Page 117 of Twisted Enemy
“It could be some sort of trap,” I say, as if Lone Wolf has never been lured toward disaster.
Cole nods, because I’m right. And because there’s no way in hell we can avoid taking the bait.
He taps his device. A window opens and Nikolai Tarasov’s face fills the screen.
“Good evening,” he says. “I will not waste your time with pleasantries. You will soon understand that the Tarasov bratva never wastes time.”
I look at Cole. “Is this live?”
He shakes his head. “It’s a recording.” He points to the blood-red curtains behind Nikolai’s head. “There’s sunlight coming through the window behind him.”
“Nearly four weeks ago,” Nikolai says. “My son’s car was found one block away from Patterson Park, in Canton Crew territory. That was the morning of his wedding.”
The video cuts away from Nikolai’s face. We’re treated to a view of a cherry-red Lamborghini, crouching in a dusty parking space like a flattened spider.
Despite the glacial chill in the room, sweat breaks out in my armpits. That car was always a weak link in our plan. Cole convinced me it didn’t matter, not after Pyotr missed the service at St. Basil’s. Right now, I’m finding that hard to believe.
“Many people were out and about the night before Pyotr’s wedding. I understand that you, Cole and Kate Wolf, returned home well after dark. You drove a Land Rover, a car you do not own. You had something—or someone—obscured in the hatch compartment, beneath a white blanket.”
A white wedding dress, but Nikolai’s story is close enough to the truth. “How did he?—”
My question is cut off by another change of scene on the recording. We’re treated to a close-up of a man’s battered face. His crumpled nose has bled copiously down his chin. Broken teeth punctuate the hole of his mouth, and his eyes are lost in a pulp of bruises.
His green uniform is stained. Only the patch on his lapel—Apex—looks untouched.
Nikolai’s face returns to the screen. “And now I hear that Sawgrass Corporation operatives have been working at your home.”
I clutch Cole’s arm. “He can’t?—”
The screen shifts yet again to show drone footage of our Georgetown home. Sawgrass men, in their sleek black uniforms, are carrying out Tarasov’s body wrapped in a sheet.
I try to swallow, but I can’t. There’s no way this is happening.
Nikolai is back on screen. “But I promised I would not waste your time. Today, Friday, Pyotr Tarasov missed his fourth weekly meeting with the Tarasov bratva. My son would never do that if he still lived. You took my Pyotr, along with his bodyguard. Do not argue. Do not lie.”
I can’t lie. I can barely breathe.
Nikolai stares straight out at us. “I have three demands.”
Cole has turned to granite beside me.
“First: My obshchak has given me Pyotr’s private files, documents to be opened only in the case of my son’s death. First and foremost is a sealed indictment against Cole Plutus Wolf. You will find I am a much more reasonable man than my son. I will not hound you for payment whenever I feel the desire. Instead, you will deposit ten million dollars into my account on the first of each and every month. Banking details will follow.”
I hear Cole’s molars grind.
“Second: You will develop a new cryptocurrency for me. All the power of Bitcoin, but the ledgers will be owned exclusively by my Tarasov bratva.”
Cole doesn’t blink.
“And third.”
The screen fades to a dark video. I have to squint to recognize the dingy hotel room in Dover, the lumpy mattress, the flattened pillows. The camera angle is worse than I thought, but PyotrTarasov’s voice is clear:One more choice, Katie. One last thing. Will you do it? Will you come for me?
I look away instead of watching my hand plunge between my legs, but I don’t move fast enough to avoid Cole’s look of revulsion.
“Your slut of a wife already knows how to spread her legs for a good Russian man. Now she can end the war between the Canton Crew and the Tarasov bratva once and for all. The two of you will divorce by no later than the end of this month. And I will marry little Katie Lynch myself.”
