Bank Notes

By Frederick W. Hill

Bank Notes is a novel about Wall Street and how ethical lapses, vengeful behavior, and manifestations of lust and revenge all impact that institution, often with unintended consequences. The story reminds us that our pasts always influences our future, many times in ways we never could have imagined. Nearly twenty years ago, Ellis Hord, working an undercover drug detail, crossed paths with an infamous Russian drug dealer, Nicholai Sidorov. During a bloody fire-fight with Ellis and his partner, Nicholai’s son was seriously injured and subsequently imprisoned. Today, Ellis is an investment banker at the largest financial services firm in the world and positioned to become the head of his division. As he deals with corporate politics and putting deals together, Nicholai is plotting to destroy Ellis life by killing everyone dear to him, including his dog. Ellis’s wife, Maggie, is a Manhattan ADA who works with the NYPD prosecuting violent felonies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Apr 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483475646

Book preview

Beginning

PROLOGUE

Pier 87, Philadelphia, 1993

Ellis Hord’s mind drifted as he watched the last light begin to dissolve into the late summer sky over the water. Pier 87 was abandoned, but as he surveyed the graying warehouses, black topped access roads and now idle giant cranes, Ellis thought the entire area had a majestic quality to it. It was a narrative of how busy shipping in the northeast had been and could be.

Pulling his attention back, Ellis scratched his neck and looked over at his partner, Michael Jackson, who was humming along with the R&B music playing on the radio of their black Ford Taurus SHO.

You’ll never gonna see me again, So now who’s gonna cry for you, You’ll never gonna see me again, No matter what you do.

Why do Russian always run late? Fuckers should’ve been here twenty minutes ago.

Ellis, relax man. They’ll be here. They’ve done everything to check us out but look up our ass holes. It’s taken us four months to get here, man. The weight we are talking about is too big for them to pass up. Another few minutes is nothing, said Jackson, motioning with his hands for emphasis. "We have to do this meeting. Everyone gets cleared by the boss’s son, Peatra and the number two guy, Antona. Everyone! This meeting is the final step before we meet Nicholai!"

I’ve been working this too, Jackson! Ellis said, clearly irritated. I understand all that shit. Still pisses me off that they’re late. Makes me wonder if there’s a problem. Ellis continued to rub his neck as he and his partner glared at each other.

Ellis, we’re good man. It’s all good! Jackson smiled at his partner and squeezed his shoulder.

Ellis seemed to relax a bit. I know man, it’s just ...

See, what’d I tell you. Here they come.

Just then two black Lincoln Town Cars pulled through the gate and onto Pier 87. They stopped about twenty feet from Ellis and his partner.

Hey, Jackson, I don’t recognize all these guys. That’s Peatra … Nicholai’s son, in the passenger seat, car on the left, Ellis said, pointing. Where’s Antona? What’s with the foursome? There were only supposed to be two guys.

Man, they’re just being careful. Probably want to make sure we’re alone. Jackson calmly responded.

Ellis’ attention was drawn to the first man to get out of the car. He was wearing a trench coat, definitely-out of season, and approaching them on the passenger side. As he studied the man, Ellis saw the end of a shotgun barrel protruding from under his coat. Jackson started to get out, but Ellis grabbed his arm.

Gun! He’s got a shotgun! Ellis shouted, yanking Jackson back into the car.

Peering through the windshield as he turned back around, Ellis saw the other three men getting out of the cars quickly.

As the first shots rang out, shattered windshield glass sprayed all over Ellis and Jackson. Pellets fired from the shotgun hit Jackson’s left shoulder. He was lucky. Although it was a bleeder, a little more to the right and it would have killed him.

Jackson looked at the blood starting to run down his shirtsleeve, incredulous that he had been injured. He screamed and tried to take cover beneath the dashboard while blasts rang out and bullets pummeled the car from what seemed like every direction.

Ellis felt like he was standing outside of his body, watching everything in slow motion. As shards of glass sprayed his face, he reacted without thinking and ducked, trying to get as flat as possible on the car seat. Reaching up with his left hand, he started the car, pulled the console mounted gear lever into drive, and raised his torso slightly as he pushed hard on the gas pedal. The vehicle lurched forward, slamming into Peatra. The impact flipped him onto the hood, face down and on top of his Beretta. His head and face struck what remained of the windshield.

The second shooter, a black man with an AK 47 managed to dive to his left and avoid the car.

