Leverage (27 page)

Greg hopped down from the SUV. “Everyone out,” he ordered.

His men pulled Conner and me from the backseat and pushed us toward the building’s side door. Greg unlocked it and passed through, throwing on a long row of light switches as we followed in after him. Two dozen large industrial pendant lights sprang to life, each shining a harsh spot from twenty-five feet above our heads down onto the concrete warehouse floor.

Greg moved to another circuit box and began flipping even more switches, this time connected to an assortment of electronic and mechanical arcade and carnival-style games. Small lights of various shape and every color of the rainbow lit up around the warehouse, each punctuated by dings, chimes, sirens, and buzzers, all designed to attract fair-goers to play.

Conner and I exchanged confused glances as Greg strolled casually around the space.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” he asked no one in particular. “Each one restored to pristine condition.” He smoothed his hand lovingly over the booths’ glossy surfaces. “I love games,” he said then slid me a withering look when I snickered. “Always have, ever since I was a young lad. Street games, board games, video games. I love them all. But not nearly as much as the arcade. Did your folks ever take you to the Fun Forest at Seattle Center, Mr. Maguire?” he asked without waiting for a reply. “My father brought me there several times. The rides were grand—bumper cars and the carousel, the rollercoaster and log ride, and oh, that giant swinging pirate ship,” he recalled excitedly. “But still, I spent most of my time at the Pavilion, playing skee ball, the baseball pitch, throwing hoops, and shooting metal ducks. Now
those
are games.

“Sadly, the city closed down the Fun Forest and dismantled everything, but I couldn’t let it all go to scrap, so I bought a few and set up my own arcade, much like my father and his sport-fighting, but far less gruesome. Yet…there is a certain relevance between what my father enjoyed in his gladiators and what I do in my games.”

I snorted. “How do you figure that? Your games are harmless, while your father was responsible for countless deaths, all in the name of sport, and for what? To make a few bucks, like he didn’t have enough already? That’s like comparing Forrest Gump to Hannibal Lector.”

Greg’s face twisted with the insult. “You’d think, right? But it’s rather like that old adage about the apple not falling far from the tree. I just exercise more…I don’t know…”

“Intimidation?” I finished.

“Manipulation,” he countered as he moved to the shooting gallery. “My father, bless his soul, was effective, but I have a taste for a bit more finesse, if you will.”

He picked up an old pellet rifle and shot at a series of metal ducks as they tracked from one side of the game booth to the other, missing all but three before he ran out of ammunition. He lowered the weapon and looked on. He refilled the chamber then spun toward me and held out the gun. I raised both hands in refusal. I didn’t trust whatever trick he had up his sleeve. But Greg tipped his chin, and I suddenly felt the barrel of a real gun poke me in the back.

The man behind it pushed me in Greg’s direction. I stole a glance at Conner and saw he had his own goon shoving a gun into his side. I raised my hands as the guard at my back grabbed me by the collar and marched me over to face Greg. He held the pellet rifle out to me again. I eyed him with caution but took the gun.

Greg nodded at the remaining ducks zipping by. “Go ahead. Give it your best shot.”

I stared at him. “Why? What’s the point?”

“You’ll see soon enough. Just go ahead and shoot.”

With a sigh, I raised the gun and shot at the moving targets, missing every single one.

“You have to line up the two sights on the barrel,” Greg interjected.

I huffed impatiently. “I know how to shoot.”

Greg shrugged and said, “Sorry,” then raised his arm, directing me to try again.

I took several more shots, but only hit three out of ten.

He rocked his head from side to side. “Better, but perhaps you need some motivation.”

My blood ran cold. The last time someone said that to me, Alexi had taken Nick and was using him to force me to give up Hannah.

“I don’t need any coercion,” I replied.

So Greg asked me to try again, but my nerves were so frayed, I missed all but two ducks. He shook his head in disappointment. “Obviously, you’re wrong, and I’m going to pose a little experiment to prove it.”

