“I’ll make sure they get the message,” said Penkin. “Do you want to say goodbye to your friends?”
“No. I need to get back to my apartment,” said Alina.
“Very well,” said Penkin, holding her arm. “I’m sorry the night had to end like this for you.”
“No, you’re not,” she said, pulling him away from the table. “And I’m not walking out the back door like a criminal.”
He nodded at his security chief. “That’s fine.”
Sometimes he wondered if she was too stupid or oblivious to understand whom she was mixed up with right now. Maybe all of the oligarch types she’d snagged over the past several years had looked and felt the same to her, and Penkin was just another billionaire meal ticket. Except he wasn’t a billionaire. Not even close.
He lived like an oligarch, but that lifestyle owed its existence to his position within the Bratva. Penkin could demand certain things from the private sector by creating uncomfortable leverage. He was obviously doing something right. Professional gold diggers like Alina didn’t stick around too long when they smelled the low tide of bad fortune.
They left the main nightclub area, his security detail clearing a wide path on the way out. The lavish, dimly lit reception lounge had been emptied by the club’s security ahead of their arrival.
“Ten seconds out,” his security chief said before signaling a group of four men clustered in the entrance foyer.
The small team deployed through the double doors, securing the sidewalk immediately in front of the club. Penkin nodded his approval to Gennady Kuznetsov, who lingered discreetly in the alcove leading to the coatroom. The sharply dressed former Moscow police detective turned top nightclub manager returned the gesture, pausing at the end of the nod to emphasize his respect and loyalty. The man had been very accommodating and protective over the years, which Penkin had always rewarded generously. It paid to have reliable friends in this city, a cost of business one could ill afford to ignore.
“Ready, Mr. Penkin,” said his chief, gesturing to the door.
They hit the wide sidewalk at a quick pace, sliding into the black Range Rover moments later. No sense in making it easy for rival gangs to take a quick shot at him or detonate a suicide vest while he was in the open. They’d been at the club long enough for word to spread around. Another reason he disliked these nights out.
The door next to Penkin slammed securely shut, the lock mechanisms immediately engaging with a solid thunk. Movement behind the second row of seats reminded him that a third security officer always rode concealed in the cargo compartment, ready to jump into action. He had the shittiest of all the jobs, often remaining in place for long periods of time when the SUV was parked in plain sight.
His security chief moved quickly along the curb to the front passenger seat, hopping inside and shutting the door. They were impervious to anything less potent than an antitank missile at this point, which unfortunately wasn’t off the table in Moscow.
“Let’s move,” said his chief, and the three-vehicle convoy departed.
The ride to Alina’s apartment proceeded smoothly despite the high volume of street traffic on the main roads. The convoy turned right onto Burdenko Street, moving out of the steady stream of cars on the Smolenskiy stretch of Moscow’s “B-Ring.” Alina’s building was a few blocks away.
“We’re almost there,” he said, softly stroking her hand.
“Are you coming up?” she said.
“Not tonight. I need to get an early start tomorrow,” he lied.
The prospect of hanging around her apartment while she complained about stomach pains, and eventually made good on their promise, held little appeal.
“Brunch tomorrow?” she said.
“If you’re feeling better,” said Penkin, feigning a concerned smile.
The SUV lurched to a stop, slamming him against the seatbelt. Alina let out a feeble yelp. Penkin didn’t waste any time yelling at the driver or interrogating his security chief. He’d been around long enough to understand that they had come to an abrupt halt for a life-threatening reason. His driver would run over a dog or small child to keep them moving on an open road.
“Back up,” said his security chief, turning in the front seat to look through the rear cargo window.
“No good,” said the guard behind them. “We’re boxed in.”
The sound of rifles charging filled the cabin as the two non-driving security guys readied short-barreled AK-74s. Ahead of Penkin’s lead Range Rover, three black luxury SUVs and a silver Tigr-2, the civilian version of the GAZ Tigr armored infantry vehicle, had boxed them into the center of the intersection. Shit. You didn’t see many Tigr-2s around Moscow. This wasn’t an attack.
“Stand down, Yury,” he said, patting his security chief on the shoulder. “They’re Maksimov’s people.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Penkin?” said Yury.
When Sergei Mirzoyev hopped down from the massive Tigr-2, there was no doubt in Penkin’s mind. Mirzoyev was Dima Maksimov’s right-hand man. One of “Two Spies” charged with maintaining order and loyalty within the organization. He ran an extensive intelligence network inside and outside of the brotherhood, paying off the right people to keep things running smoothly. Penkin had been ducking Mirzoyev for several days while trying to salvage something from the setback they’d experienced in India. It was time to face the music.
“I’m sure,” said Penkin, opening his door. “Keep everyone inside their vehicles.”
“Understood, Mr. Penkin,” said Yury, repeating the order over the communications network.
“What are you doing?” said Alina, terrified. “Where are you going?”
She looked far more worried than he would have thought. Maybe she wasn’t as dumb as she acted.
“I need to have a little talk with a business associate,” said Penkin. “It shouldn’t take long.”
“I just live a block away,” she said, pulling on her locked door handle. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Don’t let her out under any circumstances,” said Penkin, shutting the door on her screams.
He walked past the lead Range Rover and met Mirzoyev alongside the imposing Tigr-2 SUV.
“No need to be so dramatic, Sergei,” said Penkin, offering his hand.
The squat, crew-cut Russian contemplated Penkin’s hand before shaking it. “Mr. Maksimov is not amused.”
“I understand,” said Penkin. “I really thought I’d have some good news to offer him by now.”
“The two of you can discuss this in private,” said Mirzoyev. “Somewhere else. He’s waiting.”
“Now?” said Penkin, looking at his watch. “I don’t want to inconvenience him.”
“He would have appreciated that courtesy earlier in the week,” said Mirzoyev, gesturing for him to get in the Tigr-2.
Penkin didn’t have a choice in the matter. If he didn’t comply, they’d either grab him forcefully or shoot him dead on the street. Given the bad news he would deliver to Maksimov, he wondered if a quick death on the street might be the better option.
“I’ve always wanted to take a ride in one of these,” said Penkin.
“Very good,” said Mirzoyev. “Call Yury and tell him to dispose of the girl.”
“What? Why?” said Penkin.
“Do I need to ask again?”
“No,” said Penkin, shaking his head. “Message received.”
And just like that, Alina Dudnik’s life came to an abrupt end. Actually, it had been running on fumes since he’d decided to conceal the full scope of the India debacle from his Pakhan. He pressed send on his phone and gave the order, wondering what he could possibly say to Maksimov tonight to avoid the same fate.