Ellis pushed both hands on the brake pedal, causing the Ford to fishtail between the two Lincoln’s before stopping. Peatra was thrown clear of the vehicle. Landing on the pavement, where he rolled over several times before stopping, unconscious.

Bullets peppered the car’s back window, shattering it and tearing through the rear seats. Ellis grabbed the door handle with his left hand and then jammed the gearshift into park. In one motion, he dove out of the car holding his four inch Wilson Combat .45 under him in his right hand. He landed on his left side and immediately started rolling away from the car. Clear of the car, he extended his elbows, putting himself in a prone position. Looking up, he saw the black man running toward the Ford, spraying rounds from his AK in the general direction of the car. Ellis came up on one knee and fired his weapon at the moving target, shooting six times in less than three seconds. The first three shots missed, but the fourth caught the man’s right shoulder, shattering his collarbone. He never felt the pain because the fifth bullet hit him just above his nose, tearing off the top half of his head. His momentum propelled him one additional running step after he was dead.

Ellis knew there were two other goons out there. He got up and raced back toward his car as shots hit the ground behind him.

The man wearing the trench coat moved toward the opposite side of the Ford, probably to make sure Jackson was dead. He raised the shotgun and pointed it into the car. Jackson was lying across the center console with his head against the driver’s arm rest. He fired his Smith & Wesson nine millimeter three times, each shot hitting the bad guy’s upper torso. He fell backwards, grabbing his throat and coughing as he began choking to death on his own blood.

The last hood hustled back to one of the Lincolns, firing his AK over his shoulder. He jumped into the driver’s seat, and started the car. As he grabbed the gearshift lever, two rounds from Ellis’ weapon crashed through the windshield and into his skull.

Ellis ran toward Peatra, while pressing the magazine release on his weapon and jamming in a fresh mag as he ran. His ears were ringing, but he clearly heard the metal clang as the spent mag bounced off the ground. He knew the others were dead, but before he could check on his partner he had to make sure that the area was secure.

Peatra was still unconscious, his head bleeding from a laceration. Had he been awake, several broken ribs and a complex fracture of his right femur probably would have made him wish he were dead. A piece of his thighbone was sticking through his pants. Ellis thought it looked like a turkey drumstick. He took a pair of plastic handcuffs from his right sock and cuffed Peatra. Then he went to check on his partner.

Jackson!

As Ellis approached the car he startled Jackson, who didn’t know whether Ellis was alive or dead. Jackson aimed at Ellis, but fortunately did not fire.

Whoa, Jack, it’s me!

Fuck, Ellis. You scared the shit out of me. Did we get them?

All down, Jack. Fucking shit, man, you got a bleeder there, said Ellis, staring at the blood now streaming from Jackson’s shoulder. Ellis bent down, picked up the shotgun, cleared it, and tossed it onto the back seat. He grabbed the dead shooter by the collar of his trench coat and dragged him away from the car door so he could open it.

They fucking shot me, Ellis! They fucking shot me! Jackson groaned.

Easy, buddy. Take it easy, Ellis reassured him as he put the safety on his weapon and holstered it. Jackson pocketed his weapon as he pushed himself up slowly, straddling the console. Ellis hurried around to the driver’s side so he could reach Jackson’s left shoulder.

Hey man, your face is bleeding. Some shards of glass are going to mess up that pretty face of yours, said Jackson, trying to smile.

That’ll just make me look tough like you, Ellis said as he surveyed Jackson’s wound, trying to figure out how to stop the bleeding. He took off his shirt, and folded it into a small square to use as a bandage. Then, he pulled his belt from its loops. Sticking his hand under Jackson’s shirt, he covered the wound with the makeshift bandage and then attempted to secure it with his belt, by running it around his partner’s the left shoulder, across his chest and under his right arm. Problem was Ellis’ hands were shaking so violently, he could not buckle the belt.

Hey man, we’re cool, we’re cool. I’m the one who got fucking shot and you’re shaking, said Jackson, touching his partner’s head.

Ellis took a couple deep breaths and then managed to buckle the belt securely. Almost immediately the bleeding stopped. Jackson’s other wounds were not as bad. Ellis quickly moved to the passenger side of the car.

Jackson, I have to move you over, buddy, and get us out of here. I know it’s going to hurt, but I have to get you to a hospital, Ellis said while sliding Jackson to the passenger seat.

