Few minutes past eighteen o'clock, a taxi pulled up at NW 7th St. Overtown. It was a neighborhood, considered the black eye of the Miami area.
Out came a tall, dark man. His face was thin, his eyes dark and deep-set. His mouth was hard, and his jaw looked aggressive. A few scattered white hairs on his head made it apparent he was a man past forty.He paid the driver, waited for him to drive away, then looked up and down the street. The environment reeked of poverty and abandonment. Young men in overcoats, played cards next to a windowless convenience store, grandmas sat on their broken-down verandas, and Miami’s downtown skyscrapers rose in the distance. Nothing to raise his suspicions.He took out his phone and dialed a number.“I'm here,” he said, ended the call, and dropped the phone back into his pocket.He waited.Out of the shadow of the ramshackle convenience store, among the men playing cards, a thin man came out and called out to him. Even from afar, and with the fading light of the day, it could be seen that he was shabby, but his shabby look blended into the dilapidated situation of the sorry-looking neighborhood. His pants were baggy, his hat on his head hung anyhow, his dark overcoat was of the cheapest quality. His name was Chris Wayne.The dark man recognized Wayne and advanced to him. He reached him, and as they shook hands, he regarded the young man. He was a boy of either twenty-four or five. Looking at Wayne, he thought sourly; what a bright-looking boy. Though years of shabby living had etched its mark on his face.“Have you got it?” The dark man asked.“Let's take a walk,” Wayne replied, and led him away from the other men playing cards, and down the street, they went.They turned onto a side street and stopped in front of a 1990 Toyota Corolla model. Wayne pointed to the car.“This is it. Just as you requested.”The dark man examined the compact car. They had polished the car up. Its tires were new. Everything seemed okay with the car, and he nodded with satisfaction toward Wayne.“The other package?”“It's inside the car.”Wayne took out a key from his pocket, went over to the driver's side, opened the door, went round to the passenger side. He keyed in the key, opened the door, and entered the car.Both men were soon seated in the compact car. Wayne opened the glove compartment, took out a paper bag, and passed it. The dark man collected the bag, reached inside, and as his fingers closed around the cold butt of a .22mm, a crooked smile flitted across his face.Opening the bag, a shade wider, he peered in; at the gun and its silencer. “How many slugs are in it?”“Five,” Wayne answered.“Unnecessary. One would have been enough.”Wayne shrugged impatiently.“Well, I can't say I pity whoever it's meant for.”“Even if you offered your pity, it would be of no use to him. But, he might make do with God's mercy to make it to purgatory.”Wayne said nothing, and the dark man, sensing his impatience, took out his wallet, counted ten one-hundred-dollar bills, and passed it to him. He checked what remained in his pocket. He still had the freedom five hundred dollars could afford.Wayne flicked through the cash. He drew three notes out from the bunch and extended it to the dark man.“It's over. This would do,” he said, flapping the seven hundred in his other hand.Not bothering to look at Wayne or the paper notes he was extending, the dark man folded the paper bag, dropped it back in the glove compartment, and locked it. Then he looked at him.“I know how hard the street is for you, young man. Keep it. You’d need it better than I would.”Scarcely believing his ears, Wayne cheerfully and quickly slid the bills into the pockets of his overcoat; for fear that his good fortune might be altered, the next passing second.“Thanks, man.” He opened the door.“Anytime you need me. You've got my number. So long, man.”Wayne stepped out into the street, closed the door, and began his way back to his usual evening rendezvous, turning back at intervals, and smiling sheepishly at the car, happy with his serendipity.The dark man smiled. He felt a sense of satisfaction he hadn't felt in a long time. Whoever had said, “Blessed is the hand that giveth than the one that taketh,” was surely right, he thought.He coaxed the engine to start and was about to put the car into gear, then he cursed, remembering he was dealing with a manual transmission. Pushing the clutch pedal to the boards, he engaged gear and edged the car into the street.Ten minutes of fast driving got him to downtown Miami. He turned off the avenue into a broadside street. His eyes searched for a parking space and just ahead of him, a car pulled out from the line of tightly parked cars and went roaring down the road. He swung the compact car into the vacant space, stopped, and turned off the engine.He looked over at the Truck Agency a few yards from him. From where he parked, he had an unobstructed view of the gate of the Agency, and he nodded his head in satisfaction.He took out a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, lit it, and drew in a lungful of tobacco smoke. He relaxed back on the seat as the smoke drifted through his nostril.He took his phone from his pocket, opened it, and went to his call records. Second on the list was a name, Anya. He stared at it, hesitating; then dialed the number.He brought the phone to his ear, listened to the crackling noise for a while, then