I panicked, convinced Greg was about to use Conner. Dropping the gun, I screamed, “No, wait!” and held up my hands as I rushed toward the boy. But one of Greg’s men stepped in front of me and landed a punch to my jaw. I tumbled to the floor in a heap, stunned. Conner strained against the guard holding him back while I fingered my jaw and shook my head. I crawled to my feet as Greg raised a hand.

“Calm down, everyone, take it down a notch.” He stepped up to me and smacked me along the side of my arm. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt your boy.” He turned and walked away then looked over his shoulder at me, motioning with his head for me to follow. I glanced back over at Conner as one of his thugs pushed me toward Greg.

“Bring the boy, too,” Greg ordered, and Conner was directed toward our host, as well.

Greg sauntered up to a portable table with a laptop sitting in the middle. He flipped it open and hit a few keys then grinned when a video feed popped up on the screen. He turned the device around so the screen faced me straight on. I trained my eyes on him instead, suspicious.

He waved me closer. “Come on, take a look. This will interest you immensely.”

I approached guardedly, nervous of what I was about to see. Greg was a sadist every bit as much as his father. Every move he made was designed to illicit a response, to manipulate, as he’d admitted, and get others to bend to his will. But I closed the distance anyway, my eyes glued to the small screen with no sound. They grew wide when I realized what I was seeing.

My heart slammed into my chest, and a rush of blood surged across every inch of my flesh, each nerve pricked and buzzed with an electrified current. Horrified, I picked up the computer and stared at the video feed.

It was Hannah, lying in a strange bed, her arms curled around her bulging abdomen as she screamed silently and writhed in pain.
Oh my God!
My lungs seemed to instantly deflate, the air slipping out in one loud whoosh.

“Hannah,” I whimpered as tears pooled in my eyes, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t move. I was frozen, fear turning my body to ice, rooting me in place. And yet, I stared. I couldn’t help it. I stared, transfixed, as my wife, the woman I loved more than anything in this world, more than life itself, suffered in excruciating torment.

Beside me, Greg poked his finger into the monitor and mumbled, “Now
that’s
what I call motivation.”

He crossed around to face me, his eyes trained on mine, a slight smirk tugging at his mouth. He slowly closed the laptop and pried it from my hands, both of which trembled, much like the rest of me. And still, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t focus on anything else, just the image of Hannah burned into my mind.

“What’s going on?” Conner asked. “Ty? What did you see?”

Haltingly, I turned my head toward his voice, speechless.

“Tell me what the hell is going on, godammit! What did you see? Was it my mother?”

Greg circled around my immobilized form, amused and smug, his brow high. “I’ve just provided the motivation your steppapa so desperately needs.”

Still in shock, Greg directed me back to the shooting gallery. He picked the rifle up from where I’d dropped it on the floor and pressed it into my hands. I accepted absently and stared at it, then up at Greg.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “What do you want?”

He pointed at the moving chain of ducks. “I want you to shoot.”

I continued to stare. “What?”

Again, he pointed. “The ducks. I want you to knock down every duck as if a life depended on it, because it could, you know, if I want it to, if you don’t cooperate.”

I shook my head. “Why?”

“Because I need to know you can kill again if necessary. I want to know if that long-buried monster still lurks beneath the surface.”

My eyes narrowed. “Get rid of your guard, then I’ll show you how much of the monster remains.”

Greg laughed and clapped me below the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, old boy. I knew I could depend on you. But, unfortunately, one cannot simply throw an untrained mutt into the pit. The beast must be trained to act on command, to destroy when every instinct tells him to run. And to do so, he must first be broken. He must learn that his very survival depends on him acting when ordered, and to fight to the death if his master deems it necessary.”

I gaped at him. “What have you done with my wife? Why was she screaming? Was she in pain? Is the baby okay? Please…tell me they’re okay. Please,
please!
” I held my hand out to him. “You want me? You got it. You can have me. I’ll do whatever you want, but…please, please don’t hurt her. Let her go, and the boy, too,” I begged, glancing over at Conner. “They can’t help you. But I…I can. Okay? We have a deal?” I stretched my hand out farther, mortified it shook so uncontrollably.

