Page 43 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Kostin

An irresistible woman, kilos of chemical weapons sitting in a lab at the headquarters, and I still have to take care of the odds and ends that come with being a Mafia boss. I’ll never get a day off.

I’m out at one of our weapons warehouses, checking shipments of gun parts that just came in last night off the coast. They were smuggled in through a cargo ship that normally carries food, but we managed to swap some of our cargo boxes in for theirs before they left port.

The result – more work for me, and more money for the Markov Family.

“You have to sign on the dotted line, not below it,” Akim says, tapping the end of the pen against the paper I just signed, apparently incorrectly.

“What difference does it make?” I ask, snatching the clipboard from him and scribbling out my signature.

“The machine can’t file it if it’s below the dotted line.”

“You need new machines,” I says, shaking my head as I sign in the right place. I hand the clipboard back to Akim. “Anything else?”

“We have about fifteen more papers, just like this one. Tavo won’t accept them if they’re not signed by you.”

Tavo, my brother, has been nagging me about signing everything that comes through for security reasons. Even when he’s away, he looks at the signatures online once they’re scanned into the database for authenticity. It takes the both of us to accept shipments.

“Alright,” I say, following up my words with a long sigh. “Let’s get to it.”

“Right this way,” Akim says, motioning with his clipboard.

I take a step to follow him, and that’s the exact moment when a hear the crack of a rifle.

Now, here’s the thing about guns. Most bullets travel faster than the speed of sound, meaning that if you had time to hear it, it didn’t lodge itself into your brain. By that logic, I’m likely going to make it out of this alive, if only by the skin of my teeth.

Akin, unfortunately, doesn’t have the same luck I do. He collapses in front of me as I dive to the side toward a blue metal shipping crate. The crate itself won’t necessarily stop bullets, but its contents will, if it’s still full.

I hear the dull thuds of more bullets hitting the side of the crate, but nothing comes through. Luck is on my side today.

I reach into my jacket, scrambling to my feet at the same time as I draw my weapon. This feels like a drive-by, but sometimes the shooter sticks around to make sure they get as many people as possible.

People are already yelling, trying to figure out where the gunshots came from, but with the squeal of rubber I know that the perpetrator is already making a getaway.

Not so fast…

I jump out from behind the crate, scanning the parking lot outside of the open warehouse. A car races toward the exit – the same kind of black sedan I saw when Bonnie and I were leaving Texas. I’m convinced it’s the 37th Street Bratva, but there’s only one way to find out.

Without much regard for my safety, I dash out into the parking lot, flying across the smooth, pale concrete toward my convertible. If I can’t catch them leaving, I’ll square up with them on the road, hoping to pick up some information from their bloody remains.

The world moves in a blur, and adrenaline pumps through me, as I opt for the fight option of the fight or flight response. The keys to my convertible are out of my pocket and in the ignition before the black sedan has even left the parking lot and, as it pulls out onto the street, I rush out behind it.

I can see the shapes of two men inside the car, through the back window, but it’s too dark to make out details. I aim my gun as I drive, cracking off shots on a private warehouse road as we race toward the gate leading out onto the public street.

I don’t care about getting caught out here. The cops don’t care around this part of town, so long as you’re not killing civilians, but they try to stay away the best that they can. This isn’t the type of neighborhood to get an ice cream with your girlfriend. It’s where the crooks hang out to make big money and gamble with their lives.

The back windshield of the sedan cracks as I fire at it, but it doesn’t break, indicating that they’ve bulletproofed the car. My only other option is to hit the tires and immobilize them. Then, I might get a shot off at the people inside.

With one hand on the wheel, I drop my pistol on the seat beside me and pop open the glovebox to retrieve something more capable of hitting tires. It’s a rifle with a drum magazine, not too far off from the classic Thompson submachine gun used during the Prohibition era in the United States. I used to idolize those movie gangsters, until I became one. Now, I just sympathize with them.

With the drum magazine fully loaded with incendiary ammunition, I’m ready to tear the back of the black sedan to shreds… and I might just light a couple of tires on fire in the process.

I have to duck, before I’m able to start unloading on them. Bullets rain across my front windshield like drops of rains, cracking the glass but not breaking it. Two can play the bullet-proof glass game, but only one of us is going to win.

I prop my rifle up on the top of the windshield, aiming down toward the tires as I scatter shots all over the back of the sedan. Their car swerves for a second, trying to fake me out, but I don’t slow down. I know I haven’t hit them yet.

They counter my gunfire with more of their own, the guy in the passenger’s seat firing blindly out of his window. He doesn’t have the balls to lean out and take proper aim. If he did, he’d be dead. I don’t fuck around when it comes to blowing people’s faces off.

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