Pashkov had learned a valuable lesson from Tommy Bracco’s midnight intrusion into his home. He’d learned that Sal Perrino had written a book about his Chechen crew which gave up some of their tendencies. These tendencies became habits that could be traced back to their homeland and help determine future activities. It was this exact type of behavior which Pashkov was now using to exact revenge on the Bracco family and their meddling tendencies. After some investigative work, he’d discovered that Cara Perrino was a marathon runner who’d entered into races almost monthly. This allowed Pashkov to anticipate that Miss Perrino would not be cooped up too long in her mother’s house without going for a run. Marathon runners don’t go three straight days without running. It was an entirely predictable trend.
That’s why he was inside an orange panel truck spying on the Perrino household at seven in the morning from a half mile away. Pashkov sat in the passenger seat of an Express Pest Control van, one of many companies Khasi Zelman owned. Sergei was in the driver’s seat eating sunflower seeds and spitting them into a paper cup with a pair of binoculars around his neck. Sergei was one of the brighter crew members and one that Pashkov actually felt he could trust.
“Let’s talk,” Pashkov said to Sergei, taking the binoculars and handing them to Madril in the back seat. “We’ll be right back. Keep watch.”
Pashkov climbed out and walked behind the van with Sergei trailing him from the driver’s side. Once behind the van, Pashkov held out his hand and Sergei dropped a few sunflower seeds into it.
“You understand what we’re doing here, right?” Pashkov asked, popping a few seeds in his mouth.
“Of course.”
Pashkov shook his head. “No, let me explain myself. We are going to take the Perrino girl because she is our way out.” He glanced at the back of the van, then walked farther away and motioned for Sergei to follow him. Once they were a safe distance away, Pashkov added, “We both know the financial stress our boss in under, correct?”
Sergei nodded.
“And I think you already know that if the Feds don’t get him, the Italians will.”
Sergei seemed wary about the direction of the conversation and that made Pashkov even more certain he’d made the right choice. The guy wasn’t stupid.
“The girl is our ticket to freedom,” Pashkov said. “I cannot do this alone. I already have an exit plan worked out. We will go undetected. Just us two. Now do you understand?”
Sergei was pondering the question, trying to decide his best chance of surviving the upcoming war.
“Listen,” Pashkov said. “I already have an offer for two million dollars from the Bracco guy.”
“Which one?”
“The mobster. Tommy. But he speaks for both of them. I will give you three hundred thousand dollars to be loyal to me and follow my instructions. That’s what you would make in five years working for our current boss. However, we cannot afford this offer to go any farther than the two of us.”
“They will give you two million dollars?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you give them?”
Pashkov frowned. “I thought you had this figured out. We give him the girl.”
“Oh,” Sergei said with a distant look. Then he looked at the back of the van. “What about Madril?”
Pashkov shrugged. “When the time comes, we will go our separate ways.”
Sergei looked uncertain, holding up his index finger and thumb to emulate a gun.
“No, no,” Pashkov said, covering up the imaginary gun. “He is Chechen. We do not kill our own. We will simply split up.”
This seemed to ease Sergei’s mind. Pashkov’s infidelity had its limitations. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me about the girl.”
“She is Sal Perrino’s daughter, but more importantly, she is Tommy Bracco’s girlfriend. We get her and use her as bait to clear our path to freedom.”
“And Zelman?”
“He does not suspect a thing. As soon as we have the money, we leave the country. The Mexican border is just a couple of hours away. I have given this great thought and this is our best chance to prosper from this event. It was Zelman who ordered the Perrino murders. He is a hothead and acted compulsively, which got us into this mess. We must now do what is best for us. He is certainly not going to create a way out.”
Sergei listened intently. With the missing payroll, Zelman could not afford to buy loyalty and it gave Pashkov confidence that his offer was too good to pass over.
“Okay,” Sergei said. “I will do it.”
“Good,” Pashkov said, then grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. “Of course, you understand that if you mention this to anyone I will have to kill you.”
“Of course,” Sergei said. “I would expect nothing less.”
Pashkov’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He gestured for Sergei to return to the van, then put the phone to his ear and used his enforcer voice. “What is it?”
“Mr. Z wants you to take out the trash,” came Ropa’s voice.”
“What? Who?”
“I will text you the information from the burner.”
“No, wait,” Pashkov was right on the edge of divorcing himself from anything Zelman wanted. He needed to stop putting himself into dangerous situations. “When?”
“Now.”
“Now?” Pashkov said. “I cannot do it right away. First thing tomorrow.”
“No,” Ropa’s voice was deep and intentionally harsh. “You will take care of it right now. This is not a request.”
“Mudak ,” Pashkov cursed in Chechen. “What is with all of the attitude? When have I not performed my tasks on time?”
“Put the trash out in the desert,” Ropa said.
“Okay,” Pashkov said, because that was the only response available to him.
When he hung up, he stood there putting the puzzle pieces together in his mind. He had to leave by tonight, there was no more time. He could not put it off any longer and survive.
Pashkov got back into the van and watched the two Chechens stare at him.
“Well?” Pashkov asked.
“Nothing yet,” Sergei answered.
“All right,” Pashkov said, glancing down at the new text message from Ropa on his phone.