Ever amused, Greg smiled and tapped his finger along his lip. Then, with his head bowed and his brow raised, he pointed at me and said, “You know, you owe me, for many things, but mostly for my father. I had a future. No…I had a
destiny
. There was a plan in place. But all that changed the day he was arrested, and you’re responsible. You put him there.”

I shook my head. “Dmitri had my brother killed. You were his man, you must have been there. Surely you saw.”

“This goes way beyond Nick. Or you. This transcends my generation
and
yours. This goes back to your father,” he said as he started wandering around in a loose circle. “I suppose I should be grateful to your old man. After all, if it weren’t for him, my father never would have assumed power. He would have remained my Uncle Mike’s lieutenant, always second-in-command, but never the general. So actually, he did my father a great favor, and me, as well.

“For years—all my life, really—I was groomed to take over as his legacy. I almost blew it once, but I redeemed myself. And that night, the night of your little rampage at my father’s warehouse, he told me everything would be mine. He was running, leaving immediately for the Motherland, back to St. Petersburg, and he was leaving me in charge. I was finally going to get the keys to the kingdom. He was going to instruct everyone—in San Francisco, L.A., Portland, even London—to respect my authority, my command. But he didn’t have the chance, did he? Because you went to the FBI—”

“No,” I interrupted, “you’re wrong. The FBI came after
me
, took me into custody, interrogated me, threatened me—”

“So you handed them my father, and they picked him up, made threats, more arrests, worked his friends against him. They all thought he turned to save his own ass. And that’s all it took. Soon, it was chaos. Everyone fighting, trying to gain control. Heads rolled, backs were stabbed, but I survived, though I had to run back to London where I disappeared underground.

“For a long time, I had nothing. My father’s US accounts were seized, his property sold off at auction. Unable to access his money overseas, he had to borrow just to pay his lawyers’ fees. But do you think any of those leeches back at San Francisco City Hall would lend a hand? After all the favors he did for those cronies of his, they turned their backs on him, every last one of them. But not the Vory. No, the
vory v zakone
was only too willing to help. But their price was the kingdom.

“They wanted my father to expedite the turning over of the keys, his approval and naming of a successor, and that sure as hell wasn’t going to be me. For the chance to escape prison, my father abdicated.” Greg rolled his eyes. “So much for The Thieves’ Code, right?” he said, referring to what the FBI had explained as a twisted code of ethics among the Vory.

“My father honored his side of the bargain, spread the news and made sure the transfer of power went smoothly, all from inside jail, with the help of his new lawyer, of course, the one the Vory sent. But as soon as the deal was complete, the Vory’s lawyer pulled out. My father was assigned a new attorney, compliments of the FBI. And we all know how that turned out.

“My father knew he’d end up in prison, just like his brother, Mikhail, and you were part of the team that was going to put him there. He couldn’t take the pressure, especially knowing every word out of your mouth was a lie.”

I began to object, but Greg slammed his hand against the counter of the shooting gallery.

“You fucking shut your mouth! You started this. You wanted revenge. You wanted Nick free.” Greg pointed at Conner who listened in bewilderment. “You’re responsible for that kid’s mother and the sexual degradation she suffered at Sergeyev’s hands. You’re responsible for Nick’s death, for my Uncle Alexi, for my father, for me, for losing what was supposed to be mine!”

Ashamed and knowing a large part of what he said was true, I pinned my eyes to the floor. I also knew, no matter what I said, it would never appease Greg. He was a man on a mission, using us all—Hannah, Katy, Conner, and me—to get whatever it was he was after. I just needed to find out what that was, so I could do what was needed and get Hannah back.

I raised my eyes and looked Greg in the eye. “What do you want from me? How can I get my wife back? Please, just…just tell me what you want.”

“I told you. I want my kingdom back.”

“
What the fuck does that mean?
What am I supposed to do? How can I possibly help?”

And there it was yet again, that smile, that smug, satisfied grin that told me he had me just where he wanted.

“That’s easy, my friend. You’re going to shoot me some ducks.”

With my mouth open in wonder, I stood there, staring at Greg. He laughed at the expression on my face. Then, turning on his heel, he walked briskly up to an interior door.

