Again with the warning - potentially disturbing content. And by that, I'll just confess that it disturbed me some to write it and I don't want anyone venturing in unawares.
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Chapter Two
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Grady had actually gone straight to the police station when he'd first thought he'd seen him.
He'd wandered through the front doors in a daze and made his way all the way to Beaudreaux's desk without conscious thought. But, Beaudreaux wasn't there. He'd found Rothman instead, sitting in the middle of a buzzing bullpen, phones ringing, words flitting sharp and fast around him. Something about a family of four, shot execution style, somewhere on the north side.
He'd felt absurdly small in the midst of it. Like a lost kid looking for his dad in a grocery store.
Pathetic.
"Grady," Rothman had said, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone as he spoke. "You need Adam?"
Grady'd shoved his hands into his pockets self-consciously. "Uh, he here?"
"'Fraid not. It's kind of hit the fan around here. Rough crime scene this morning. Mob stuff maybe. He's meeting with Pine and the commissioner downtown."
Grady'd nodded his head, numbly, like any of that information had penetrated or made sense.
"Hey," Rothman had continued, oddly focused on Grady's face, focused in a way that seemed bizarre in the midst of the chaos. "You need me to call him?" And he'd seemed actually willing to. Not annoyed like he sometimes was when Grady came calling at the station, getting into Beaudreaux's business at the worst of times.
"Nah," Grady had answered, trying to school whatever'd been showing on his face. Because, really, what the hell was he supposed to have said if they'd actually produced Beaudreaux and set him in front of him in the middle of that mess?
Hey, B, I think I just saw someone I used to know when I was a kid.
And?
And for some reason it scared the hell out of me. More than Nigel. More than Hardin. And I don't know why. Explain it to me?
Twenty-seven years old, martial arts master, and he'd been standing there like he was thirteen and clueless. No clear or distinct memory of any one event to tell him why he was feeling the way he was—just a mess of time in a Vietnamese prison camp, and an undefined dread.
Beaudreaux would have looked at him like he was crazy.
"Hey," Rothman had called, catching him as he'd turned back towards the exit. "You want me to tell him you stopped by?"
"Nah. No." Grady waved it off. "Was just in the neighborhood. Was just going to say hi."
Rothman seemed to accept that. He'd gone back to his phone call, and Grady had left, feeling nearly as out of it as when he'd arrived. All the while telling himself it was just kid stuff, kid fears. Nothing. Unimportant. Probably hadn't even really been him. Probably had just been seeing things.
Then, of course, Trang had shown up with the nine millimeter and shattered that illusion—standing just inside the empty dojo, aiming the gun at Grady's ribs. Grady had recognized him too. Petrov's lacky, just like in the camp. And if one was real, so was the other.
After that, it'd been too late to say anything to anyone, let alone Beaudreaux.
After that, it'd been painfully easy—conning B into thinking everything was fine.
It shouldn't have been that easy, he supposed, but it was a blessing that it was. He'd conned people from time to time through the years, he'd just never been confident in his acting ability over the long haul. Especially not with someone like B.
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Trang was waiting for Grady when he left breakfast at Beaudreaux's. Standing by the café tables on the street corner, reading a newspaper. Grady pretended he didn't see him, easing a leg over the seat of his motorcycle, deliberately focused on his helmet.
"Is he still in the dark?" asked Trang, shaking the newspaper straight after turning the page.
"Yes," said Grady, not looking up.
"We'll find out if you're lying," Trang said next, calm and conversational, like discussing the summer weather. "You know we will."
"You don't have to remind me," said Grady, feeling his skin crawl, even though Trang wasn't really the one who scared him. Trang had been there, a guard in the prison camp, tacking yard after yard onto Grady's sentence. A shadowy giant in Grady's memory, but not the full monster. He was a martial arts master. Grady's equal. Maybe even better. But he wasn't the one that made Grady's lungs feel like they were trapped in molasses.
That was Petrov.
Even the name made him cringe but he didn't know why. Trang seemed to though, and he got off on saying it as much as possible. "Petrov wants you reminded."
Grady swallowed and nodded, but didn't open his mouth.
Trang folded the newspaper. "You'll be at the dock. Tonight. 6pm. You know what will happen if you are not."
Grady nodded again and pulled the helmet onto his head. He risked a glance at Trang before flipping down the visor and saw Trang smile at him. All sharp teeth and attitude. To Trang, this was a game. It always had been. Playing with people's lives, raising the stakes then waiting for the outcome, waiting for everything to crumble.
It was a game to Petrov too, perhaps. But where Trang was predictively responsive to the orchestration of events, Petrov was a void. While Trang was scary for the way he kept changing the rules. Petrov was scary for the way he followed them. Cold and dispassionate. No mercy. No justice. Simply. Always. Following. Through.
Every threat from his lips like a universal law.
Grady was at the dock right on time.
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The job given him that night was just like the others. Get the list, or the file—whatever the hell it was—and get out. It'd been simple so far, and if it went like the other four had gone, it'd be tantamount to a smash and grab. The dock-house was two stories. Shipping manifests and logs were kept in the office on the second floor. No safe, just a locked cabinet.
That's where things started going wrong.
