Blood Vendetta. Don Pendleton

windpipe. A pitiful gurgle escaped the man’s lips and he brought up his own hands, grabbed at Yezhov’s forearms. For a skinny man, his grip was surprisingly strong, Yezhov thought. Yezhov rewarded the man’s efforts by pressing harder against his throat. More seconds passed before the man’s body went limp. When Yezhov finally was satisfied that his failed employee was dead, he released his grip and let the man’s limp body strike the floor with a thump in a boneless heap.

      Yezhov turned and motioned for one of his guards to step forward. That the guard, a combat veteran who’d killed Chechen militants without fear or conscience, hesitated pleased Yezhov. The Russian leader pointed at the body lying on the floor.

      “Get that thing out of here,” he said.

      The man nodded. Stepping forward, he knelt next to the corpse and raised the dead man’s torso at an angle, rested it against a bent knee. Grabbing the dead man from under his arms, the guard stood and dragged the limp form from the room.

      “Lovely,” Yezhov muttered under his breath as he watched the whole thing.

      A glance at the other guards situated around the room told Yezhov they were trying hard not to look at him, making a show at staring into their drinks or at one of the flat-screen televisions positioned throughout the room. That they were scared made him feel all the more powerful. But, he told himself, it wasn’t just about venting his anger. He wanted to teach these bastards a lesson. The price of failure in his organization was steep. And in his latest venture, with its high stakes, failure needed to be dealt with quickly and severely, not just because it made him feel good, but as a practical matter. Everyone needed to function at the highest levels possible.

      Turning, he went back to his desk and hoisted the receiver on a secure telephone that stood there. Going from memory, he punched in a series of numbers. After a couple of seconds, it began ringing, his impatience growing with each ring. Finally, a familiar voice answered.

      “What?” the man rasped.

      “It’s me.”

      A couple of seconds passed. “Okay.”

      “I have a job for you.”

      “A job for me?” Dmitri Mikoyan’s voice sounded incredulous. “Go to hell.”

      “Look, you ungrateful—”

      “Ungrateful? Remember Tajikistan? You almost got me killed ten times over. I’m grateful to be away from you.”

      “I need you to run an operation,” Yezhov said. Mikoyan said nothing, but Yezhov heard him clucking his tongue on the other end of the connection. From experience, Yezhov knew that sound meant Mikoyan was thinking. Yezhov wasn’t even sure whether the other man even was aware of the noise, the habit.

      “How much money?” Mikoyan asked.

      “Don’t you want to hear the job first?”

      “No. I know you. If you called me, it’s a crap job. The details don’t matter because the job will suck no matter what. So tell me about the money first and I’ll decide whether it’s worth my time.”

      “Trust me, it is.”

      “What is it the Americans say? Money talks. Bullshit walks. Give me numbers.”

      Yezhov said an amount, twice Mikoyan’s usual fee.

      Mikoyan laughed. “What am I? A bag lady? That is crap pay!”

      “It’s also my only offer.”

      More tongue clucking sounded from the other end of the line.

      “Okay, I’ll take it.”

      “I need you to snatch someone—a woman.”

      “Sounds horribly complicated,” Mikoyan said, sarcasm evident in his voice.

      “You’ve heard of the Nightingale?”

      “Nightingale? Sure, I’ve heard the stories. Total bullshit. No one can steal all that money and get away with it.”

      “It’s not bullshit.”

      “Sure it is,” Mikoyan insisted. “It’s a story some crooked accountant cooked up after he embezzled money from the wrong guy. Did it to save his own ass. Don’t tell me you’ve bought in to this fairy tale.”

      “I have.”

      “Please—”

      “She stole from me.”

      “How much?”

      “It doesn’t matter. It was a lot. The point is, she stole from me. I can’t tolerate that.”

      “You want the money back.”

      Yezhov shrugged even though the other man couldn’t see him. “I have little hope that will happen.”

      “Why?”

      “Think about it. You think she has dollars sitting around in suitcases somewhere? My guess is she takes what she steals, splits it into a dozen or so accounts and makes it all disappear. The last thing she wants is for someone to track her or take what she has stolen.”

      “Okay, you don’t want the money. What do you want?”

      “I do want the money—I just don’t have much hope I’ll get it back.”

      “Fair enough.”

      “I want her. I want her alive, Dmitri. I want to kill her with my bare hands.”

      “To send a message.”

      “Yes.”

      “Consider it done.”

      “I sent two other men to do it. Or, more to the point, one of my employees sent two men.” Yezhov glanced at the spot on the carpet where the recently removed corpse had fallen. “Make that a former employee. Anyway, they both ended up dead.”

      “Should’ve called me first.”

      “Maybe. I’ll send a courier with more information.”

      The line went dead and Yezhov slammed down the phone.

      A single, soft knock sounded against his office door. He looked up in time to see the door swing open and a woman enter. As always, her fire-red hair, which cascaded past her shoulders, caught his attention first, followed by her jade-green eyes. Her full lips spread into a wide smile, lips parting enough to expose even white teeth.

      “Tatania,” he said, returning the smile. “Can I get you a drink?”

      “Yes,” Tatania Sizova said.

      Crossing the room, she walked to him, reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Stepping back, she eased herself into one of the wingback chairs that stood in front of Yezhov’s desk. Crossing her legs, she placed her folded hands into her lap.

      Yezhov looked at his guards and dismissed them with a nod. One by one, they filed from the room. He finished making her drink—a gin and tonic—and handed it to her.

      She thanked him for the beverage and, looking at him over its rim, sampled it.

      “Lovely,” she said.

      “Good.”

      “I’ve seen little of you this week. You’ve been up early and working late into the night.”

      He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

      “It’s the woman,” Sizova replied.

      He glared at her. If she felt threatened, though, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she sipped from the gin and tonic again, then set it on a small table.

      “You’re obsessed with the woman,” she said. “She’s pissed you off.”

      “Nonsense! There’s no room for that in my operation. Stakes are too high.”

      “Of