We hang up and I don’t even get to process the weirdness of what just happened because Maksim bursts into my office again, just like the other night, and I know from the look on his face that trouble has come knocking at the door.
“Aiden, we just found one of Jude’s men on site. He tried to get information from one of the workers and killed five others. We kept him alive for questioning.”
I was right.
I was waiting for this. And I’m ready.
“Is it just one?” I ask.
“Yeah, one we got,” he answers with emphasis on the word got.
“There wouldn’t be just one lone fucker.”
“I know cousin. If there were more, they got away before we could get to them. I sent some of the men to check the place out.”
“Good, when we’re done, I want you out there with them.”
“Got it.”
I follow Maksim out the door and we head over to the warehouse where we keep the shipping containers.
Sure enough, there is Ilya across from us with six of my men surrounding a motherfucker on the floor. My men all have their guns trained on the guy and I’m not surprised when the overhead light beaming down on him picks up the bloodied mess he is.
My men have been trained to take down everyone and this guy is lucky to get a few extra moments of life.
When he sees me, he looks daunted.
“What have we got here Ilya?” I ask.
“Robert Oenochoe,” Ilya answers waving an ID badge.
I look at the guy on the ground. He’s not like the guards who we found in Olivia’s room at the hotel. They had no ID.
“And what is Robert Oenochoe, doing at Romanov Logistics? I heard you killed some of my men.” I look at Robert and aim my gun at him.
“He was just about to tell us.”
“I will tell you nothing,” Robert snaps back. “You’re all fucking dead if you have what my boss wants.”
I don’t have time for shit, and it seems he wasn’t fazed by whatever injuries my men have given him.
That’s fine, I can take it up a notch and show him who he’s messing with.
With one flick I fire a bullet into his outstretched leg and his cry of agony rips from his throat.
He stares back at me like I’ve lost my mind and I can bet he didn’t expect that. Probably thought we were going to play nice to get him to talk.
He’s Russian from the name but his accent is pure American, he must not be used to the Bratva.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Fuck you.”
“Wrong answer.”
Click. Bang. Click. Bang.
Two more bullets leave my gun and wedge in his other leg. The motherfucker starts crying now. when I crouch down and hold the gun at his head, I can see he’s lost the fight.