Pashkov pulled into the covered parking at the safe house, which was really just a first-floor apartment with a back entrance, away from the road. Something that Zelman had used to sleep with women other than his wife, back when he had the stamina to bed more than one. Now it mostly remained vacant. It was leased under an alias and was prepaid so there was no way to trace this back to any Chechens.
Pashkov took the pharmacy bag of medical supplies and knocked on the door once before the blinds moved aside. Sergei let him in, holding a Glock by his side.
Sergei and Madril returned to their stools at the island bar eating Subway sandwiches. The girl lay sideways on the couch in shorts and a sports bra. Her legs were stretched out and her head back, still sedated from the botulinum toxin. The place was small but clean. The bare walls and empty tables had an antiseptic feel. It looked like a model apartment on display, waiting for clients to assess before they rented.
Pashkov went to the couch, dropped the bag on the floor and looked down at Cara. She was long and trim, and her legs were sculpted from years of running. He sat beside her and pulled the white cloth from the wound to see the damage. Red and white chunks of flesh clung to her frame, while dried blood streaked down to her knees.
“Get me some hot water and a fresh washcloth,” Pashkov ordered.
Cara was squirming now, but not ready to come alive just yet. Pashkov had to admit the Italian girl was attractive, but he needed to be smart. He needed her to offer as little resistance as possible.
Sergei placed a pot of hot water and washcloth by Pashkov’s feet. Pashkov knew a little about injuries from his boxing days, but bullet holes were stretching his expertise. As he prepped the girl’s wound, she twitched in his grip. He spent nearly ten minutes cleaning the area, adding antibiotic ointment, then using a sterile gauze to wrap her thigh and tape her bandage tight.
“The bullet went clear through,” Sergei said.
“Thank you for the insight,” Pashkov said, gathering his excess medical supplies and placing them in the bag. “You are lucky you did not hit an artery.”
From the island bar, Madril leered at Cara as he ate. Pashkov dropped the plastic bag on the counter, then pointed at him. “No.”
Madril placed his sandwich on the wrapper spread out on the counter and brushed off his hands.
Pashkov glanced at Cara, who was still motionless. “I have spent hours and hours studying my opponent, learning his strengths and his weaknesses. Do you have any idea how much I have invested into this operation?”
Nothing.
“Smart boys,” Pashkov said, appreciating the fear that hung in the room.
They both stared at him, the hum of a large ceiling fan the only sound.
“So, his weakness,” Pashkov said, pointing to Cara, “is right over there. He will do anything to get her back. Anything. Care to guess his strength?”
Silence. These guys had seen him kill their previous boss right in front of their eyes. Just like his father had told him, you get into a fight, hit the biggest kid first and the rest will run.
“Honesty,” Pashkov explained. “The guy is honest. Too honest. He breaks into my home and tells me about this book that the Perrino boss wrote about us. Giving up details about our history back home. Mr. Zelman and me. The Bracco mobster did not have to tell me that. Why would he? It makes no sense.”
Pashkov slapped Madril on the arm. “Does it?”
The guy shook his head, careful even with that.
“No, it doesn’t,” Pashkov continued. “He tells me about my medical history. Even if he knew all about my health, who bothers telling me? How can that possibly help him? It can’t. That is why I will tell him to meet me alone and not speak with his cousin or anyone and if he says yes, then he will do it. That I am sure of.”
“What if you are wrong?” Sergei had the balls to ask.
Once again Pashkov was glad he had chosen the guy as his lead in the operation. “Should I be wrong, and the authorities try to arrest me and force me set her free, I will give you a text or a call, saying, ‘Release her.’ If you hear those words come out of my mouth, you immediately kill the girl and escape with our Plan B.”
Pashkov examined each comrade eye-to-eye. “You remember Plan B, correct?”
Sergei spoke for both of them, saying, “Yes, of course.”
“Good.” He reached into the plastic bag and removed a bottle of Advil, then placed it on the counter. “When she awakes, give her four of these for the pain.”
“Where are you going?” Sergei asked.
“I need to prepare for the next phase of our operation. There are people turning on us. Chechens who will cooperate with the FBI and point fingers. We need to stay apart from Mr. Z right now. I spoke with him while coming here and he agrees we need to stay underground and remain hidden. Do not communicate with him, they may have our phones bugged. He is afraid more Chechens could follow Malkin’s lead and betray our own kind.”
They nodded, both of them buying into Pashkov’s reasoning, understanding that defection was a death sentence. He reached into the bag and pulled out a cell phone and handed it to Sergei.
“Here’s a new burner,” Pashkov said. “My contact info is already loaded. When I have the money, I will text you. You leave the girl here, tied up, gagged. Once we are out of the country, I will notify Bracco where she is, and he can come get her. They will be watching the airport, but we will leave by car tonight. After my meeting, we will reunite. I have the van taking us through the Mexican border. It is all set.”
Pashkov could feel the excitement rise in his voice as he spoke. They were going to make the border by midnight and fly to Costa Rica in the morning. His plan was built on his ability to read people. The Bracco mobster, his cousin the FBI agent. It was all so predictable. The silent gravedigger who listened to everyone grieve while his calloused hands kept digging the next grave. He knew in his heart that Bracco would not jeopardize the girl’s safety. It was a risk he would never take. And Pashkov was about to exploit that weakness to its fullest.
He examined the expressions from his crew and saw fear, but wanted passion. His passion.
“This has to be exciting to you guys,” Pashkov explained. “If you can’t find the thrill in doing this, then you might as well get a real job and try to pay your rent on minimum wage, huh?”
There were nods of agreement as his words seemed to reach its target.
A noise from the couch. They all stared as Cara stretched her legs and quietly moaned from the pain. Pashkov didn’t care one bit about her, but knew her value. “You do not touch the girl,” he ordered. “She is our ticket out.”