Page 30 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Kostin

The smell of leather and cigar smoke does little to soothe my mind like it usually does. I have Vladimir on the phone again, and things are worse than I imagined them to be.

I run my hand through my sweaty hair, scratching at my scalp as I reply his update. “This is fucked up, man. There’s no reason for them to be lending out twenty-eight million to some stupid club owner, anyway.”

“He’s not just a club owner,” Vladimir replies. “We found his house, and there was a lot of shocking stuff inside.”

“Shocking?” I ask, doubting that anything could shock me at this point in my life.

“Try human experiments. This sicko was putting bombs in people’s guts and setting them off in his basement. The 37th Street Bratva weren’t loaning him money for nothing. This guy was building walking time-bombs.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen someone strapped with explosives,” I reply.

“Not strapped, boss. This goes way further than that. One of the guys fished out some diagrams from a drawer in his office, and he has blueprints for timed explosives that react to stomach acid. You could swallow one, and an hour later you’re pink bits in the street.”

“Is this something you could slip into someone’s drink, or is it more of a suicide bomber type of thing?” I ask, growing increasingly concerned as the full reality of what I’ve gotten us into dawns on me.

“The diagrams are too complicated for me to read, I’ll admit, but I believe we’ve found some of his experiments. There are many bodies in the basement, all females.”

“What the fuck?” I mutter under my breath. Was Jerry taking women from his club to test his weapons on?

A surge of anger rises in my chest at the thought of him taking Bonnie. Not only do I feel no sympathy now, for having killed him last night, but I feel happy that I got to be the one to pull the trigger. A girl like Bonnie doesn’t deserve to fall into the hand of such a fucked up man.

The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m also fucked up, but Jerry’s sort of perversion is much different from mine. This man was a lunatic, and now his problems have become mine.

“Take everything you can get from the house, but don’t stay long,” I bark. “The 37th Street Bratva don’t waste time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And bring everything you find to the headquarters in California - but be careful. I don’t want any of our planes exploding and making national headlines.”

“Got it.”

I hang up the phone, puffing on my cigar like I’m attempting to hotbox the convertible even though the roof’s back. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, looking through the heavily-stickered glass door of the corner store. I don’t see Bonnie, but then again, it’s impossible to see anything with how many advertisements are pasted onto the glass.

The idle engine rumbles and sputters as I wait, thoughts spinning in my head about what we uncovered about Jerry. If he was making the supplies for the 37th Street Bratva, then who knows what they were planning on doing with them. With stuff that powerful, I wouldn’t be surprised if their intention were always to turn on us.

Power corrupts, and if these weapons are capable of what Vladimir thinks they are, then I’d say the 37th Street Bratva were looking at a whole hell of a lot of power recently. The only question is if they already have the stuff, or if Jerry wasn’t quite finished.

I barely have time to think before Bonnie appears at the door, tearing it open with more enthusiasm than I’d expect from her this early in the day. She falls into her seat and cracks open a black energy drink before putting a plastic bag down between her feet and closing the door.

“Do you have to smoke in here?” she asks after taking a sip of her drink.

“Yes,” I reply, taking a puff of my cigar. “The roof is down. It won’t hurt you.”

She gives me a doubting glance, but doesn’t argue.

“Did you get my lighter?” I ask.

She stops drinking and her eyes grow large. “Oops. Do you want me to go back and get it?”

I look at clock on the dashboard. It’s already almost eleven, and I’m certain we’re going to be in trouble if we stay in Texas any longer. Stopping at the corner store was already a huge risk.

“No, that’s fine,” I say, shifting out of park. “There will be more places to stop on the way.”

“Like for lunch,” she says, her face lighting up.

“Sure,” I reply. I’m surprised she’s so fixated on food all the time. With a body like hers I would figure quite the opposite. She’s in good shape, but I figure all that time on the pole probably has something to do with it.

That, and she’s still young. The only reason I can still eat as much as I did in my twenties is because I spend so much time working out. Otherwise, I’d look like every other man past his prime – sporting a beer gut in front of the TV.

Sometimes, I wish I had never gotten mixed up in the Mafia, but then I remember what my life would be like otherwise, and I’m thankful to be a criminal. Stress kills, eventually, but I figure a bullet will get me before then. Anything is better than a boring, uninspired life.

A black sedan catches my eye, as we’re pulling off the curb outside the corner store. The windows are tinted so dark that I can’t see inside, but that’s even more fire to the fuel of my paranoia. The 37th Street Bratva is already here, and I’ve just narrowly avoided them.

I grip the wheel harder as I speed out onto the open road. I must get to California, for Bonnie’s safety, if nothing else.

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