Page 18 of Wrapped in Silver

“Yuri? He is a sick man, comrade. Pig’s punishment will fit the crime. Slowly. Eh?”

“Da. Da.”

So, Captain Dall lives,I think to myself.But not for long.

I narrow my eyes at the two cards in front of me. Flipping up the tips, I see a jack of spades and two of hearts. Awful, off-suit garbage. On the flop, I pick up a pair of twos. This is the perfect hand to exit on. I call the small bets and flip my cards to show an obvious loss to a higher pair. Following the lead of the old triad loser, I scoff, scoop up my chips and kick my chair aside to leave.

“Whoa, whoa. Not even a tip for the dealer?” The smaller bratva man laughs, as does the rest of the table.

I just grunt again and head toward the desk to cash out.

On my way, I notice a thin man with one side of his head shaved and the rest of his hair full and snake-like. He struts with a gaudy black lapel clashing with a bright blue swirly-designed suit. Fucking Russians. That’s Nikolaj. If he’s here when ten other games are running, that means someone else of importance is too.

Too bad I’m not sticking around to find out.

xxx

An hour after my invisible exit of the underground casino, I’m parked in the Jersey forests on my way to the Palisades warehouse. Sitting in the backseat, I sift through my duffle bag. My options are to pose as a Russian enforcer moving cargo, or remain an unseen ghost.

Since I don’t know enough of the operations to blend in, I’ll go with the latter.

They won’t expect someone like me. Donny doesn’t have anyone on payroll with my expertise.

Vzz!

I pull a foot of tight string from the roller and clip it; in case I have to make a move. My clothing is all matte black to blend into the shadows, and my footwear is mostly cloth to muffle footsteps. Two pistols with silencers are strapped carefully on my leg and side.

It’s not my intention to cause a massacre, but I don’t rule it out either.

My cousin—the don—trusts my judgement. Always has. And he knows I won’t link any Russian hits back to the Valentinos. All he’d have to do is deny his involvement, and Yuri, or Nikolaj, orwhoever, would never be the wiser.

Exiting the car to test my movements over leaves, I notice my joints aren’t as nimble as the last time I worked. The cold is actually affecting me. Fuck that. My senses are as keen as ever. Knowing the rhythms and octaves that would raise suspicion is like second nature to me.

Time to get to work.

Seeing no headlights for a mile in either direction on the highway, I pull harshly off the side of the road and speed toward the warehouse. I’m old school. I use coordinates and maps to identify my targets. The young kids can stick to their GPS, make their minds mush, but I’ll remain sharp as a fucking tack.

Years ago, I made it my business to know all the locations of our rivals. The bratva had six warehouses back then. Now they’re up to twenty-two, according to Donny. This is still one of their most trusted locations to stay off-grid, which means they won’t be on guard.

After all, they’d see anyone coming from a mile away… That’s why I’m parkingtwo.

There may be a time crunch, but I still stopped an exit before the Palisades cliff just to be safe, and pulled off-road under a hill. Now that I’m settled, my heartrate rises as the job closes in. This old feeling is what I used to chase on a nightly basis.

Checking my pistols one more time to ensure they’re loaded, I shove them into their straps and pull out the black car cover for the unlikely event I have to exit without it.

Most of my old constituents lived for the thrill of the hunt.

Me?I live to haunt.

I practice running on the curves of my feet, off rhythm, careful to blend with the cold winds and swaying branches. Taking note of my direction and marking the trees on my way are second nature.

Controlled breathing while going uphill isn’t as easy as it used to be, but I manage.

In thirty minutes, I’m within the vicinity of the warehouse with hours to spare. The time is 9:57 in the evening. Russian accents echo through the trees, beyond the road path leading to the sturdy construction.

I crawl between two trees and hold up a scope to put vision to the voices. Two grunts complain about heavy cargo as they slowly put down a barrel to take a break. They’re taking it toward the side garage entrance, which is undoubtedly the easiest path in. Slipping through the front door would equal casualties.

Shifting the scope to the roof, there’s no guards atop it. In fact, the warehouse seems much less lively than I expected. Red flag. Is the “pig-load”something other than Quinn’s father? Or are they keeping the whereabouts close to the chest?

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