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My anger simmers to allow for a hoot. “Stevey got the short end of the stick that night, huh?”
“That’s why those events are so fun! Always a story coming out of it. Always.”
After about ten minutes, we pull up to the pier, scoping out the different boats. It’s a packed house for a Wednesday night. There’s a few old-timers hanging out, drinking a beer on the back of a smaller yacht, but no wild parties like the Drinker alluded to earlier.
There’s a parking lot before the boardwalk, and I don’t see any sports cars or any red flags at all, really.
“How drunk was Ian tonight?” I ask, annoyed.
“He’s always off the scale, but he’s capable. You know he is.” Ace leans forward to better see. “Should we call it and come back in the morning?”
“If you’re so sure about him, we’re waiting here all night,” I say.
Ace doesn’t groan or moan. He just keeps looking. “Maybe they switched docks?”
“Maybe. We’ll give it an hour, then I’ll cab it to one of the other docks, maybe do a tour.”
“Good idea.”
The next hour is frustrating. We go over the details of what we know of the target, and I rest solely on the fact that Drinker knew of their whereabouts just last night. That means he’s not tracking Gia, and my chance to nab him is now, before I have to talk to Yuri again.
“Alright.” I pull out my phone, about to call a cab service, when I hear the rumble of a V8 motor not far ahead. It revs twice, making my heart skip.
“Oh, oh.” Ace squints. “We got something. Black… yeah. That’s a Maserati alright.”
We watch as it pulls into a spot, and on cue, a group of three loud Russians speaking in their native tongue pour out. Despite my apprehension if the glassy-eyed weasel had his head on straight, Drinker was spot on. Two of them match Gia’s drawing pretty well. The third is chubby, so it can’t be him.
“The one on the right is packing on his hip.” I nod.
“Yeah, I see it. The bigger one is holding on the ankle, I think. That’s got to be them, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Idti! Idti!” One of the thinner ones motions for the other two to go on ahead as he pops the trunk. “Bud’ tam!”
Ace shows me his phone, Google translating “Be right there.”
I take one more look at the picture, and decide the one who stayed behind is him. I’m acting rash, I know, but fuck it, so did he.
“Cover me.” I quietly open the door and leave it as I inch toward a grassy hill separating me from the parking lot. The man is drunk, talking to himself. I even hear a note of old Russian folk singing in his tune. Prideful fuck.
I pull out my pistol and have a mind to pop him where he stands. But that would be too easy. Plus, I’m not entirely sure it’s him, and I don’t take a life on a whim.
We’ll get to the bottom of this and make damn sure it never happens again.
I rush down the hill like a shadow in the night, and when my blazer flaps loud enough for the thin man to turn, I’m already on him.
My hand claps around his mouth as I stick the gun barrel hard against his spine. “One peep, I paint your car bright fucking red. Got it?”
He scoffs into my hand, so I fling him around hard, hearing the crack of his vertebrae. This guy reeks of alcohol. Stringy in his movements, like a soused slug. I’m surprised he’s able to stand.
One glance up to the Porsche shows Ace with a rifle trained somewhere ahead of me. No shots mean no one noticed… yet. Time to move.
“You fucked with the wrong woman.” I lean close to his ear to make sure he understands. “And Yuri isn’t here to protect you.”
His eyes widen when I speak his boss’s name.
“That’s right. Open those glazed fucking eyes. I’m here to pay you back firsthand. I’m the fucking Bull.”