again, the bored, flat, automatic voice he had heard fifteen times in the past twenty-four hours came up.It spoke in Russian for a while, then in English, it said, “The number you have dialed is unavailable.” And the call ended.Frustrated, he dropped the phone on the seat beside him and took another drag from his cigarette.Why suddenly unavailable? He asked himself. But after a moment of intense thought, he gave up.It had been over eleven years since he had last contacted her. Last night, he had called her. She had answered the call. He played back the call in his head. She had squealed with excitement when she heard his voice. He didn't even have to introduce himself, even after such a long time of being out of touch. It made him smile. But, he imagined the voice he heard was weak, forced, but genuine.Abruptly, the call had ended. He had called again, unavailable. Maybe a network problem, he mused. He waited until the next day; this morning, before he tried again. It was still unavailable. Despite that, he had thought little of it. But now, with sixteen calls unavailable, in the past twenty-four hours, it was bothering him.Had she found herself another man? A chill ran up his spine as the thought crossed his mind.“No.” He shook his head.She had been so happy to hear his voice. She wouldn't have been if she had another man. But even if she had, he couldn't blame her. He had been away for so long. It was only fair that she got herself another man. But he was sure of one thing, no man could take the space he held in her heart.He lifted himself a little from the seat, brought out his wallet from his back pocket, and took out an old paper photograph of a girl probably in her late twenties. The paper was slightly old, but the girl in it remained an exceptional beauty.He caressed the picture, imagining he was caressing her face.“Hold on, An. I'm coming home.”Carefully, he put the picture back in his wallet and dropped it in his pocket.He was still thinking, puffing on his cigarette; when the gate of the Agency rolled open.Immediately, he became alert, sat up, and waited.Through the gateway came a truck, and he grunted in disgust. He pulled up the sleeve of his overcoat and consulted his watch. The time was twenty-five minutes past seven.As the truck went past him, he glanced at the driver, who stared straight ahead. His eyes caught a sign painted across the door, and his attention went swiftly to the gate, which had been rolled close.For the first time, he realized the big sign painted in white on the red background of the iron gate, which read; RICO TRUCK AGENCY.Do you want good service? Go to a good truck agency.Do you want better service? Go to a better truck agency.Do you want the best service? Come to Rico Truck Agency (RTA).Tobacco smoke drifted down his nostrils as it flared, and he threw the remains of his cigarette out of the window in anger.So that punk… the son of a bitch, had taken his name off the company we both built. Well, it wouldn't do him any good now, he thought savagely.“At least he kept our slogan,” he said in compensation to himself.Still seething with frustration and fury, he took out his pack of cigarettes, selected one, and lit it. Puffing on it, he brooded about a series he had once watched with Anya, a long time ago in a local movie theater in Russia.It wasn't until ten minutes past eight that another movement of the gate brought his mind instantly to the present. The gate rolled open. He sat up. A Lincoln Navigator showed its head. His lips drew off his teeth in a crooked smile. He stubbed the smoldering cigarette in an ashtray in the car and turned on the ignition of the Toyota. As the Lincoln turned right and edged into the flow of the traffic, he drove the Toyota, in his bid to follow the Lincoln. He made sure two cars separated him from the Lincoln.The night traffic was tight and slow. With the pace used by cars along the broad street, the dark man felt even if the driver of the Lincoln spotted him, he'd think of him as part of the traffic.The car in front of him was a low Aston Martin sports car. Ahead of it was another low car, and he got an unobstructed view of the rear of the Lincoln. He admired the balance, the ease at which the big car edged its way through the tight downtown Miami traffic. But what good w
He took from his pocket a pair of thin silk gloves, and when he wore them, they became like a second skin on his hands, then waited some thirty minutes before opening the glove compartment. He took out the paper bag, and taking the package from the bag, he screwed the silencer slowly to the gun. His mind calculated.Done screwing the silencer to the gun, he slid the gun into the pocket of his overcoat, opened the car door, and stepped out into the street. Gently, he swung the door shut, pushed it until he heard, ‘click.’He looked up and down the moonlit street. A few taxis still bowled rapidly along the road, a few dawdlers loitered in the street beyond. It was a fine chilly night, and downtown Miami was still reluctant to go to sleep.Moving quickly with stealth, he crossed the street, stepped into a dark shop doorway, and looked around. As he saw no one looking in his direction, he slunk along in the shadows, invisible in his black outfit. He reached th
