In a room entirely lit by the glow of multiple video screens, a man sat with a cigarette between his lips. He was paying attention… and he wasn’t. Everyone had to take a turn at this gig, and it was far and away everyone’s least favorite, unless you were hungover from drinking too much vodka and exhausted from banging prostitutes.
The man’s muscles were taut beneath a tight-fitting black T-shirt, and tattoos covered his arms, crawling up his neck like newly born snakes. He had a pockmarked face and a missing tooth.
The screen showed a live feed of Richard Webb's home office. The image was crisp despite the minuscule size of the hidden camera they’d place in the room.
The man watching the screen, whose name was Zoran, had been watching a huge bastard talk with Amelia Webb, and then poke around the office. He didn’t seem to find anything, but his presence alone was what bothered Zoran.
He leaned in closer and seemed to tense up and then, at just the right moment, he tapped a button on the keyboard and a still frame was captured of the big dude’s face almost looking directly into the camera. The image froze on the screen, sharp and clear and Zoran hit another button, triggering the printer.
After downloading the image, he uploaded it to another program and hit send. This done, Zoran leaned back and studied the other monitors. They were of various businesses owned by his boss and something was always going on somewhere.
The hum of the computer and the subtle buzz of the monitors were the only sounds in the room, a soft drone that seemed to echo off the walls. He cracked the door to the room to let out some of the smoke and behind him, he heard the computer beep, indicating the search had concluded.
The man read the slim information that filled the screen next to the name August High. Weird fucking name, Zoran thought. The only other information listed was the term private security.
Time to pass the news along, always a bit of a dicey proposition. Zoran left the room and walked down the long hallway, getting glimpses of the Detroit River and just beyond, Windsor, Canada. The whole floor of the building, a brand-new elegant high-rise perched right on the banks of the Detroit River, was owned by one man. That man occupied the space at the end of the hall, which took up considerable square footage.
Zoran went to the door which he knew was reinforced with steel and twin silent deadbolts, entered a series of numbers into the keypad beside it, and a panel slid open to reveal a retinal scanner. He leaned in, letting the machine read his eye. A green light blinked, and the door unlocked with a soft click. He pushed it open and stepped into an entirely different world.
It was a long narrow foyer, essentially, with floor-to-ceiling windows dominating the view. The air here was cooler and carried a scent of eucalyptus. Zoran approached another door, this one with a biometric pad beside it. He placed his palm flat against the pad, waiting for the light to change from red to green. When it did, he entered a second code into the keypad above it. The door gave a low hum of approval before swinging open.
He stepped into the lap of luxury. Opulence, even. The wide bulletproof windows framed a panoramic view of the river, the water glistening like a sheet of verdant green glass beneath the pale sun. There were various doorways and hallways, but Zoran knew where to go. His boss’s main office was always occupied by the man himself.
Zoran gently knocked and heard the call to enter.
He opened the door and found his boss at his large table that functioned as a desk. On a plate in front of him were some of the most beautiful shrimp tails Zoran had ever seen. Large, plumb and as white as the fallen snow.
Drago Bulatov stuffed one into his mouth, took a sip from a glass of white wine and leaned back.
“What.” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.
The furnishings were all high-end, sleek leather chairs, a large mahogany table, and original oil paintings.
No matter how often he was in Drago’s presence, Zoran was surprised at just how large his boss truly was. Drago was dressed in a dark tailored suit, but the fabric stretched tight against his massive frame, as if it were fighting to contain him. His face was hard, scarred and devoid of emotion.
“The Webb woman hired a man named August High. He is listed as being “private security. But on the video, it sure looked like he was investigating.”
Drago leaned forward, plucked another shrimp from the pile and tossed it into his bucket-sized mouth. He chewed then wiped his mouth with a napkin, leaving a smear of red cocktail sauce in the corner. He turned back to the window, his gaze traveling across the river, following its path up to where the Ambassador Bridge stretched toward the other side.
He set the napkin down, rose from his chair, and walked over to the window. He stood beside a huge sniper rifle mounted on a tripod, a long, sleek piece of equipment aimed directly at the bridge. He leaned down, peering through the scope, adjusting the focus slightly. His massive hands moved with surprising delicacy as he calibrated the sight.
Zoran waited in silence, his eyes fixed on the boss’s back. He knew his place, knew not to speak again until spoken to. After a long moment, his eye still glued to the rifle’s scope, Drago finally spoke.
“She’s not as stupid as everyone thinks.”
Zoran assumed he was talking about Amelia Webb, but kept his mouth shut.
“Put Vanko and Miro on it. Tell them to follow this asshole. No contact unless absolutely necessary. Just watch. I want to know where he goes, who he talks to.”
“Understood,” Zoran said. He hesitated, wanting to make sure he’d been silently dismissed.
He had.
After his employee left, Zoran put a thick finger on the trigger and watched as a minivan with a woman behind the wheel and a young girl, probably her daughter in the passenger seat, drove onto the bridge, headed toward Detroit.
Zoran tracked them, thinking how nice it would feel for the huge rifle to kick into his shoulder, feel the bullet burn with high velocity and watch the vehicle’s windshield explode, covered with blood and guts and brain.
He smiled.
People had no idea how close they were to death.
Until it arrived, often in the form of Drago Bulatov.
Also known as “The Bull.”