Oh…shit. Man, it hurts. Fuck! Jackson cried out in pain.

Once Jackson was secure in the passenger seat, seatbelt buckled, Ellis scurried to the driver’s side of the car, hopped in and turned the key to start the still running car.

CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK.

Hey man, we are running, the car is running! Jackson said, looking at Ellis and trying not to laugh.

Oh ... yeah it is. Sorry! With the wind blowing through the car and pieces of the front and rear windows rattling Ellis drove as fast as he could to the Pennsylvania Hospital.

#

Pennsylvania Hospital

They made quite a sight walking into the emergency room. Ellis was shirtless and belt-less with blood on the front of his pants. His face was bleeding and shards of glass were protruding from some of the cuts—the butt of his weapon was clearly visible in his waistband holster. Jackson, blood all over him and obviously in pain, leaned against his partner with a 9mm bulging out of his pocket.

We’re Pennsylvania State Troopers, and my partner needs help right now! Ellis yelled.

Two nurses ran up to Jackson, each holding him gently, but firmly by his right arm. The resident on duty looked nervously at the butt of Ellis’ weapon.

Where’re your badges and ID?

We’re working undercover, we’ve got no ID. I need a shirt and a phone, please. Ellis eased his weapon out of the holster and into the back pocket of his jeans.

Officer, follow me. You can use the phone in my office and I’ll get you a smock, said the head nurse, an African American woman. Looking at the nurses supporting Jackson, she gestured toward them. Help this man, now! Put him in examination room one.

As they walked in opposite directions, people on both sides of the corridor pressed themselves against the wall, looking down fearfully as they avoided Ellis’ eyes. The attending physician waited until the head nurse and Ellis had gone by before he backed into the nurse’s lounge, closed the door, picked up the phone, and dialed 911.

Ellis trailed the nurse into a supply room. She opened her closet and handed him a blue smock. Then she pointed to the phone on the wall.

Ellis called Lieutenant Edward Vogler, the supervisor running the Eastern Strike Force operation. Ed, it was a setup. Jackson’s hurt. We’re at Pennsylvania Hospital. Yes. Yes. Hanging up, Ellis turned to the nurse and smiled. Thank you, nurse.

You’re welcome, Officer—ah?

Hord. Trooper Ellis Hord, he said, extending his hand.

Oh, you are Pennsylvania State Troopers! she said, clearly impressed.

Yes Ma’am.

Moments later Ellis was standing in the treatment room, where Jackson was lying on a gurney, while a nurse and an intern were carefully cutting his shirt off and examining his wounds.

Nice tourniquet. Did you do that? asked the nurse as she removed the makeshift bandage Ellis had fashioned and began cleaning Jackson’s shoulder wound. Immediately, it began to ooze blood. It’s a bleeder, doctor.

No worries, I’ll apply pressure. You start an IV.

Raise your hands, now! Nurse, doctor, move away from that prisoner, now!

Ellis looked up. There were at least ten cops from the Philadelphia PD, weapons drawn, attempting to crowed into the room.

An overweight sergeant with red hair, rosy cheeks and bulging eyes aimed at Ellis and began yelling. HANDS ON YOUR HEAD AND ON YOUR KNEES, NOW!

Sergeant, we’re—

Sorry officer, we are not moving away from this man. He’s been shot and needs to be treated so he doesn’t go into shock. He presents no danger to you.

Cover them, said the sergeant as he holstered his weapon and pulled out his nightstick, hitting one of the privacy curtains that had been drawn around the examination table.

What the heck is going on here? asked the head nurse who had followed the officers into the room. Pushing through them, she protectively positioned herself between them and Jackson

I said down! yelled the cop as he thrust the end of the nightstick into Ellis’ stomach.

Oomph! Ellis was suddenly gasping for breath. He staggered backward before practically falling to his knees, a dull thud echoing off the blue-tiled floor and walls of the room.

The officers disarmed and cuffed him. Then they attempted to cuff Jackson, even as he was being treated. But the head nurse would have none of that. Boldly stepping in front of the officers and spreading out her arms she asserted her authority.

Listen to me, as I’m sure the doctor explained, this man has a serious injury and I assure you he’s not going anywhere. Do understand that these men are police officers! State Policemen. Don’t they outrank you?

The officers took a step back and looked to their Sergeant for guidance. However, his attention was focused entirely on Ellis.

