Boston—around the same time
Jenkins had no intention of giving up the case. If anything, the fact that the CIA had reached out to pressure him made him all the more determined.
But he had to be careful now, more careful than he’d been. Putting Mr. Massina off was the first step. Staking out Tolevi’s home was the second.
The three men who came down the stairs looked a little too polished for mob types, at least not of the Russian variety. The shorter guy might be; he was older, casually dressed, and while he didn’t look particularly Russian, he had the swagger Jenkins associated with a street hood.
The other two, though. They might be bodyguard or enforcer types, except for their ties. In Jenkins’s experience, Russian mobsters never wore ties, except in court. They preferred open collars beneath their suits.
He took all their pictures anyway.
With no backup, he wasn’t in a position to follow them, but he did want to at least get a license plate. He slipped his car into gear and waited for them to get almost to the end of the block before he pulled out.
They turned the corner. Jenkins accelerated, not wanting to lose them. As he came around the corner, a white panel truck cut into his lane. Jenkins hit the brakes so hard the car veered to the right, just missing a Volkswagen parked near the corner.
“Son of a bitch,” he shouted.
He laid on the horn, cursing. Then another car hit him from behind, pushing his vehicle into the VW. Jenkins pounded the steering wheel and went to grab the door handle.
Instead he found himself being lifted through the already open door. Before he could react, he was thrown against the hood of his car. His jacket and arms were pulled behind him, and his gun holster twisted back. As two men, each much larger than himself, pinned him against the car, another removed his wallet and his pistol.
“Let him go.”
Jenkins shook himself free as he was let up off the car. He turned and saw the man with the white hair who’d come out of the apartment holding his wallet and service pistol. He was grinning.
“Special Agent in Charge, huh?” The man flipped the wallet to him but held on to the gun. “You have to be more alert in Boston, even down here.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Just some friendly advice.” The man flicked the magazine latch on the pistol, dropping the box to the ground. Then he cleared the chamber, making sure the weapon was empty. “The streets can be pretty mean. I know you have a pistol on your leg,” he added. “Reaching for it wouldn’t be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”
“I’m going to nail you,” said Jenkins.
The man laughed. “You don’t even know who I am. Let me give you another piece of advice—don’t poke your nose into places where it doesn’t belong. The next person who sees it may not be as considerate as I am.”
He tossed the gun into Jenkins’s chest so quickly that the FBI agent didn’t have time to grab it; it bounced through his hands and fell to the ground.
“I’d get the car fixed if I were you,” added the man as he started away. “Boston police love to give out tickets for broken taillights.”