“Get the boards,” he ordered with a snap of his fingers. “Bring everything to the conference room.” He pulled the door wide, propping it open with his foot, and paused with his brow raised. “Well, come on then,” he said to me. “We haven’t got all night.”

His man standing closest walked up to me with his chest all puffed out and his arms curled slightly at his sides. I sniggered at both of them and passed through the door only to be met by yet another in Greg’s army of hulks. The man turned his back and directed me to follow, so I did, down a hall flanked with windows and office doors. Greg was at my back and Conner behind him, with the rest of Greg’s men bringing up the rear.

The guard in front stopped near the far end of the hall and opened a glass door into a wood-paneled conference room furnished with a long mahogany table and fourteen rolling, upholstered chairs. Ordered inside, I stopped at the near end of the table and swept my eyes around the room.

It had been prepared for some kind of presentation. Two portable rolling white boards with photos and maps were stationed at the far end, with a large flat-screen monitor mounted on the wall in between. Greg filed in and moved three-quarters of the way down the table where an iPad laid flat against the satiny red finish. He fiddled with the electronic tablet then looked up at the monitor where a cursor crept across the screen. When he was done, he glanced up and spied me, still standing at the head of the table.

He pointed to the chair opposite him. “Sit down over there where I can watch you.”

With my jaw ticking, I took my seat, as commanded.

“Mr. Maguire, please take the seat next to your old man,” Greg directed.

“He’s not my father,” Conner snapped.

“Tomato, tomahto, just sit the fuck down,” Greg ordered again as his man forcibly muscled Conner into his seat.

Then the man took up position behind us, his back to the wall and his tattooed hands clasped in front, at attention and on guard, ready for trouble. Greg’s three remaining goons assumed identical stances, shoulder to shoulder, at the head of the table near the door. That left us with no possible way to escape.

Both Conner’s knees and my own bounced in nervous tension, though I stared angrily at Greg fidgeting with his iPad. When he was done, he sat back in his chair, resting his clasped hands along the table’s edge. He smiled languidly and shifted his focus back and forth between Conner and me, looking like he was enjoying his entitled position and our emotional distress.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” he said and directed our attention to the two white boards at the front of the room.

I’d studied them both when I first entered. On one was a pyramid made up of fifteen photographs, all different men. Scrawled beneath each in red dry erase marker were names, along with what I assumed were titles. Taped on the other board was an enlarged map with bright red Xs marked along the grid of streets. Radiating from there were red spokes leading to separate photos of people, houses, cars, floor plans, and lists of notes and timetables.

I turned back to Greg. “What the fuck is this?”

With a wicked grin, he replied, “These, my good man, are your ducks.”

Words failed me. Even my thoughts were a jumbled mess. I couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. I turned my dumbfounded gaze on Conner. His expression told me he didn’t understand any better than I did. He gnawed along his lower lip. With a hard swallow, I turned to look at Greg.

“What is it you want me to do exactly?” I asked, terrified of his answer, because, no matter what it was, no matter how bad, how heinous, how unlawful or inhuman, I had little choice. Hannah’s life was in the balance. So was Conner’s.

Greg’s obscene grin never faltered. “I’m so glad you asked,” he replied.

A video slide presentation lit up the monitor. I stiffened when a photograph of Dmitri Chernov appeared. Then Greg began to speak.

“My father was
Pakhan
of the
Solntsevskaya Bratva
in San Francisco, what you might call the Godfather. He trusted very few men in his organization.” As Dmitri’s face faded and Alexi Batalov’s appeared, Greg turned his eyes on me. “He chose his half-brother, Alexi, as his
Sovietnik
or Councilor, to rule over and manage all the other Vory. Beneath Alexi was the
Obshchak
, an accountant or bookkeeper.” Another photo appeared, a face I didn’t recognize. “A position your own father held at one time, under Dmitri when his brother, Mikhail, was Godfather in London.”

“The hell you say!” I broke in.

“Sorry, but…it’s true, though we’ll have to discuss that another day. We have a lot to get through.”