Now there were nearly twenty people crammed into a space meant for just a few. Ellis coughed, as the hospital smells—a mixture of medicine and disinfectant—filled his nostrils.

Trying to catch his breath he looked around, turning his head left and then right as the cops eyed him menacingly.

Please, listen, ah…ah, please, Sergeant, we’re Pennsylvania State Troopers, working undercover. Just call our sergeant, Ed Vogler, he’s on—

Listen, boy. Don’t tell me what to do, the Philly cop said. Tightening his grip on the nightstick he raised it above his head and stepped toward Ellis. Instinctively, Ellis tried to move his head and brace himself for the blow that was coming.

You touch a hair on that man’s head and not only will you be writing traffic tickets for the rest of your horrible fucking career, but I’ll put my size thirteen’s straight up your stupid Irish ass! Vogler screamed, veins popping on his neck. As Lieutenant Vogler lurched toward the Philly cop, four uniformed troopers positioned themselves around Ellis and Jackson, pushing the Philly cops out of the way. One of them looked down at the head nurse and reassuringly smiled. She returned the smile and stepped back, standing on Jackson’s right side, as the nurse and intern continued treating him.

Edward Vogler was the toughest man Ellis had ever met. He was a bulky, raspy-voiced German, built like a linebacker, who didn’t take shit from anyone. Vogler was a highly-decorated Marine, having served three tours in Vietnam. At the state police academy, he was a member of the cadre and had personally recruited Ellis and Jackson to work this assignment.

Holster your weapons! Now!

The Philly cops immediately complied.

Jesus fucking Christ! I can’t believe you assholes are harassing my men while the bad guys are down at Pier 87. Where were you when God was handing out brains? Vogler demanded as he pushed several of the cops out of the way to stand nose to nose with the sergeant, who lowered his Billy club. As he tried to take a step back in the crowded room, he stepped on an intern’s foot.

Ouch!

The startled cop jumped nervously and dropped his club, which clanged loudly to the floor. Vogler caught it on the bounce and put the end of it under the sergeant’s chin.

Get those handcuffs off and give me their weapons! Vogler ordered. One of the Philly cops un-cuffed Ellis and handed his and Jackson’s weapons to Vogler. He removed the magazine from Ellis weapon, cleared it and handed it to him. Ellis reinserted the magazine and holstered the weapon. Vogler repeated that procedure with Jackson’s weapon, handing it to a trooper. Then in command fashion, Vogler took over the entire emergency room, firing off orders and using the club as a pointer.

Trooper, go find the doctor in charge. You, trooper, he said motioning to another officer, Call in for twenty additional men. Send twelve down to Pier 87, along with a wagon and our crime scene technicians. Station four outside in the driveway. Have them check everyone that comes in. Put another four around the perimeter of wherever Troopers Hord and Jackson are. Everybody stay alert.

Vogler walked over to Jackson, standing next to the intern who was still applying pressure on his wound.

Did it hit the bone?

I’ll need an x-ray to confirm, but I’m certain that it did.

Jackson, Jackson, Jackson. Haven’t I told you that my men aren’t allowed to get shot? he said in a comforting tone as he gently rubbed Jackson’s head. Then Vogler turned and walked to Ellis, grabbed both of his shoulders and studied his face. Well, Ellis, some girls might not like you so much. But I think the rugged look appeals to most women. You okay? he asked.

Yeah. I’m okay, Ed.

How many?

Four, three are dead. One is seriously injured and cuffed. It’s Peatra, Nicholai’s son. Hit him with the car. I think I shot two, maybe three. I know Jackson got one guy. The one who shot him. I can’t …

Peatra? Nicholai Sidorov son? Oh my God! The Philly sergeant exclaimed. He’ll be coming after you for sure! He said, looking at Jackson and then Ellis apprehensively.

You don’t need to worry about that. But you do need to apologize to my men! Vogler commanded as he turned and glared at the sergeant.

Well, I guess there’s… The sergeant stumbled over his words as he turned beet red. The sergeant looked at Ellis and then at Jackson. Just then the attending resident who had placed the 911 call entered the room, mouth falling open as he took in the scene—Jackson lying on the examination table being treated by a nurse, a resident and an intern, with two troopers standing over him; Ellis standing behind Lieutenant Vogler, rubbing his stomach; the Philly cops nervously looking at each other; the Philly sergeant standing in the middle of the room, without his nightstick; and Vogler pointing it at him.

I’m Doctor Cohen.

