Chapter Forty-One

The police station was cold—so cold that Jabba’s feet ached as they hadn’t since he’d been a very small boy in Moscow. The fucking townspeople had blown up the small electrical generator in the parking lot. Smoke still trailed sluggishly from the remains of the shed.

He’d lost his hostages. Lost one of his SUVs to the lake’s ice. Nearly lost Sasha in the water of the lake.

And he still didn’t have his diamonds.

“I do not understand why I cannot go shoot up this fucking town,” Jabba said, peering through the window to the darkened street below. Nothing moved. Maybe all the townspeople had frozen to death.

“You know,” Sasha said. “We wait for the last SUV. Without it we cannot escape.”

Jabba jerked his chin at him. “You think I was stupid to send Rocky to find that policeman’s house. The policeman who is in charge.”

He had ordered Rocky out before the police station had been attacked. Because Rocky had been out, they’d been short of manpower. When the fucking dog sleds had shown up and then a sniper appeared on the roof opposite, Jabba had taken Sasha and two other men outside and split up to find that sniper.

Instead he’d lost two men outside, four inside, and the fucking SUV when it’d gone through the ice. If Sasha hadn’t pulled himself and Nicky out of the SUV, Jabba would have been entirely alone in the police station.

“It is not my job to think, Boss.” Sasha said flatly. “But we’re running out of time. By now the FBI will be alerted and will be looking for us. We need to leave the country.”

He looked at Sasha. Sometimes Jabba wondered if he should kill him. Sasha was the only one who did not fear him, and Jabba thought this was not good.

On the other hand, Sasha was very useful.

“Truck,” barked Nicky. He was looking out the back window. “Ours.”

“Rocky?” Sasha asked.

“Rocky and Ivan,” Nicky said. “And they have another with them.”

Jabba looked at the door as they heard the footsteps on the stairs.

Sasha rose, his gun pointed at the door. He gestured to the remaining two men to do the same.

Rocky opened the door, his expression cautious.

Behind him was George Rapava.

Jabba cocked his head. “Have you come to visit me, my old friend George?”

George Rapava was a mafiya of old—those who showed fear did not last long in the gulag. He sauntered in, his back a little bent, his hands clasped before him like an old man. He was an old man—over seventy, most likely—yet he was dangerous as well. None of the old mafiya, the ones from Mother Russia, were entirely safe, even in old age.

Old George smiled, a thin smile such as a snake would give, and said, “I have come at the invitation of your men, Jabba.”

Jabba stretched wide his arms. “My house is yours, I assure you, dear George. I hope you do not mind, it is perhaps rather cold because your friends have destroyed the power.”

George shrugged. “I have survived Siberia. This? This is nothing. Although”—he glanced about—“there are far less of your men here than I was led to believe.”

For a moment Jabba felt the rage rise within him, firing his blood, boiling the thoughts from his brain.

And then he was controlled again. Serene and complacent. He looked at the black suitcase one of his men carried. “Have you brought me a present?”

“For you? Naturally,” George rumbled.

“There’s a bomb inside,” Rocky said.

“You brought a bomb to us?” Sasha snarled. His gun, which had never lowered, swung to point at Rocky’s face.

George Rapava chuckled.

Jabba felt his lip curl as he strode forward and took the suitcase from his man’s hand. He laid it on one of the policemen’s desks.

“Boss,” Sasha warned. “He was known for his explosives in Russia.”

Jabba looked and saw the pathetic piece of tape closing the zipper, the childish warning: BOMB. DO NOT OPEN.

In one motion Jabba unzipped the suitcase and flung open the lid.

Rocky and those behind him jerked away, their arms raised as if to shield their faces. Sasha stood his ground, but flinched.

Only George and Jabba did not move.

Inside the suitcase were a few old magazines, some towels, nothing else.

“A foolish trick,” Jabba said contemptuously, shoving the suitcase off the desk. It fell to the floor, spilling its contents. “Perhaps you have grown weak in your old age, George my dear friend, to think this would deceive me?”

Old George shrugged, his smile never wavering. “I thought it would make you laugh only.”

“Yes? This is so?” Jabba perched on the corner of the desk. “But if you seek to amuse me, this is easy enough to do.”

George’s smile faded.

“Very easy,” Jabba continued, taking a knife from his pocket. He flicked it open with his thumb, the razor-sharp blade gleaming dully. “You will tell me where Ilya the thief is, where my diamonds are, and you will do this very quickly.”

“Ah.” George shook his head in sorrow, smiling wryly. “And yet I am afraid I must disappoint you, my friend Jabba, because I can do neither.”

Jabba had been expecting this answer and his smile answered George’s as he said softly, “Then I will have to find my amusement another way, eh?”