Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

16

They had put Alan Crane in a chair at the end of his beautiful cherrywood dining room table. Then they had firmly duct-taped his left arm to the table.

Markov watched while his man Gregor Stepanovich used yard after yard of tape, wrapping it all the way around the end of the rectangular table.

Crane hadn’t put up any resistance. He knew enough to avoid getting punched and kicked into submission. But as the tape wound around and around, more tightly securing his arm to the table, he tried to get some reaction from Markov.

“What are you doing, Leonard?”

“Be quiet and listen.”

Stepanovich’s gym bag sat on the dining room table. When he finished with the duct tape, he dropped the remaining roll in the bag and took out a 32-ounce. ball peen hammer. The head was high carbon steel. The handle fiberglass. A well-made, nearly indestructible tool about to be used as a weapon.

Crane had never seen a ball peen hammer that large. Stepanovich sat down on the other side of the table, hammer in hand, staring at Alan Crane.

Crane worked out four times a week with a personal trainer. He was scrupulous about what he ate. Took care of his skin. Got regular massages and the occasional facial. He visited his personal physician regularly. He cared for and pampered himself, was proud of his body, and the thought of that hammer being used on any part of it made him feel like he might lose control of his bowels.

He still couldn’t believe that Markov was going to do anything more than threaten him, but looking at Stepanovich he wasn’t so sure. Stepanovich leered at him as he slowly massaged the round end of the hammer in the palm of his left hand, as if he were deriving sexual pleasure from it. Crane could see him imagining and plotting out the damage he would do with the hammer.

What the fuck were these two planning? Was this going to be some sort of sick lesson because of Olivia Sanchez? He’d gotten Milstein’s voice mail, but hadn’t bothered to call him back. What was going on?

Crane started to sweat. He turned again to Markov, who sat at the head of the table. He started to speak, but Markov interrupted him.

“Open your hand,” he said to Crane.

“Leonard, what are you doing? This is crazy. Why are you…?”

Markov suddenly screamed at him, “Open your fucking hand flat on the table.”

Crane spread his left hand flat, but immediately started talking again.

“Leonard, hear me out. You owe me at least a minute to tell my side.”

Markov got up, walked around the dining table, grabbed the hammer from Gregor and smashed the round end onto the solid cherrywood, an inch from Crane’s hand.

Crane recoiled, gritting his teeth. There was an ugly dent in his precious table.

To his credit, Crane did not yell or scream, or struggle against the duct tape. He closed his eyes, calming himself. Gathering his resolve. Telling himself this wasn’t going to happen. He was too valuable to Markov.

Markov pulled out a dining chair and shoved it next to Crane. He sat, and without warning he slapped Crane across the face, hard. Harder than Crane had ever been hit in his life. The stinging pain made his eyes tear up. He squeezed them shut. Steeling himself.

Markov dropped the hammer on the table, not caring that he put another dent in the flawless cherrywood.

Stepanovich quickly picked up the hammer.

Markov leaned closer to Crane.

“Listen to me now.”

Crane, through clenched teeth, said, “I never touched her.”

Markov answered. “I don’t fucking care. It’s too late. You went after her. She accuses you. She alerts police. District attorney office. She calls in criminals. They make threats. They extort compensation. I should fucking kill you, but you know I can’t. You know I need you to get me my money.”

“Leonard…”

“I said for you to listen to me. Then you talk.”

Crane pursed his lips, forcing himself to remain quiet.

Markov continued. “First, you close out all my positions. You start transferring my money, in cash, to my accounts in Cayman. Understand?”

Crane said, “No. I don’t understand. What criminals? Are you talking about this guy supposedly coming at noon? What happened? And do you understand what you’re asking me to do? If I close out your positions now, you’ll lose money. A lot of money.”

“No. You know how to do it. You make sure any losses are small.”

“I can do that. I can. But I need time. And if you let your maniac hit me with that hammer, how much do you think I’ll be able to work?”