The circuit blow brought Jamie Rico instantly awake. He hadn't seen the flash, as he had his back turned to the window and his curtains drawn. So, he thought it was a gunshot. He laid still on the bed, his ears straining. Then, as he relaxed, his quick suspicious ears picked out the faint noise of a door click. He stiffened.His hand drew out a drawer by his bedside and his fingers closed over the steel butt of a .38mm.He raised his head from the pillow and listened. The noise was repeated. It was a soft sound, like someone taking care not to be heard, was slowly turning the handle of a door.Silently, he took out the gun from the drawer, raised himself, and with his left hand, he groped for the light switch, found it, and turned it on. There was no response from the light bulbs as if the switch and bulbs had recently had a discord.Darkness still hovered around the room, but he wasn't scared. He had a gun. He pulled back the safety catch of the gun and gently d
Suddenly, Rico’s feet seemed to stagger. A heavy thud vibrated the floor where he laid as Rico's massive frame hit the floor. His head dropped to the floor a few inches from the closet door. The noise came as sharp and loud as it could be to the dark man, who had his ear to the ground. He got up, swung the door open, and crossed over the body into the room. He moved to the wet bar, drained the remaining whiskey in the bottle, and rinsed the tumbler.Then, sliding his gun into his pocket, he hoisted the massively built body over his shoulder. He moved with difficulty across the room and dropped the body on the bed. He arranged the body, lifted its head, and pulled the pillow under it. His eyes caught the wedding ring on Rico's finger, and he grunted.He moved to the wet bar, picked up Rico's gun. He checked how many slugs were in it.Three.He crossed to the bedside drawers. As he drew the top drawer open, he heard a soft creak and smiled his crooked smile.
As Pascal edged to where the Lincoln was parked with the dark man following behind, his mind worked swiftly. Any moment from now, he felt the man behind might slip up. He might come too close before they got to the Lincoln. Then that would be his chance, he thought.As they reached the Lincoln, the signaling lights of the Lincoln flashed. Pascal stopped abruptly, but the gun nudged him forward.“Get in the driver’s side.”With fallen shoulders, he got the car door open and got in. His gamble hadn’t come off. The thought that he might be dealing with a man as efficiently professional as himself brought cold sweat to his forehead.The dark man got in the back and settled himself directly behind Pascal.“Get us to the agency,” he said and relaxed back into the luxury of the car.Ten minutes of steady driving with the speedometer needle flickering over forty and fifty brought them to Rico Truck Agency.Pascal sounded
Seated in the first-class cabin of a Boeing 747 flight; from New York to Florida, Miami. Natasha Orlova stared blankly through the window at the blue sky and white clouds.Her mind was unsettled. She turned her attention again to the white envelope, which she held in her hand. The words, drawn by the black ink, “To Natasha Orlova.” stared unfeelingly back at her.She couldn't help but take out the paper, unfold it, and read through its content yet again.The first sentence struck a knife into her heart. As she read further, each word pushed the knife deeper, each sentence twisted the blade in her heart.“Your father might still be alive. Ever since your conception, I promised myself I wouldn't let him know of you. He was bad. I wanted the best for you. But you struck a knife in my heart, child, as you gre
The plane touched down at 10:55 a.m. at the Miami International Airport. Among the passengers to leave the plane, Natasha alighted. A Hermes handbag hung over her left shoulder, a diamond and emerald necklace on her neck, and a small-sized leather traveling bag was on her right hand.She walked briskly to the Arrival center, passed the police control with a wide, sensual smile to the officer in control, and walked out into Miami's cold winter morning.She hurried to a waiting taxi, and as she opened the rear door, a hand dropped on her shoulder.Startled, she swiveled around. Seeing her husband, she relaxed, then smiled.“Are you going to enter that, not when I've been here for the past half hour waiting for you?” Rico said. A false, stern expression on his face. …Gorevoy Egorov came slowly and lazily awake. He turned over on the small-sized bed that barely fitted his muscular frame and grimaced as his leg contacted the floor. He dr
Gorevoy's face darkened.“He would know all right.”Jerry brought the coffee over, handed one to Gorevoy, and with the second cup, he sat down. He stared at Gorevoy for some time, hesitating. He hadn't missed the tightness in Gorevoy's voice.“Gorevoy, sometimes I wonder if Jamie wasn't behind the whole set-up. It was too glib that only you got implicated, and who gained most from it? Jamie!”Gorevoy said nothing, but Jerry who was watching him saw the muscles of his face twitch. He took a sip from his cup. “Things aren't the same way they used to be before you went in, Gorevoy... a lot has changed.”The corners of Gorevoy's mouth twisted into a sour smile. Looking at the old man was enough confirmation that a lot indeed had changed.Ten years ago, he had met Jerry at a cocktail party hosted by a man up the food chain in the drug business. The two had got talking. Jerry had taken a liking to him. After the party