Okay, Doctor Cohen. Listen, my guy needs an orthopedic surgeon. Call Doctor Abidus Fealy.

The orthopedist for the Philadelphia Eagles?

The nurse and doctors treating Jackson exchanged surprised looks.

The same. He’s a close, personal friend. Use my name, Ed Vogler, and get him in here ASAP.

Dr. Cohen stood there a moment and then, as everyone always did, complied with Lieutenant Vogler’s orders.

Sergeant, I’m still waiting! Vogler did not even look at the Philly cop this time, as his veins stood out of his neck again.

I, ah. Sorry. Sorry for the confusion. The sergeant turned away, and then hesitated before spinning back around and looking at his nightstick in Vogler’s hand.

Is there anything else? Vogler demanded as he held the baton.

Yea, eh…my nightstick … please.

Vogler tossed it on the floor in front of the sergeant. The bouncing baton spun around and the handle hit him in the stomach, causing him to gasp, before it once again clanged on the floor. One of his men picked it up, grabbed his boss’s arm, and led the doubled-over, embarrassed sergeant out of the hospital.

Because they were undercover officers, Ellis and Jackson’s identities were withheld from the media. Thankfully they didn’t have to endure the tidal wave of press coverage that followed this incident. Both Ellis and Jackson received commendations from the state police and a special citation from the governor.

Jackson endured numerous surgeries and painful rehab to repair his shoulder and arm. But he stayed on the job. Ellis left the force nine months after Pier 87.

CHAPTER 1

Nicholai Sidorov

Present day, Southern Spain, near Granada

Nicholai Sidorov pushed the wheelchair through the piazza to his favorite sidewalk cafe and turned it toward the sparkling May, mid-morning sunlight. His son, now forty-eight, was very pale and the sun would be good for him. Peatra could not walk without assistance and had lost close to a third of his weight. The years since the shootout on Pier 87 had been very hard ones for Peatra.

Nicholai positioned the table in front of his son before he removed a brown leather attaché from a pouch on the back of the wheelchair. He positioned his seat strategically, so he could see everything around him. Then, he sighed and sat down heavily, holding the case on his lap with both hands. He rested his chin on the bag and stared sadly at Peatra. Then, after glancing around, he put the case on the ground between his legs.

At seventy-two, Nicholai Sidorov (not the name he used with his neighbors) led a life of quiet luxury in southern Spain. With more than ten million dollars in liquid assets, he lived very comfortably in a retirement community. His neighbors minded their own business and, if asked about Nicholai, they would have described him as friendly, but someone who kept to himself.

The early morning sun was on his face causing him to squint through the light to observe people passing his table, Nicholai stood up and started to open the umbrella in the center of the table. However, his usual waiter rushed to the table and took over.

Ah, my friend, please allow me, said the waiter in Spanish.

Gracias, Nicholai replied, Please bring our usual.

The waiter finished cranking open the umbrella and bowed slightly as he stepped quickly toward the kitchen. Now, under shade Nicholai removed his bright yellow straw hat laying it just to his left on the table. Minutes later, his triple espresso, and still water and clear broth for Peatra arrived.

Nicholai lifted the cup and sipped his espresso, savoring the flavor. He loved the West, especially in the late Spring before the summer holiday season, which brought too many tourists. So much prettier and more pleasant than Mother Russia, which Nicholai thought was bleak year-round. Even the coffee was better here. From time to time he reached under the table and drummed on the brown attaché case with his right hand, as if to make sure it was still there.

Papa? Papa, I’m tired.

Nicholai turned to glance at Peatra. His eyes were bloodshot and dull, as if he were in a stupor. He got up and helped his son sit straight in the chair. Nicholai picked up the soup cup and held it steady so Peatra could take it. His hands trembled as he slowly, almost painfully, brought the cup to his mouth and sipped. Clear broth was all his digestive system could handle at this point.

Eighteen years of incarceration, the combination of poor medical treatment and the over-crowded prison took it’s toll on him. Initially, he was unable to defend himself, which made him vulnerable to countless sexual assaults. After developing full-blown AIDS, he had been paroled for humanitarian reasons.

Nicholai reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a dispenser, placing it on the table. Peatra took ten pills, twice a day. There were two remaining from his morning regimen. The doctors told Nicholai that the drug cocktail would keep his son from suffering, but it would not prolong his life. Pouring a glass of water, Nicholai removed the medicine from the dispenser. Peatra opened his mouth and Nicholai gently placed the pills on his son’s tongue and helped him raise the glass of water. Peatra sipped loudly, swallowed, and grinned at his father, his thin face like a Halloween mask.

