54

They came during the afternoon, only not the way O’Leary thought they would. Instead of Russian mobsters, the first assault was from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in the form of the Health Inspector, who went through the Claddagh as if he were looking for the missing key to his girlfriend’s chastity belt. O’Leary leered at him when he resentfully gave him a pass on the inspection. Once he was out the door, Winter said, “I suppose we better start carding everyone we serve.”

“Yeah, I imagine the Alcoholic Beverage Control will be in here next.”

“You know, boss, they’ll keep hounding you until you die.”

“Or until I do something about it.”

_________________

O’Leary entered the warehouse by the side door and slowly walked toward the corner, where his men had erected small cubicles with crates as walls and drapes for doors. One of the compartments had the curtain pushed to one side, and he looked inside. The room was furnished with a single bed, a dresser with mirror, a small nightstand with lamp, and a chair. He was impressed with how ingenious and versatile his men had turned out to be. They had even found ways to provide electricity to each of the rooms and had used a mixture of tarps and canvas to enclose the ceilings, giving the women total privacy.

He turned his attention upward, scanning the catwalks that crisscrossed the ceiling, and nodded with satisfaction. He saw several of his men strategically located along the metal walkways and knew that, even though he was not visible, Chaney was up there, camouflaged and on guard. He turned down a makeshift corridor, and the center of the complex opened into a large common area with tables, couches, and everything that was required for a rudimentary degree of comfort.

Tasha sat in an easy chair that she had placed strategically beneath a skylight; he thought she looked angelic sitting in the shaft of sunlight. She looked up from her book, smiled, and stood when she saw him. As O’Leary closed with her, she placed the book on the table and greeted him. “How are you, Jimmy?”

“Just fine. What are you reading?” he asked.

She picked up the thick volume, showed him the cover, and said, “Doctor Zhivago.”

He took the heavy book from her and glanced at the cover. The words all seemed alien; while he recognized a few letters, most made him wonder if the author suffered from dyslexia.

“It’s in Cyrillic,” Tasha said. “Russian.”

“I wondered what language that was. I never read it,” he said. “But the movie was pretty good.”

“The Soviets would not allow it in Russia, Pasternak had to . . .” She seemed to struggle to think of the correct English words, “. . . smuggle the manuscript into Italy for it to be printed.”

O’Leary looked at her with a newfound interest. There was obviously a lot more to this woman that he had thought. “You know a lot about it.”

“Before all this,” she said, “I was student of literature at university.”

O’Leary led her to one of the couches and motioned for her to sit. Once they had settled, he turned to her with a solemn look. “Tasha, I need you to take charge of the women.”

She gave him a questioning look. “Take charge . . . what means take charge?”

“I need you to be a . . .” He, too, fumbled for the correct word, “. . . their commissar.”

Her brows arched, and she said, “Commissar is a military position of communists.”

O’Leary thought for a minute and then recalled a title he had heard used when one of Carl Konovalov’s men had addressed him. “I need you to be pakhan6 . . . a boss.”

“You mean like a brigadier?”

O’Leary had heard of brigadiers. They were the Russian mob’s equivalent to the Italian mob’s Capo régime. “Yes, a brigadier. There is a chance that Carl Konovalov will be coming for you.”

O’Leary immediately sensed her fear and tried to overcome it. “You don’t have to worry. I have more than enough men here to protect you.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“If and when things get crazy, you need to gather all of the women and get them to someplace out of the line of fire. I’ll have my guys look into building some sort of shelter where you can get out of danger.” He hoped she did not realize that there would most likely be no place where they were truly out of danger. He stood up and looked down at her. She had raised her face, and her brown eyes seemed wide with trust. He touched her cheek and said, “It’s going to be okay, Tasha, we’ll keep you safe.”

“I know, but who will keep you safe?”

O’Leary smiled, exuding a confidence he was not sure of, and kissed her on the forehead. “Gordon and Burt Chaney are all the safety net I need.”

O’Leary left the small community and stopped in the center of the warehouse’s open area. He took out his cell phone and punched in a number. While he waited for the phone to be answered, he scanned the catwalks. Chaney stepped out of a secluded corner holding his phone to his ear and waved to him. “Meet me outside,” O’Leary said.

In less than five minutes, Chaney walked out into the sunlight and blinked as his eyes adjusted from the dim interior of the warehouse. “What’s up?” he asked.

“It’s time to hit Carl Konovalov is what’s up.”

“Won’t be easy . . . he’ll have an entourage with him.”

“Just do what you do best, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Okay, where do I start looking?”

“He owns a club on Comm Ave, not far from Harvard Street. You’ll find him there most nights.”

“Consider it done.”

_________________

Chaney peered through the rangefinder, centering the rear window of the Cadillac in the square box. The number three hundred appeared in the block where the device displayed the distance to the target. He placed the instrument in its case and searched the area between him and the car while looking for flags, pennants, or anything that would give him an indication of wind direction and speed. Not that three hundred yards was that long of a shot—hell, he had scored hits as far out as 650 yards. Usually, under five hundred yards the wind did not become a factor unless it was blowing hard or gusting. He saw a flagpole in front of an official-looking building. The flag barely moved in the soft summer breeze. This shot was going to be routine. He settled in to wait . . . and watch.

_________________

It was two in the morning when Konovalov and his entourage of bodyguards appeared. Thankful that streetlights had made the use of a starlight scope unnecessary, Chaney centered the crosshairs of the scope on the Russian’s chest, then moved the reticule left, scarcely enough for the untrained eye to notice. He inhaled, let his breath out slowly until he had a steady sight picture, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle’s angry bark broke the stillness of the night. The pakhan was dead before his guards heard the rifle’s sharp crack.

Chaney crouched behind the building’s parapet, fully aware that the Russians had no idea where he was. They hunched down, weapons drawn as they looked in every direction, confused and scared, and awaiting the next bullet, which would never come.

Chaney took a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a text message. The message was succinct and to the point. “It’s done. Who’s next?”

 

6 Similar to a Godfather in the Italian mob.