I started to object further, but a tattooed hand behind me grazed my shoulder in warning. I had no choice but to relax back into my seat.

“Below the accountant are the
Avtorityet
, or captains,” he continued while several more pictures lined up on the screen. “Each captain is in charge of their own small brigade of
Bratva
, with the responsibility of overseeing operations of a specific area or fief. They are the lowest rank of the ‘made man’, the
vory v zakone
.”

From there, the photos gave way to organized charts showing positions and where they fell within the
Bratva
.

“The captain’s brigade is made up of frontline soldiers called
Boyevik
, who are still Vory, but not yet
vory v zakone
. There are two types of soldiers: the
Kryshas
are enforcers, contract killers who work directly with the captains, and the
Byki
are the bodyguards, like the men in this room.” Suddenly, it made sense why all Greg’s men were so freakishly large. “At the very lowest rank are the
Shestyorka
, recruits in training, all looking for protection.”

I raised my hand to stop Greg, uninterested in his confusing dissection of the Russian Syndicate. “What the bloody hell does any of this have to do with me? I don’t know anyone in the
Bratva
anymore.”

“Well, you are about to,” he answered and stood up. Walking to the white board, he pointed to the pyramid of photographs. “These are a couple of the captains that served under my father, and a few of their soldiers, as well. After Alexi and my father were eliminated, the entire brigade disbanded and spread out over the other brigades in California, with a few going to Chicago, Miami, New York, and even London.

“Eduard Meier, Dmitri’s accountant,” he explained, indicating a dour-faced man who looked to be in his early sixties, “went to Portland and aligned himself with a few select Vory down there, not an easy task, but Meier came from humble beginnings, like many of the Vory, and understands their ambitions. He’s even an expert marksman, someone the men admire and look up to. He later returned to San Francisco with Aleksander Lebedev—a.k.a. The Swan—a very powerful yet unaffiliated man with direct ties to Moscow.” Greg pointed to another picture.

“The Swan brought his own captains, plus his new accountant, Eduard Meier, who brought with him access to the old Vory’s money, stashed away in secret accounts. My
father’s
money,” he emphasized. “Meier made a deal with The Swan. He released the money and backed Lebedev as Godfather in The City, and in exchange, The Swan made Meier Councilor, Lebedev’s right-hand man and closest advisor, what Alexi was to my father.

“Lebedev assigned four captains who’ve pledged loyalty to Meier and now serve him, as do their soldiers. But these positions are normally elected, chosen by the Brotherhood, positions available only to the
vory v zakone
or made-men, and voted on by the general assembly, the entire Vory. But Lebedev took this responsibility, this power, away from them, the very men who would be ruled. This isn’t sitting well with the Vory and has bred a great deal of resentment. The men aren’t happy. And
that’s
my way in,” he articulated with a jab to Lebedev’s face on the white board.

I sat silently, trying my best to soak up all this information and understand the dynamics of this foreign organization.

“Your way in for what?” I asked.

“To take back control,” he answered, like I should understand his logic.

I sat back in my seat and shook my head.

“I’ve made my own deal with some the soldiers,” he explained further. “If I take out The Swan and Meier, plus all three of his captains, they will have the Vory elect me the new Godfather, their
Pakhan
. I will allow them to decide who my Councilor will be, as well as my accountant and all of my captains. As it should be. We will all be beholden to each other, and I will have my kingdom back.”

With a wave of his arm and his chest puffed out, Greg smiled, like he’d already assumed power and his rightful place as king. He looked ridiculous, posing like some Napoleon wannabe. I couldn’t help but chuckle then laugh as I slow-clapped.

“You are truly insane,” I declared.

“There’s nothing crazy about this. These men have everything to gain since they will be the ones to elect their leaders, so whatever alliances they make will only ensure their advancement. As it stands now, the vast majority are impotent with no say over who rules them and no opportunity for promotion. All Vory dream of being made-men. To do that, all we need is to take out the upper echelon.”

“And how the hell are you going to do that?” I asked.

“
I’m
not,” he corrected. “
You
are.”