Markov patted Crane on the cheek. “You can work with your right hand. You make me money in the past. You going to make me more. But you have to learn a lesson here, Alan. You let things get out of hand. I don’t know what is going on, but I know someone comes to Milstein and demands money. You think I should leave my money where it is? Where some criminals can try to extort it?”

“I’m not letting Milstein take one penny of your money. Nobody is going to extort money from your funds.”

Markov shook his head, looking at Crane like he was making a huge, unfortunate mistake.

Crane immediately backpedaled. “No, no. You’re right. I understand. You don’t want to be anywhere near this. I understand. I’m sorry. If I’m the reason for this trouble, I’m sorry. I went overboard with that woman. But I never thought…”

“That’s the problem, Alan. You don’t think. But after today, you will.”

Markov looked at his watch.

“This fucking criminal she sets on us is coming here to talk to you.” Markov checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

Crane heard the elevator open, and thought it might be the man Markov was talking about, but it was Gregor’s men. Two of them. Markov watched them enter the apartment and motioned them over.

He turned back to Crane. “Listen to me. He comes here. I tell him there is no money in this for him, or this woman. Not a fucking dime. Not a penny. I tell him I never want to see him, or hear from him again. Or from the woman.”

Crane nodded.

Markov raised a finger. “I watch him. I see if he understands me. Then, I ask him who is behind him. I ask him questions. If he doesn’t answer me or if we think he is lying, then we tape him to the table and Gregor takes the hammer to him. And you watch and see what we do. Not just a hand. Gregor breaks as many bones as I need: hand, arm, knees, face. Every part of him until I learn who he is. Who is behind him?”

Crane swallowed and listened.

“Then, when I know everything, I have Gregor put a bullet through his head.” Markov put a fat finger on the top of Crane’s head pointing down. “Gregor has figured out to shoot down this way, so the bullet doesn’t come out of the head and make a mess. We chop him up and put him in garbage bags and take him out of here. And you, you clean up the mess, and you get me my money. And maybe, maybe if I see you have right attitude, I let you clean up with both hands.”

Crane nodded. This was a fucking nightmare. This had gone somewhere he couldn’t believe. Why had he had anything to do with Olivia Sanchez? He was beginning to wish he had never seen her.

And then the buzzer from the street pierced the silence.

17

As Beck pressed the buzzer for Crane’s apartment, he thought he saw a change in the fish-eye lens set into the panel, as if the camera were focusing on him. He expected a voice to ask his name or something, but he heard nothing other than an electronic click that released both the front door and the inside lobby door.

As he waited for the elevator, he slipped his Bucheimer sap into the back pocket of his black jeans, unbuttoned his shearling coat, rolled his neck.

Beck had been in a few of these loft apartments, so he wasn’t totally surprised that the elevator opened directly into the apartment rather than into a common hallway. That small bit of knowledge saved his life.

Because he expected to be entering directly into the loft apartment, Beck had his head up ready to see what was inside.

It took him less than two seconds to see everything:

The tall bald guy Beck had thought was a personal trainer, pointing a gun at him.

Behind the gunman, two others.

To his left, a large open kitchen, granite counters, gleaming appliances, bright white overhead accent lighting.

To his right, a living room/dining area. A man whose left arm was taped to the dining table, and the fat guy from the Mercedes splayed on a couch.

Beck saw all of it, but didn’t process any of it. Didn’t analyze. Maybe somewhere in the back of his mind he realized the tall guy had positioned himself near the elevator so the gun would be pointed right at his face, terrorizing him, intimidating him. But the man had made two mistakes. First, Beck wasn’t at all intimidated. And second, he was way too close to Beck.

Beck went for the gun, fast. Springing forward, both hands rising up, left hand slapping the inside of the gunman’s right wrist, right hand grabbing the barrel of the automatic, lifting it, twisting it out of the shooter’s hand. Then he pivoted, slammed the back of his head into the gunman’s face, stunning him, pulling away, taking the gun with him.

Beck never stopped moving. He turned spinning into a crouch, bringing the gun up in a two-hand grip, finger on the trigger, pulling the trigger back past the safety pull, firing at the first body closing in on him.