There! No more pills until tonight, said Nicholai cheerfully. He looked at his son and forced a smile, which was full of regrets. Peatra had been such a handsome young man—tall, strong, thick brown hair, and gray eyes. The women used to swarm around him like bees seeking pollen. But that was the past. Now his frail body, pasty color, and hollow stare clearly conveyed the inevitable; Peatra was dying.

As God is my witness, on the soul of your mother, I swear to you Peatra, they will pay for what they did to you! Nicholai whispered in Russian, through clenched teeth as he leaned across the table and patted his son’s hand.

"Aa, Oteu, said Peatra. Yes, father."

That was about as conversational as his son could get these days. So many things had changed. Before, in Russia and later in America, he and Peatra regularly played handball. Peatra was a skillful player, often beating his father. Of course, that was before Pier 87. No more.

As you have suffered my son, they will suffer! And they will beg for death! Nicholai looked at his watch and remembered his son as he used to be.

Peatra’s chin slumped down onto his chest as he dozed off, his breathing noisy but even.

#

At exactly eleven o’clock a tall, broad man with a faint scar running from his right ear across his cheek and angling down to his chin walked to the table. He had piercing blue eyes and long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and he was carrying an attaché identical to Nicholai’s. His warm greeting startled Nicholai and brought him back to the present.

Good morning, my friend, the man said in perfect Spanish.

Nicholai jumped and then looked up at his guest, showing mock surprise. He stood and they warmly embraced. Konstantin! Imagine running into you here. I would have never thought it possible.

Konstantin reached toward Nicholai, and squeezed his right bicep. You are still in good shape, no? Are you playing handball?

Nicholai continued the charade. Pretending that their meeting was by chance, he flexed his arm causing his muscle to bulge. I have to stay active, and, yes, I still play handball, although getting a good game with all these old farts is tough.

Would you like an espresso? asked the waiter as he approached.

Why not? I have a meeting but I am early, so if you please.

As the waiter left, Konstantin sat down next to Nicholai on his left, so that he too could observe everyone passing by. Then, he slid his case under the table next to its twin. They lowered their voices and continued their conversation in Russian.

You looked like you were far away, Nicholai.

Ah, yes, I was just reminiscing, but, let’s get down to business.

Nicholai reached under the table, and removed a manila folder from the outside pocket of his attaché case. He slid it toward his visitor who casually glanced around the Piazza before opening it. He took out a group of news clippings and two sets of photographs. Nicholai looked pleasantly at his guest and patted his arm.

I want you to slaughter them like animals. This one, the one in New York, Nicholai said tapping his left index finger on the picture, Ellis Hord. He works for a big bank, Mercantile Merchant. He has a black dog. Kill the fucking dog first. Then take care of him. But before you do tell him you are going to rape his wife, then watch her die. As his life ends I want him to know that his wife will join him, but not before she suffers like my son has suffered. Nicholai said all of this very casually, as if he were discussing the weather.

The assassin’s attention was riveted on Nicholai.

Use your knife. Do it slowly so that he’s in intense pain. The second bastard, Jackson, has no family. Commissioner of the Pennsylvania State Police. I don’t care how you kill him. But if you can make it look like Al Qaeda, I’ll pay you a bonus.

Why the terrorist angle? You want them diverted? asked the assassin.

No. Let’s just call this my little joke on America, said Nicholai.

Konstantin browsed through the photographs and other documents. Then he picked them up and put them back in the folder. He wrinkled his brow, a look of concern on his face. "I’ll kill them, Nicholai, and I’m sure I can have fun with this one—a real kuja." The assassin grinned as he opened the folder and fingered the woman’s picture. He looked up and both of them erupted in laughter.

When the waiter came to the table to serve the espresso, they composed themselves. Once they were alone again Nicholai rubbed his face and looked sadly at his guest. The assassin had served under him in Afghanistan and later was his enforcer in Europe.

Nicholai, when this is done, I hope it brings you peace.

Thank you, Konstantin. ‘Peace’ … I’m not sure I’ll ever know that again in this lifetime. I live like a retired bureaucrat in a community for old people. Me! Nicholai Sidorov in a fucking retirement community! He paused