Filed to story: Return of the Reaper Story
“Give this man what he wants,” Oreske said, his voice like stones grinding together.
“I would give him what he wants. What then? He goes away? We will never find him again.”
“Who gives a fuck?” Yuri said in English.
“He killed my sons!” Symon protested.
“Were your idiot sons worth fifteen million? Or your pawn shops? How much did he take from you? How much more will he take from us?”
Symon’s vision went white. He rose from his chair, palms flat on the table top.
Fat Soshi stood to press him back into the chair. The Georgian remained by him, a ham-sized hand on his shoulder. The man spoke slowly and deliberately, his voice resonant behind Symon.
“Call him, Symon. Give him the girl. Give him Dimi. The money is bad to lose. Worse is the police. They will connect these explosions and fires. They will not connect them to this Kane. They will connect them to us. This must end. It is what is best for all.”
Symon nodded slowly. He picked up his own glass and drained it, eyes locked on Yuri across the table.
“Yes, this business with Isaac Kane must end,” Symon said to the table.
But our business is only beginning, Yuri Baghdasarian, he thought to himself.
Yvan pulled his BMW through the west entrance to the Florida State Fairgrounds just after dawn. Tupo sat by his side. They were following the directions relayed to them by Symon Kharchenko; directions the boss received from the American the night before.
They drove behind a long stable building to the place the American told them to park. A farm show had closed the day before. There were still wranglers here loading trucks with horses. The place smelled of animal shit and caramel corn. The rest of the park was a colorful, festive ghost town of fluttering banners and empty rides.
Tupo opened the back door of the BMW and pulled Dimi out by the arm. Dimi looked like a child in oversized sweats that still had the price sticker on them. Yvan bought them at Walmart to replace the clothes they’d cut off of their prisoner. Tupo gripped Dimi’s elbow and guided him after Yvan who was walking away from the barn buildings toward the towering amusements at the other end of the grounds.
The walk toward their designated rendezvous took them far from the car. Tupo was nearly carrying Dimi by the time they reached a row of benches that sat at the foot of a sloping water slide. Yvan studied the area for any sign of the American. There was nothing here but a shuttered beer garden standing against the rear of a large exhibition hall. The only other structure in sight was a Holiday Inn the other side of Martin Luther King, easily a half kilometer away.
Tupo sat Dimi down on the bench third from the left as directed. The big man stooped to run a hand under the bench and found a plastic bag attached with duct tape. The bag held a cell phone. Tupo tapped the send button twice.
Through the 30x scope the image of the trio approaching the benches before the water slide looked like a movie. Distance flattened the image to two dimensions.
On the roof of the Holiday Inn, Isaac Kane lay prone atop an air conditioner housing. He swung the Model 70 slightly to the right to focus on the target bench. He looked up over the top of the rifle. The south parking lot of the fairgrounds and a long exhibition building lay between him and the foot of the slide. The lot was empty. Sparse early morning traffic drifted along this section of Martin Luther King. The rush and rumble of heavier traffic reached him from the raised length of I-4 audible through the trees behind him.
Dimi was lowered onto a bench by a guy built like a wrestler. The other guy, who looked like a Mongol warrior disguised in a designer running suit, stood scanning the surroundings with a professional eye. The man’s hard eyes met Isaac’s through the scope.
The big man came up with the plastic bag that Isaac planted there the night before. The cell in the pocket of his windbreaker shivered. Isaac touched the button on his ear piece with a gloved finger.
“Yeah.”
“We are here. What do you want us to do?”
“No girl.”
“No girl. We have Dimi. What do you want us to do now?”
“Give Dimi the phone and walk away.”
“That is all?”
“Give him the phone. Walk away.
Dosvedanya.”
Isaac watched the big man take Dimi’s hand and place the phone in it. The two men walked back the way they had come, leaving their prisoner seated on the bench. Dimi raised the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Jenna Wiley.”
“Was that her name?”
“Where is she?”
“That is what this is? I don’t have her. I fucked her and left her.”
“Left her where?”
“I don’t have to tell you shit.”
Isaac squeezed the trigger of the rifle. The suppressor on the barrel lowered the big bore gun’s report to a cough. The sound was lost in the buzz of traffic below.
Dimi leapt when the bench shuddered under him. Wood splinters sprayed over him. A fresh hole was drilled in the top board of the bench back to his right. The whole board, heavy redwood timber, was cracked end to end from the hole that appeared less than two feet away from him.
“Where is the girl?” the voice on the cell phone still clamped to his ear said.
“She’s dead. I don’t know what happened. I woke up and she was dead. Choked on puke.”
“Because you drugged her.”
“Shit. Sure. I guess.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. Buried somewhere. Dumped. I didn’t ask. Shit.”
“Someone took her then. Give me their name.”