Two shots. Fast. Deafening. The body coming at him flew back away from Beck.

Beck continued turning to find the third attacker, but he was too late. He slammed into Beck’s left side, knocking Beck off his feet, getting his arms around Beck, locking onto him.

Beck held onto the gun, a Glock, managed to twist to his right in midair, just before he landed. He hit the floor sideways, crashing down on the arm of his attacker. Beck heard a grunt, but the grip around him didn’t break.

The bald one was already back on his feet, his nose bleeding, a small cut just over his right eye. He had a weird grin on his face, as if he were both pleased and surprised that this had turned into a fight.

He ran three steps to where Beck was trapped on the floor and launched a fast sweeping sidekick at Beck’s hands.

The instep of his foot caught Beck’s wrist. The Glock flew across the floor, skidding and spinning toward the living room area of the loft.

Christ, thought Beck. He came right at the gun. Never hesitated.

The tall one reversed the circle of his kick and aimed his heel at Beck’s solar plexus.

Beck managed to twist right, pulling the left elbow of the attacker over to block the bald guy’s stomp kick—which hit the elbow of the man holding Beck—a blow so hard that Beck felt the impact. The man under him grunted in pain. The bear hug around him loosened, but he still held on.

Beck’s legs were free, so he pistoned a kick at the bald attacker’s shins, grabbed the middle finger of the man holding on to him, pulled it back until the finger broke with a crack. The man under him finally let go.

Beck rolled to his feet, turned toward the tall one, shaking his right hand, trying to dispel the stinging pain from the kick that had sent the Glock flying.

He crouched over and backed away.

Gregor Stepanovich, nodding and grinning even more now, spread his long arms wide as if to both welcome Beck and corral him.

Stepanovich slid one step toward Beck, forcing Beck to step back, herding him toward the wall behind him.

Stepanovich was patient. No rush. He pictured his first move once he had Beck positioned. Fist to his face, hard so that the head would bang into the wall, stunning him enough so that he could grab the head and slam it into the wall, hard and fast, again and again until he heard the sound of the skull cracking. He pictured the blood on the wall, the feel of the back of a human head turning to pulp.

Beck kept his eye on the bald one, but also on the man who had grabbed him in the bear hug. He’d managed to get up and began closing in on Beck’s left. He held his right hand open, unable to close it into a fist because of the finger Beck had broken. He also bent his left arm back and forth, still numb from Stepanovich’s heel kick landing on his elbow.

The two of them worked together, forcing Beck backward.

The taller one smiled at Beck, as if to say, checkmate. Two against one. It’s over.

Beck took a long, slow breath. Off to his right, he could hear the man he’d shot struggling for breaths in painful gasps, but he didn’t dare look over at him.

Everything had slowed down. Nobody in a hurry now. Gregor and his partner would get this done, but carefully.

As Beck stepped back another pace, the man he’d shot came into view, lying in a fetal position, a pool of blood forming underneath him. Nobody paid him any attention. They were intent on finishing this.

Another step back. On his left, Beck’s peripheral vision caught sight of an open space, desk, expensive exercise equipment. To his right, he saw the man with his arm duct-taped to a large rectangular dining room table. A ball peen hammer on the table. Was that Crane? Had to be. What the hell was going on?

“Come on, Gregor,” the man on the couch snarled. “End it.”

Gregor didn’t respond to Markov, but the command reminded him that he had to take this one down alive. He watched Beck carefully. He saw that there was no fear in his face. He had survived this far. Clearly this required caution. Maim him first, thought Gregor. Get him down on the floor. Beat him. Break his radius bone or the ulna, or both, grind them together, then he will talk. He will beg.

They had Beck backed up almost to the wall. Stepanovich reached behind his back and pulled out an expandable steel baton from his rear pocket. He extended it with a quick snap, giving himself sixteen more inches of reach. At the same time, his partner pulled out a combat switchblade knife, razor sharp with a serrated edge on top.

