Khasi Zelman had Ropa drive him home, thinking about the FBI from the backseat of his BMW 7-Series sedan and wondering just how much they knew. The big guy drove down the residential neighborhood with his seat pushed all the way back while gripping the steering wheel with sausage-sized fingers.
Each house blended into one other, a long stretch of shrubs and shaped trees lining the winding road up to Zelman’s 10,000 square foot manor. As they approached his home, the gray Range Rover parked in the driveway temporarily pushed away the FBI thoughts. Instead, his thoughts became even darker at the sight of his wife and two children, hand in hand, walking down the manicured pathway to the Range Rover. His wife was pulling a suitcase behind her.
“Stop here,” Zelman ordered.
Ropa parked in front of the house and Zelman jumped out, charging toward his wife, who shooed her children to get into the car.
“What are you doing?” Zelman barked.
His wife, Jade, stood her ground, waiting for him on the tiled pathway.
“I think you know.”
He glanced at the Range Rover and saw his brother-in-law sitting behind the wheel, directing Zelman’s children to sit in the back. His blood pressure swelled to new heights.
“Where are you taking my children?”
“To my parents’ house in San Diego. You can visit whenever you want.”
Zelman stood in her way, his pudgy body taking up the entire path. Jade used his girth the prevent her kids from seeing what she was pulling out of her purse. At first Zelman thought it was a toy gun, then quickly realized it was a Taser.
“Where did you get that?” Zelman said.
Jade slipped it back into her purse, but kept her hand on the device. “The FBI came to the house this morning. They told me all about your involvement with Perrino family murders.”
Zelman’s heart pounded, while his hands clenched, then unclenched, like a boxer ready to attack. He stepped toward her and pointed his index finger. “You cannot leave.”
“That’s not exactly a denial.”
“It is a bunch of crap. Those agents have nothing. Not a shred of evidence.” He swiveled his head to see his twelve-year-old son staring at him through the closed window in the back seat. Zelman turned back and lowered his voice. “Do not do this.”
Jade took her hand off the Taser and placed them on her hips. “Do you know what I do here? I exist. You go around and play golf and stay out all night playing poker or drinking in one of your bars, while I read bedtime stories to the kids, then sit on the couch and drink wine. I’m not your wife, I’m a housekeeper. You can pay someone to do what I do. You don’t need me.”
Zelman sighed at the accurate description. “Come on, honey, it is not that bad. You have a mansion that backs up to a lake with a boat docked there. You have all the jewelry and clothes you could buy. What’s the matter with you?”
Jade frowned. “Do you know what my mother said to me on my wedding night? She said, he’s Chechen, like saying he’s a doctor or a lawyer. As if marrying a Chechen was going to define the rest of my life.”
“What was that supposed to mean? She’s French, I’m Chechen. So what?”
“It meant, the way you lived, what you were used to, you would do man stuff and I would have to find woman stuff to do by myself. She didn’t know the first thing about you, but she had you pegged even before the reception was over. All those Chechen mobsters sipping vodka at their tables like they were paid to be there.”
“Sounds prejudiced,” he said.
“Well, I’m not going to let that happen,” Jade continued, “I gave up a thriving modeling career to raise two kids, I’m not going to let you take away what’s left of my youth.”
“You want to threaten me because you are bored? Take up tennis. Learn to play golf. Shit, I don’t care, we can do more stuff together.”
She moved around him without resistance, then looked over her shoulder. “Tell Jerry I’m sorry to leave without saying goodbye. He’s a good kid. Maybe the only thing you, or probably your ex, did right.”
Zelman followed her to the car. As she hopped in the front seat, he tapped the back window. His son flinched, like he was about to be hit.
The passenger window slid down, and Jade said, “Some wounds never heal.”
Zelman pursed his lips, wanting to make a scene, but knew this was not the wise thing to do. He stretched out his hand to wave at his two children as the Range Rover pulled away.
Then he considered how to get revenge on the FBI agent who was causing him so much anguish. He took out his phone and pushed a button. When Malkin Umarov answered, Zelman said, “Have you delivered the message?”
“I have.”
“Well, that has not achieved it’s desired effect,” Zelman said, strangling his cell phone. “Please finish your assignment. And do not leave Payson until you have accomplished your goal.”
“Not to worry.”
* * *
Jackie Perrino sat in the passenger seat of the white Lincoln Navigator, cocking his shotgun and loading rounds with intensity. They were parked across the street from the airport, close enough to see Hangar 49, but far enough to be unnoticed. Four of them, all related to Sal and all equipped to retaliate.
