"Who else would ruin this troll run? Who else would dare?" Alex argued. "Our surveillance showed twelve trolls living and breathing under the bridge. Because of this sabotage, we only captured seven. Seven! We Strakhovs never fail! But tonight we did, and all because of them." He spat the last words out with great distaste.
Nic's eyes were smoldering, their gray smoke almost afire. He added, "And the five we didn't capture will now head for the hills. We'll have to try and track them to their new lair. Only, now they'll be leery and hard to track. Someone will pay for this fiasco! No one makes a fool out of a Strakhov, or causes him to rescind on his word!"
Nic's ruggedly handsome features were hard, making him appear a bit older than his reputed thirty-nine years of age. Yet, that hardness did not diminish from his natural, rugged good looks. He had prominent cheekbones and a full, firm mouth. He was a man who women looked at not once or twice, but for whom they would wrench their necks trying to get a third or fourth glimpse.
Still, as the years marched on Nic had stayed alone for the simple reason that he never met a woman he wanted to spend time with on a day-today basis for the rest of his life. His shortest relationship had lasted one night, and there were more than a few of those. His longest relationship had lasted six months.
His brothers, who were peeling out of their filth-covered uniforms, were also handsome men. Not as attractive as Nic, but close enough. They were both well over six-feet tall, with hair so black it shone with blue highlights in the daylight.
Alex was cunning, sometimes unprincipled, and loved playing pranks. Gregor was thoughtful and more reserved. Nic was the aggressive one, unafraid to show his feelings and ruthless when crossed. And none of the brothers had any trouble with women. In fact, they could beat them off with a stick if they were so inclined. But they weren't. They loved women, were worshipped by women, were spoiled by women and rarely had a serious thought for any particular woman. They were playboys at their best and worst. Likely it was because they were raised from birth with wealth, privilege and the punishing need to win at all costs. Like tonight's treachery—that would not go unforgiven or unpunished.
"Alex, make sure you find out who did this by tomorrow night," Nic ordered. "Then I will take appropriate action. We're going to crush those Hammetts! They'll rue the day they were born."
Alex grinned. He loved it when his brother got that feral glint in his eyes. Nic was a man others revered or feared, and it looked like the Hammetts were going to get a chance at the latter. "What will you do to punish them? Shall we hang them by their thumbs with corkscrews, or should it be the rack?"
Gregor choked. Nic laughed harshly, then grudgingly said, "Ah, for the old days."
Gathering up his equipment, he opened the door of their specialized van. He reminded Alex, "I need the answers soon, before I leave for my trip to help out our cousin. Once I know for absolutely certain who did this, then. I will decide which method of punishment fits the crime. I'll think on it while I'm gone."
"But you'll be gone a good week," Alex argued. "What was done tonight deserves swift retribution. Triple-P Inc. needs to be ground into dirt beneath our feet. We need to strike at their hearts, their pride!"
Only half listening to Alex, Nic was letting his mind revolve; it was spinning quickly as he came up with scenarios. Glancing at his youngest brother, he nodded. "Yes, you always hated competition. But remember the Russian saying, 'Revenge is a dish best served cold.' And I intend to serve these Americans cold cuts."
Getting into the van and sitting next to him, listening to his brother's harsh warning, Gregor shuddered. Nic was formidable even before the added stimulation of being angered. Angry, Nic was a force to be reckoned with.
His eyes on the road, Nic added in a voice rilled with grim determination, "Merde! Nobody but nobody—and certainly not some insignificant little American nobody—crosses Nicolas Strakhov and gets away with it!"
Driving off toward their warehouse, Nic turned to his brothers, eyeing them with heat. "What is that saying… ?" Snapping his fingers, he suddenly nodded. "Ah, yes. Samantha and Bogart Hammett will soon be up that creek without a paddle."
Public Nuisance Nos. One, Two and Three
Sam and Bogie had gotten home a little over ten minutes earlier. Her baby brother had gone to shower and get dressed for his date while Sam headed for the den. As she passed, she noted the furnishings here had a distinct look of wear and tear, but it was the sort of look a house gets that has been well lived in.
As Sam stared at the flickers of flame in the den fireplace, her Uncle Myles wandered in. A cigarette was pinched between his fingers, smoke wisping into the air.
"So how'd it go, kid?" he asked.
"You know how those Russian brothers all think they're Ivan the Terrible? Well, our scam ran like clockwork. The music played, the trolls danced, and the Strakhovs got pelted. They got their noses a little dirty tonight, I'd guess. And everything else."
"I get the picture."
"I would have given a fiver to see their faces underneath those helmets" Sam remarked, laughing. "That'll teach them to play chicken with us."
"You said it, doll." Myles chortled and ground out his cigarette in an ashtray. "You didn't happen to see the black bird, did you?"
Sam shook her head. Over the years she had gotten various artists to design replicate Maltese falcons, but her uncle had never been fooled. Now the decorated birds sat on the mantle and bookshelves, while her uncle was still patiently looking for the original.
He sighed. "I didn't find the bird tonight, either, but let me tell you how it went down. Casing the Strakhov joint was tough. They put in more security. Even so, I beat their system. I got the info you wanted," Myles explained, his light blue eyes alive with excitement.
Sam's grin widened.
"The Strakhovs are in contact with Prince Petroff Varinski, the vampire prince."
Her grin faded a bit. Prince Varinski was the big-time. He was rich beyond all get-out, and was literally a royal vampire of the Tolstoy-Vlad lineage, the very top of the old royal line. At one time he had ruled a large part of Russia, but had abdicated to come and live in America. If blood was blue, his was a shrieking cerulean, the color of deep-frozen icebergs.
"You see, sweetheart, they're talking to that prince fellow about doing a Bustin' job, and it ain't gonna be a pretty one."
When her uncle called her sweetheart, things were going to move. And move fast, like a runaway locomotive. Anyone on the tracks better get out of the way double quick.
"Varinski, it seems, has got a real doozie of a problem with that castle of his he bought in upstate New York. He's got not one ghost, or two ghosts, but three of the little buggers, a real paranormal pest parade. And all of them are causing mayhem in that fine new place."
Sam took in her uncle's words. The competition had been contacted and she hadn't even been called in for a consult? This harsh reality not only made her angry, it made her stark-raving mad. Gritting her teeth, she thought about the client, wondering if all of Russia was intending to move to Vermont. First Prince Varinski and his entourage, then the Strakhov brothers themselves. She supposed it wasn't surprising they were sticking together. Russian bears of a feather, as it were…
Myles continued: "They've got a ghost called Andy whose been painting scenes all over the house."