Beck had to constantly look right and left to keep them both in sight. No wonder they were taking their time. Not just two against one. Two with weapons against one without. Or at least that’s what they thought.

Beck knew when they moved, they would move at the same time. He had to choose one, the moment he ran out of room. The choice was easy. The steel snap baton would be brutal. But the knife could be deadly. Beck had seen too many knife wounds in prison. It only took a second to stab a hole into a liver or heart, or slash through a tendon or major artery.

Another slow step back. He could sense the wall looming behind him. He reached behind him, touching a shelf or a windowsill, his hand felt something. A book. Too light to do any major damage, but enough. Without hesitating he whipped it into the face of the one with the knife. At the same time, he pulled the sap out of his back pocket, took three fast steps and slid on the polished wood floor toward the knife wielder.

Beck nearly skidded past the man, but at the last second, just after the knife blade passed inches over his head, Beck jackknifed into a sitting position and whipped the Bucheimer into the side of the knife man’s left knee.

The collateral ligament ruptured, the right side of his femur shattered, and the fibula cracked three inches from its top. The knife wielder fell to the side as his leg collapsed. He toppled across Beck’s torso, blocking the first baton blow coming from Gregor, but still managed to stab his knife down, slicing through the outside of Beck’s left thigh and burying the point an inch into the wood floor.

The wound stung and burned deep. Beck slapped the Bucheimer into the knife wielder’s face, causing an explosion of pain. The lead weight cracked the supraorbital bone above his right eye, crushed the lacrimal bone, and split the nasal bone, knocking the man out cold.

Beck shoved the man off him and tried to roll away from the baton blows whipping down on him, but his pant leg was pinned to the floor by the knife.

Beck caught stinging blows on the shoulder, left arm, his back. Without his heavy shearling coat the baton would have broken bones.

Beck blindly whipped the sap sideways at Gregor, connecting with his right shin. That stopped the blows from the baton. Beck finally pulled away from the knife pinning his pants down, ripping the thick denim to get free. He scrambled to his feet. Gregor had gone down on one knee, but now he was up and limping toward Beck.

Beck backpedaled, slipping on blood.

Gregor kept coming. Beck overhanded the Bucheimer at Gregor, hoping to catch him in the face or head with the lead weighted end.

Gregor just managed to duck under the spinning sap. It flew past him and hit the frame of a window, cracking the thermal pane.

The fat man at the other end of the loft finally managed to push himself up off the couch, looking around for the Glock that had been kicked in his direction.

Gregor slashed the baton at Beck’s head. Beck leaned back, barely avoiding getting whipped in the face by the steel tip, and immediately lunged forward, catching Gregor’s arm before he started a backhand slash. He punched hard under Gregor’s armpit. The blow cracked into a bundle of nerves at the top of Gregor’s rib cage, paralyzing his baton arm, but Gregor retaliated with a hard left fist to Beck’s ear.

The blow caused instant, searing pain. Beck saw black for a moment, but the pain fueled him. He punched hard into Gregor’s ribs. Once, twice. Gregor dropped the baton, but managed to grabbed Beck’s coat with both hands, immobilizing him. He lifted a knee aimed at Beck’s ribs.

Beck twisted and caught the knee on his hip, countering but paying the price in pain. Gregor drove Beck backward, trying to trap him against the elevator.

Beck chopped both arms down to break Gregor’s grip, but only managed to break free from one hand. He twisted an elbow into Gregor’s jaw, tried to push Gregor off, but Gregor hung onto Beck’s coat with his left hand. Beck twisted around and slapped the elevator button behind him, turned back to punch Gregor in the face, and hit him a perfect shot in the temple which nearly cracked three knuckles on his bare fist.

Gregor sagged, but still hung on to Beck’s coat.

The elevator door started to open. A gunshot suddenly exploded, followed by a sharp splat of metal on metal as the bullet hit the slowly opening elevator door.

Beck flinched and ducked.

He thought he heard the fat man yell, “Stop!”