“Shouldn’t we call Nick—”
“Fuck Nick,” Jackie said, vigorously pumping the action until all the rounds were loaded. “We go in and take down as many of these assholes as possible.”
“Sure,” Renzo said, “but how do we know we got the guy who killed Sal?”
Jackie looked at Renzo in the back seat with his loaded pistol in his lap. “We kill all of them,” he said. “That’ll solve your problem.”
Renzo looked at Eddie in the driver’s seat.
“Maybe,” Eddie said, “we should at least call more of our guys for backup.”
Jackie was shaking his head before the guy could finish. “No, we don’t want Sal’s funeral reception to be lacking. It’s disrespectful.”
“Well, I’m not sure that Sal would approve of us all getting killed ether,” Renzo said.
Jackie stopped. He eyed each guy in the car, then said, “What’s the matter? You getting a little soft now that the war has begun?”
“It’s not that,” Eddie said. “It’s just that . . .”
“What?” Jackie sneered at them, gripping the shotgun like he was about to use it right there. “What?”
Jackie had convinced the crew to drive to the airport to surveil the Chechen’s hideout without mentioning his true intent.
“Jackie,” Nico said from the back seat, “how do we overpower someone in their own Batcave with fucking surveillance cameras everywhere?”
“You want the easy answer?” Jackie said, jumping down from the Navigator and charging in front of the car until he reached the driver’s side door and yanked it open. “Get out,” Jackie snapped.
Eddie was confused. “What?”
“Get out of the damn car!” Jackie shouted.
Eddie looked over his shoulder at the Renzo and Nico in the back seat. They both shook their heads and frowned.
Finally, Eddie hopped out of the vehicle and Jackie climbed in and threw the shotgun onto the passenger floorboard. He looked into the rearview mirror and said, “Anyone who wants out, go now. I’m not waiting around for you pussies to decide how many gonads you still have.”
Eddie had seen this behavior from Jackie before, but now he was dragging the entire crew into a death match.
“Hold on,” Eddie said, reluctantly, then ran over to the passenger side and jumped in and slammed the door shut.
Before he could even reach for a seat belt, Jackie put it in gear shoved his right foot on the accelerator, forcing everyone back into their seat, heads banging against the headrests. He raced across the parking lot, then flew around the last parked car so fast, he brought the Navigator up on two wheels.
“What the fu—”
Jackie propelled across the airport side street and jumped the cement slope toward the private entrance as an older gentleman watched from inside the security booth with anxiety plastered on his face.
Jackie never removed his foot from the accelerator as they smashed through the lowered arm barrier like it was balsa wood. Eddie instinctively pulled his pistol from his pocket and prepared for the impending firefight.
Jackie skidded the Navigator sideways until it faced the garage of Hangar 49, then, keeping his foot on the accelerator, he aimed the 5,000-pound vehicle directly at the closed door with his arms fully extended on the steering wheel.
That’s when the massive garage door began rolling up. It must’ve taken Jackie by surprise because he slammed on the brakes until the Navigator skidded to a stop twenty feet in front of the hangar.
As the garage door completely opened, a dozen men stood with assault rifles held across their chests. They wore jeans and camouflage gear with looks of challenge on their faces. Standing in the middle of the soldiers with nothing but his hands on his hips was a bearded guy wearing a gray suit and a smug grin.
Jackie stared.
Eddie’s heart banged in his chest while they waited for Jackie to make his move.
The engine idled. A cloud eclipsed the sun and dulled the sky.
Jackie jammed his foot on the accelerator and the tires spewed loose bits of asphalt behind them.
The Chechens swung the rifles into firing position.
Eddie crouched, waiting for the bullets to hit.
Jackie quickly spun the steering wheel to the left. Hard.
The Navigator skidded sideways and spit tiny bits of rock and debris onto the soldiers.
As they steered away from the hangar, the Chechens held their rifles in the crook of their shoulders, with their eyes looking down the barrels.
Eddie remained crouched, every muscle in his body clenched, ready for the pain. But the bearded guy held up his hand and the soldiers eased the rifles from their shoulders.
Eddie’s head throbbed with anxiety until they flew past the old guy ducking in the booth then out the exit and rolling up on two wheels before settling into the empty side street. They drove in silence while Eddie finally breathed. The all stared out the back window at the Chechen crew in the distance as the sun sideswiped a drifting cloud and brightened the sky over them.
Eddie slumped in his seat. “There’s gotta be better way.”