soldiers than you, Povikov. Let’s not forget you’re a
guest
in the city of my birth. If you think I will stand back and watch you murder an upstanding Irish citizen than you’re crazier than I thought—”

“Someone has to pay for ripping me off!” he thundered on the other end.

“Pay for what? We didn’t really lose anything except two crooked cops who were playing both ends against the middle. If anything, we should give Liv a prize for taking them out. The department knew they were crooked and it was only a matter of time before IAD approached them and they would sing like two fuckin’ birds.” Carter explained.

“The Internal Affairs Department? But . . . how do you know this?”

It was Carter’s turn to laugh. “Are you really as fucking stupid as you seem or is this all an act? Got a sister who works for IAD, dummy. She told me all about the investigation. She told me that both those fuckers were skimming off the top and getting high with our supply—replacing it with cocaine from other busts. Am I being clear enough for you?”

Povikov refused to speak for a few minutes and that was fine with me because he better have been thinkin’ clearly about involving a relative of mine in this ugly business.

I could live with the loss but what I couldn’t live with was a cousin, three times removed, sending a few men out to murder me because I didn’t protect her niece. Wasn’t none of his business what the relationship between Liv and I was but I sure as hell wasn’t gonna put up with any of his bullshit.

“Fine,” Povikov finally replied. “I still have men going to Nashville where they are but it will be to scare them only.”

I read through his lie like I was tellin’ it myself. Wasn’t no way Liv or Shaw would live through what he had planned. He was taken one or both of them out. I had to get off the phone with him and call in reinforcements. Meanwhile, I was a better liar than he was—hell, I was Northern Irish after all and a Catholic—because it was in our blood to be deceitful. Not when we had to live through the British invasions of Belfast and face off with the Protestants. This man on the other end of the line didn’t know what war was. Not when you were killin’ your own people because they were the wrong religion and the Brits that fucking supported the bastard Unionists who wanted Northern Ireland to stay a part of the UK.

“Okay, I will see what your men will do tomorrow . . . however, if Liv is hurt in any way, I’ll track you down and I will kill you. That’s not a threat Abraham Povikov—that’s a promise.”