The elevator door opened. Beck grabbed Gregor’s right hand with both of his, turned the hand back, twisting Gregor’s wrist until his grip broke, then Beck pushed the hand straight down, bringing Gregor to his knees.

He jammed a foot into Gregor’s chest and shoved him away, sending him down onto the floor. Gregor still tried to grab for Beck’s leg, almost catching his foot as Beck fell back. Two more shots sounded. The elevator doors started to slide shut.

Beck pulled his legs into the cab, barely clearing the closing door. He slammed his palm onto the elevator buttons, not caring which floor it took him to, just trying to get the damn elevator moving.

The door shut, another shot rang out, the fat man yelled something, the elevator descended.

18

Gregor was on his feet banging the side of his fist against the elevator, cursing, screaming, hitting the call button. Markov finally reached him, wrapped both arms around Gregor’s right arm and pulled him back.

“Stop. Stop it!”

Gregor could have easily put Markov down, but he let Markov pull him away from the door.

Markov cursed. “Christ, you with the fucking guns all the time.”

Gregor turned to Markov, testing his jaw where Beck had elbowed him, rotating his arm to get the feeling back. He walked slowly away from Markov, limping because of Beck’s sap hitting his shin.

“A gun in the face stops any resistance.”

“Except this time,” said Markov.

“Who is he? Why did he come up here ready for us?”

“Ready for you?” said Markov. “How? He had no gun. Comes alone. Now he’s fucking gone. Idiot!”

For a moment, Gregor looked as if he might go for Markov. The Russian saw it in his eyes and yelled at him.

“Gregor, calm down. Come, we have to figure out what to do with your men.”

Gregor struggled to contain himself. Clenching his jaw, making guttural sounds, he followed Markov over to the man Beck had shot. He lay in an enormous pool of blood. They slowly lifted him into a sitting position and propped him against the base of the kitchen counter. The man gritted his teeth and hissed at the pain moving him had caused.

Gregor squatted down and began pulling his shirt up to find the wounds.

Markov muttered a Russian curse as Gregor checked the bullet wounds.

“Fucking guy wasn’t even looking. How does he get the gun from you, much less shoot one of you?”

Gregor ignored Markov.

There were two bullet holes, one three inches above the bottom rib on the left side. One two inches below.

Gregor squinted at the wounds. He gently pulled the wounded man forward so he could see his back. The two bullets had exited so close together that the exit holes had merged into one large, ragged wound.

Gregor had seen many bullet wounds. His man wasn’t coughing up blood, so he calculated that the bullets hadn’t pierced a lung. But there had to be massive damage to his stomach and liver and spleen.

Gregor told Markov, “We get him to hospital, and they stop the bleeding, he’ll live.” But he’d said it only to give the wounded man false hope. He could see a gray pallor coming over him. With the enormous blood loss and traumatic shock, he estimated only a twenty percent chance this soldier from his old brigade would live.

The other soldier had made it up onto one foot, keeping himself up with a hand on a chair. Markov turned to him, “Can you drive?”

He could not stand on his right leg, his face was lopsided from the fractures under his left eye, which was completely hidden by grotesque swelling, he had only one useable hand, but he nodded at Markov and said, “For a while. Not too long.”

Markov knew Stepanovich and his men were beyond tough, but it was hard to believe either of the two wounded men could get very far. But that didn’t matter. All Markov wanted was for them to get far enough away that they wouldn’t be his problem.

“Where’s the car?” asked Markov.

“Across the street.”

“Legal?”

“No.”

Markov hoped to God the car hadn’t been towed.

“Okay, Gregor will help you down. You drive away from here with your comrade. Don’t try to make it to hospital. Go north.” Markov tried to think of a neighborhood where a carjacking might be possible. “Try to make it into the twenties. Off the highway. There’s a project over there. The story is, you and Igor got hijacked at a stoplight. They pulled you out of car and beat you. Igor fought back. They shot him and ran. Blacks. You can’t identify anyone. You call nine-one-one. Wait for ambulance. That’s it. You don’t remember anything else.”

Markov turned to the man who had been shot. There was no point in telling him the story.