Three men, dressed in black like Grady was, gloved and masked, were already there. Normally, it might have been an easy fight. Grady could have taken them in under a minute, all without breaking a sweat. He would have too, if it hadn't been for the taser. That and the fact that they seemed to be waiting for him. Whatever Petrov was collecting, it hadn't occurred to him that others might be seeking to collect the same things.
He fell backwards over the railing when the electricity hit, cutting the taser's connection with his clothing as he dropped out of range. He hit the water hard, air vanishing from his lungs in an instant. His muscles seized. The flood of water into his nose and mouth weighed into him like mud. By the time he pulled himself together, twitching hands gripping desperately around the thick rope netting up to the dock, it was too late. The list was gone, along with the masked men.
And Trang—Trang was waiting for him, crouched on the dock, shaking his head, looking down with mock chagrin. "And you were doing so well," he tisked, not sounding nearly as disappointed as Grady thought he should.
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The blindfold was a familiar sensation at this point. They put it on him every time they took him to see Petrov. This time, Trang had cinched it over his ears as well, tight and uncomfortable, but when they got inside and put him on his knees, Grady could still hear the raspy sounds of breathing coming from the cages. The whole set-up had pushed his other senses into overdrive. The smell of mildew seeped thickly into his sinuses. The grimy feel of damp air sat sharply on his skin.
And Petrov's voice. Calm and motionless. Calling from the past.
Petrov's English sounded Russian, but his Vietnamese was perfect. Like Grady's. No accent at all. He spoke with Grady in Vietnamese more than anything.
"No list today?" he said, pulling the felt binding from Grady's eyes. He shifted to eye level, studying Grady passionlessly. After a moment, he tapped a finger to Grady's forehead and stood. "How unfortunate." He signaled to one of the men standing sentry near the cages. Without hesitation the man leaned to the left, unlocked the lowest door and dragged a woman out by the nape of her neck. Her clothes were ragged and torn. Her feet were bare, and she stumbled in her exit from having been folded up for so long.
"Yes. That one," said Petrov. He looked at Grady and drew his gun, face expressionless as the woman was brought to kneel opposite. Dark hair. Eyes like autumn, wide with fear.
She stared at Grady, at Petrov's gun, then back again. "No. No please. No please," she said, breathing quickly and harshly. Speaking in Vietnamese. All in Vietnamese. "No, please. No please. No please."
When Petrov walked behind her, holding the gun to base of her neck, Grady joined her. "No. Don't. Please." But that was all he got out before it was too late—the sound of the echoing gun cracking into his body like a kick to his sternum. Shock, hot and electric, flooded across his skin, hollowing his vision.
No.
He jerked forward, hands hovering over her body—still warm. Blood oozed into his jeans as he curled her head onto his knee. He stared, opening his mouth but unable to speak, lungs locked and refusing to draw air. Finally, he looked up, finding Petrov's dispassionate face staring back at him. "Why?" he whispered, feeling dark and sick. He swallowed with difficulty, then breathed in on a sob. "Why didn't you just kill me?"
Petrov squatted to Grady's level. Lithe and fluid. He tipped his head to the side, stretching a hand to Grady's face in a gesture that could almost look like affection. But weary. Like a teacher past limits with grade-schoolers.
He made a short tisking sound, clicking his tongue without emotion. "These are the rules," he said. "You already know this." He pointed to the cages. "If you fail in a task for me, one of them dies. If the police open an investigation for me, they die. If your Adam Beaudreaux learns of our association, they die. Do I really need to explain this yet again? Or would you prefer another more practical demonstration?"
Grady worked his mouth open. "I'm the one causing you problems. Me." He tightened his hands around the woman's cooling skin. "Kill me."
Petrov shook his head—a casual gesture. "You, Grady? And how would it look? Your friend is a cop. Your death brings questions. Her death… brings nothing." He slid his touch down Grady's cheek, resting a finger just below his chin. "Your death would matter to the wrong people. Her death matters only to you."
Grady jerked his head back. Petrov let him.
"That day that you recognized me. Do you want know how I recognized you?"
Grady said nothing.
"Your eyes," continued Petrov, unbothered. "So expressive." He lingered for a moment then looked down at the woman's face. "So many of my colleagues underestimate the value of strangers. They think to create cooperation they must go to all the effort to threaten friends, family, loved ones. So messy. So much unnecessary effort. We could do it that way, of course, but this… no obvious trail to follow. No questions. And so many to choose from." He dropped his hand, lacing fingers in the woman's limp hair, dragging her back from Grady's grip. "Do we understand each other now?"
Stiffly, mutely, Grady nodded.
Petrov tapped his forehead one more time, sharply. "Keep your friends close," he said as he rose. "And your enemies… distracted." He turned away and called to the others, saying something in Russian. Two men came forward to grab the body, dragging her away while Petrov swiveled toward Trang. "Make certain he remembers this lesson. I don't want to repeat myself again."
Trang smiled, coming forward as Petrov started to walk away. "Trang?" Petrov called. "Not the face. We mustn't make it too difficult for him to explain."
Trang loomed, saying nothing, a sadistic lilt in his eyes.
Grady tensed.
"And, Grady?" Petrov continued. "No fighting, yah? You would not want another body on the floor."
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tbc