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Antonov sighed audibly.
“You are not listening again, Jorge. That seems to be a problem with you. Let me be clear: I am not saying that it was a bad idea, Jorge. I am saying that I did not know about it.”
Gurnov turned his attention to the quad of monitors on the wall as he thought, Who was that meant for? Jorge? Or me?
“I understand, Nick. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“How did our friends do?” Antonov said, ignoring that by changing the subject.
It took Perez a moment to respond. “They said they were very pleased. They said they wanted to go again on the next one.”
“Which is?”
“There’s another Poker Run in three months.”
“Good. If they’re happy, then they will make their boss happy.”
—
Dmitri Gurnov could not get Antonov’s voice out of his head as he drove the dark blue Audi toward South Philly.
“I am not saying that it was a bad idea, Jorge. I am saying that I did not know about it.”
Gurnov glanced at the clock on the dash. The US Airways flight from Saint Thomas was due at Philadelphia International in two hours. He’d have his product an hour after that.
Meantime, he figured, Jorge Perez’s pint-sized cousin would probably still be stuck in Fort Lauderdale traffic with ten different cops watching him.
Gurnov stopped at a traffic light, then looked at himself in the rearview mirror. His sunken eyes stared back as he thought for a long moment. He ran his hand over his scruff of beard, then nodded at himself.
Don’t be stupid, he thought. Nick was saying that for my benefit, too.
But I’m not about to walk in and drop those coke bricks on his desk.
“Here. No surprises, Nick, like you said.”
And then explain everything?
“I’ve got my own game going on the side. . . .”
That would be suicide.
I have to figure out something. But first I have to finish Ricky’s botched job.
Gurnov double-checked the second of the three addresses that were handwritten on a sheet of paper on the passenger seat. Ricky Ramírez had handed him the sheet at five o’clock that morning, when they loaded four girls into a minivan for the trip to Florida.
The first address, which Gurnov had just driven past in Society Hill, was the burned-out town house where Krystal Gonzalez had been killed. The other two, Ramírez had said, were the houses where the girls had lived when he’d had them recruited.
From the dead girl’s go-phone, Gurnov had a name linked to two phone numbers—“Ms Mac 1” and “Ms Mac 2”—both of which when called went to voice mail. And he had the three addresses from Ramírez.
And that was all he had on the woman he was hunting.
I’ve worked with less . . .
As he tossed the sheet back on the seat, his hand bumped the Sig-Sauer 9mm that was tucked in the right pocket of his leather coat.
[THREE]
Tradewinds Estate