Markov turned back to Gregor. “Can you carry Igor down to the car?”

“Yeah.”

“Wrap a towel around him, so you don’t leave blood everywhere. Then bring it back up. We’ll leave everything for Alan to clean up.”

Crane turned to yell at Markov, “For chrissake Leonard, get this fucking tape off me.”

Markov turned to him and suddenly something snapped. He moved quickly to Crane, picked up the thirty-two-ounce hammer, and began smashing it into Crane’s precious cherrywood dining table.

He hit the table over and over and over, banging divots and dents into it, all the time yelling, “Shut up, shut up, fucking shut up.”

Crane kept his head down, trying to cover his face with his right hand so he wouldn’t get hit by flying chips of wood. He couldn’t look. He had his left hand in a tight fist, steeling himself, hoping the hammer didn’t land on him.

Finally, Markov’s rage ended. He dropped the hammer on the destroyed wood and muttered a final curse.

He turned away to watch Gregor lift Igor to his feet. He then moved to the third man, who put his good arm around Gregor’s shoulder. Stepanovich was strong enough to get them both as far as the elevator door, but Markov saw they might never make it to the car. He would have to go down with them and bring the car to their side of the street.

He shouted for them to wait as he made his way toward the elevator. There was an astounding amount of blood where the fight had taken place. Puddled on the floor, splattered on furniture. Counter stools had been turned over. Books had been knocked off shelves. Chunks of Crane’s carefully plastered walls were gouged out from bullet holes.

What the hell had just happened, Markov wondered.

*   *   *

The elevator stopped on the ground floor. Beck dug in his coat pocket and found a knit watch cap. He wedged it into the bottom of the elevator door to prevent it from closing, so it couldn’t return to Crane’s apartment.

He limped out onto Hubert Street, blood squishing in his left shoe. He checked his leg. The pants were torn, exposing a ragged knife wound oozing blood. He tried to calculate how much attention he would attract trying to get the Mercury out of the garage versus the mess he would make in a taxi.

He decided to get the Mercury. Blood all over a cab would attract too much attention.

He walked as quickly as the pain would allow him to the parking garage on Greenwich. Just before he entered, he plastered the loose flap of black denim against the wet knife wound, hoping the cloth would stick. The blood didn’t show much on his dark jeans. Maybe the garage attendant wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, Beck saw he was making bloody left footprints on the garage’s concrete floor.

He reached the attendant’s booth and slipped his ticket under the Lucite barrier. A tired-looking, small Hispanic man time-stamped Beck’s ticket, took his money, then came out and hustled off to get Beck’s car, too busy to even glance at Beck.

As he waited, Beck called Manny.

“It’s me. Your cousin still there?”

“She’s just leaving.”

“Don’t let her go. Tell her she has to stay.”

Manny knew by Beck’s tone not to ask any questions.

“Okay.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

Beck hung up. The blows from the steel baton were beginning to hurt now that the adrenaline had burned off. Beck tried to remember where else he had been hit. His right wrist, below the back of his hand. Elbow. Knee. Nothing felt broken, but it was going to be hell getting out of bed for the next week or so.

The Mercury came.

He tipped the garage attendant, who hustled back to his booth.

Beck slid into the driver’s seat, furious at how much he had misjudged the situation. Milstein had double-crossed him. And he never envisioned the arms dealer stepping in so quickly with fighters of that caliber. But was he protecting Milstein? No, more likely all he cared about was his money. It looked as if he was about to begin torturing Crane when Beck walked in.

Beck took a quick look at himself in the rearview mirror. There was a red welt forming on his jaw just under his left ear. His hair was disheveled. He was flushed and sweating. But there was no blood or noticeable bruises on his face that would attract undue attention.

He took a deep breath. Ran a hand through his hair. Told himself to take it easy. Use the ride back to calm down, plan what to do. As he drove the Mercury out of the garage and took the right turn that would take him past Alan Crane’s block, he thought to himself, man, the next time you get surprised like that … you’re dead.