THIRTEEN

“You certainly created a brouhaha,” the Sheriff said.

He was experiencing the effects of the experimental ALS drug and feeling better. He was in his office and looked more energized than he had in weeks. “I’ve already heard from the DA and the Leonard, Howard and Arthur firm.”

“Craig Leonard,” I said.

“Yeah. Him. They’re claiming trespassing, illegal search and seizure, and false arrest.”

“Wow. The trifecta.”

“This is serious business, Buddy. Try not to trivialize it.”

“Did Immigration pick up the Russians?”

“If you’re referring to Boris Petrov’s security personnel, yes, they did.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. It should only be a matter of hours before they’re all on a plane to Russia. That should make the job easier.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have two more access points to clear and without those thugs to deter us, we can get it done straightaway.”

“You can’t go back there.”

“Says who?”

“The Leonard, Howard and Arthur law firm.”

“What does the Commission say?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Then we still have a job to do.”

“This is a major megillah, Buddy. I propose you bow out of it for the time being.”

I stood and, in a rare moment of tenderness, walked over to the old man and kissed him on his forehead. He looked dazed, then he smiled.

“You’re the one who said I’m a wild card. And as such, I’ve got my claws into this one big-time. At least until the Commission tells me otherwise.”

“What about the District Attorney?”

“Not his table. At least not according to Commissioner Morrison. I say we carry on with our assignment and abide the events.”

“The events?”

“Yes. And they’ll more than likely prove to be highly entertaining.”

“Ever the cynic,” my father said.

“Ever.”

I jumped into my cruiser, heading for Bernie’s Deli. It was my turn to pick up lunch. Wilma had already phoned in the order.

Bernie’s was a local hot spot in a nearby strip mall. Parking was scarce so I pulled into a No Parking zone and made tracks for the deli.

The attack caught me off guard. A sharp metal object which I later learned was a tire iron, rang down heavily across my shoulders and neck, knocking me off my feet.

I looked up in time to see a squat fireplug of a man, dressed all in black, raise the tire iron and slam me with it again, this time in the lower back.

Despite the shock and the pain, I was able to wrest my Colt commander from its holster before the man in black could strike me again.

As he raised the tire iron, I shot him, the .230-grain round tearing into his left hip with a vengeance, shattering it and slamming him backward into the wall behind him. He landed heavily, screaming in pain.

Responding to the sudden noise, a second man, also in black with a tire iron in his hand, made tracks for me.

Still in pain, I trained my pistol at him and hollered. “Stop or I’ll shoot you. Put down the weapon.”

The man glanced at his fallen comrade, then at me. He dropped the tire iron and raised his hands above his head.

I cautiously stood on wobbly legs and walked slowly toward him. When I reached him, without warning I smacked the gun hard into the side of his head. He collapsed in a heap.

I grabbed my cell phone and called the station. When Wilma answered, I hurriedly explained what had just gone down. I asked for backup and an ambulance.

Hoping that none of my bones had been broken, I weakly managed to flip the second assailant onto his stomach. I cuffed his hands behind him and secured his legs with the plastic tie I had on my kit belt.

I stepped over to the man I had shot. Blood from his wounded hip was seeping through his pants and pooling on the ground beneath him. He had lost consciousness. I speculated as to whether or not he would survive.

When I heard the second assailant moaning, I padded over to him, knelt beside him and searched his pockets, where I found a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard 380 semi-automatic pistol, which I removed and tossed aside. Then I lifted his wallet.

In the wallet I found a few hundred dollars in cash, a Master Card and an International driver’s license, both issued in the name Vlad Smernik. His home was St. Petersburg, Russia. Still on his stomach, the man lifted his head and glared at me.

“Russian?” I inquired.

“Yes.”

“What’s this about?”

“We were sent to deliver a message. Rough you up a little. Scare you.”

“Boris Petrov?”

He ignored my question and pointed to his downed associate. “You killed Misha?”

“Too soon to tell.”

I heard sirens screaming in the distance. “Petrov?”

He nodded.

“Figures. Why is it you don’t sound Russian?”

He struggled to get a better glimpse of me. “I was taught English by an American. When I was little. My grandmother.”

“Your grandmother was an American?”

“Met and married my grandfather after the war.”

“In Russia?”

“That’s where she was stationed.”

“Military?”

He nodded.

“And?”

“She renounced.”

“Because?”

“My grandfather was a Communist.”

“Sounds like a movie title.”

“Do you actually give a shit?”

“Not really.”

He was youthful-looking, stocky and muscular, dark-haired and brown-eyed. “I’m guessing this won’t be ending well for me.”

“Good guess.”

“Jail?”

“More likely extradition.”

He hung his head. Then he looked up at me. “You’re some kind of big cheese around here, right?”

“And if I was?”

“Would you go easy on me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you never know when inside information might be of use.”

“What inside information?”

“I’m part of the Petrov security team.”

“So?”

“I might have information that would be of interest to you.”

“Regarding Petrov?”

“His ventures are very widespread and not always on the up and up. Things with him aren’t as they appear.”

“Meaning?”

“Think about my offer, Mr. Cheese. I could well become your new best friend.”

A pair of squad cars and an ambulance arrived on the scene with sirens blaring. Four officers poured out of the two cars, one of whom was Johnny Kennerly.

I explained what happened. He looked at the downed men, then back at me.

“You all right?”

“Shaken up a bit. My shoulder doesn’t feel so great.”

We watched as the paramedics placed the wounded man onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. One of them gave me a thumbs-up, then got behind the wheel of the ambulance and raced off.

Johnny looked back at me. “Who are these guys?”

“Russians. Sent to deliver a message from Boris Petrov.”

“What message?”

“Likely how my life would last longer if I tended to my own business.”

“That was the message?”

“According to Vlad Smernik, it was.”

“Who’s Vlad Smernik?”

“That guy over there.”

“So, now what?”

“The stakes have been raised.”

“Raised how?”

“I think it may be time to wreak more discomfort onto our Mr. Petrov.”

“If you can find him. Seems to keep himself well hidden.”

“I’ll find him. If I have to look under every rock on his estate, I’ll find him.”