Master the Flame by Davies A. D

Author:Davies, A. D. [Davies, A. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B0768VZ913
Goodreads: 36537503
Publisher: Crater of the North Publishing
Published: 2017-11-05T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

Although I had no way to reach out to Bolitar Victorov directly, I found a three-way blind route via Hugo, who sent word back to Fanuco, who requested Victorov call my cell. He got back to me the following morning. I requested what pirates in ye olde days called a parley, to which the Russian agreed and said he’d make sure Fearghal attended too. I added that the person hunting them was likely an old employee known to law enforcement only as “Yaga,” and he told me to name the place. I considered requesting a suitably gangsterish location such as the docks at sundown but settled for the beach outside my hotel.

I love beaches. Heck, I love mountains, valleys, canyons, forests, jungles. I enjoy most places when I’m not working.

But this location came with the added bonus of being overlooked by my room in which Emiliana lay with her favored sniper rifle, covering the meeting that occurred—yeah—at sundown. Not a theatrical play on my part; it was simply the earliest all parties could get together.

The rest of the day I spent studying the FBI’s file on Yaga and on the houses themselves, in particular, the intelligence regarding their supply chain. I recognized several names from my and Jess’s files that we released and was happy to see some were turned into informants or taken out entirely. Sophie pored through the forensics on the crimes Victorov and Fearghal revealed to us the previous day, and confirmed several points of convergence in the methodology, highlighting them to search for indicators in the deaths of other criminal figures. So far, nothing. It appeared isolated to this pair.

With a couple of hours to go, I left Wilshire Boulevard and hit the meeting place, arranged the hotel-supplied cheap table with a parasol and six chairs so I would face the ocean, my hands free to dip behind my back where I practiced a series of signals with my fingers in the manner of a baseball catcher. Hugo played the spotter within the confines of the hotel itself, ostensibly reading a book on the patio, but ready to spring forward if needed. He was linked into Emiliana in my room, who would shoot whatever my fingers commanded.

Sophie also played the security angle, now armed with one of Hugo’s spare guns but untouchable thanks to our immunity agreement as long as she didn’t shoot a child with it. She drank alcohol-free beer a couple of tables away from Hugo, tapped into his and Emiliana’s line.

Having not risked wiring myself, I remained seated alone as the Russians arrived. They wore their usual suits but removed their shoes and socks to walk barefoot on the sand, pants legs rolled up to half-mast. I was concerned to see the late Eric’s brother Paul was present, a light suit with a black armband, his torso listing slightly to the left under the weight of whatever artillery he carried there. The man scanned everything but me, pausing briefly on the hotel; either he’d made Hugo or identified it as the main point of threat.

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