Page 44 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

We’re getting dangerously close to the main road now, and I’d prefer not to raise a scene. I know the 37th Street Bratva don’t care about causing a ruckus, because this isn’t their city, but our main headquarters is here. It’s better not to attract attention.

I make another go for the tires, firing endlessly as fire splatters against the blurred asphalt and the back of the sedan. Finally, when my gun is almost out of ammo, I hear the distinct sound of rubber popping, and the sedan veers off to the right.

This street is home to many warehouses; many of them used for legitimate, if not somewhat sketchy, purposes. They line the sides of the road, blocking cars from turning off it until they reach the main road.

When the sedan veers, the driver is unable to correct before the right side of the car clips the front of a warehouse, immediately spinning the car around and ejecting the passenger as the hunk of metal tumbles over like the roll of a die.

I hit the brakes, skidding to a stop just in front of the totaled car. The rubber of the tie I burst is on fire, but that’s the least of the damage. The rest of the vehicle is crumpled in such a mess that I’m certain the driver is either dead or critically injured.

As for the other guy – I look down the road at his lifeless body on the tar – he’s most certainly dead. I can already see blood leaking from his head across the road, soaking into the dry cracks and sizzling under the high sun.

I need to make sure. I take aim, squinting through the rays of sunlight until I have the limp body locked into sight. With a single squeeze of the trigger, I put a bullet in the man’s head, lighting his scalp on fire with the incendiary round.

My attention turns back to the wrecked sedan. Smoke is rising from the bottom of it, as it rests on the crumpled hood. The wheels are spinning idly, like an overturned shopping cart. I’ll need to have someone tow it and clear up the road, before anyone else comes down and sees it.

I pull my phone out of my pocket as I walk toward the wreckage, dialing Vladimir with yet another request for him. I feel that he’s been overwhelmed with cleaning up the destruction I leave in my wake, but it’s better than becoming the thing that gets destroyed.

“Vlad, we seem to have a little problem at the warehouse,” I say, when he picks up.

“Christ, I heard about that. You’re alright, though, right?”

“Of course. It’s the 37th Street Bratva who are hurting today. Oh yeah, and Akim. He caught a bullet to the head.”

“Tough luck. How many were there?”

“Just two, as far as I can tell. It was a drive-by, and I believe I was the target. I don’t see any other reason why they would’ve come to the warehouse.”

There’s silence from Vladimir’s end before he speaks again. “They’re really not happy.”

“I figured if they’re trying to kill me. I want you to triple security at the headquarters. I swear to God; if anyone gets into that building and takes the weapons, it’s on you.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like me to put more guards outside of the girl’s room as well?”

“The girl? Bonnie?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Bonnie gets the same security as everyone else. I’m not giving her special treatment.”

“Right.”

I stop for a moment. “But put a few extra guards in the hallway. She has a habit of sneaking out at night, and that’s a security risk.”

“Shoot on sight?”

“No,” I bark, before I can stop myself. “I mean, we’re not killing our own people, Vlad. That’s not the way we do things.”

“I meant for anyone who comes to the headquarters, sir,” Vladimir says softly.

“Oh,” I reply, feeling a little stupid for overreacting. I’m clearly way too caught up in Bonnie, but it’s hard not to be when she’s so good with her mouth.

“I’ll take care of everything, sir. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I’m always okay,” I reply, then I hang up the phone.

I squat down in front of the window of the wrecked sedan, peering inside. A man with his head squashed into his neck stares back at me, but there’s no life in his blood-filled eyes.

Definitely dead.

I stand back up, walking over to the body of the other man. I can search his pockets for ID, but that might not even be necessary. I’ll know in an instant if he’s one of the 37th Street Bratva when I check out his hands. They all have a bold 37 tattooed on the backs of their hands.

I use my toes to turn over the hand of the bloody body in the road, revealing something that causes my skin to prickle. There isn’t a 37 on the hand of this man. In fact, there’s no number at all. Instead, etched into his skin by scarification, is the symbol of a Mafia group I thought to have long since dissolved.

It’s the Devil’s Kingdom.

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