Kill Squad

He led them through the casino to a closed door at the far side of the opulent gambling floor. They stepped through the door and into the semi-lit area of the lounge. The empty dance floor was surrounded by tables and chairs, and a long, curved bar sat at the rear. The motif of the room was of planets and stars, the ceiling illuminated by simulated lunar craters and subdued light.

Marco Conte sat at the bar on a high stool, two of his hardmen close by. His gaze settled on Danichev and remained there as the Russian approached. Conte had a drink in his hand and a cigar in his mouth. He was putting on an act of nonchalance, a display for Danichev’s benefit. It was a wasted effort. The Russian ignored it.

“Have you found him?” Danichev asked.

Any form of greeting Conte might have been considering faded fast.

“No.”

“And so you sit there doing nothing?”

“I have my people out looking for him,” Conte said.

Danichev’s lips curved into a faint smile a second before he exploded with rage.

“You have people looking for him. What the fuck does that mean? This accountant has run out on you. And you have done nothing to stop him. The Feds want him to give them this evidence he found.”

Danichev began to speak Russian, his rage filling the room as he subjected Conte to an intense verbal rant. His hands lashed out, knocking the cigar and the glass from Conte’s hands.

The casino boss took the verbal assault without protest, his shock at being so intensely attacked rendering him speechless. He might be the head man in Vegas but under Danichev’s intense rebuke he could have been a street soldier with no rank. He had heard about the Russian’s powerful presence, but this was the only time he had been on the receiving end. He was physically trembling, his face bloodless; he realized his position so he remained silent. The last thing he needed to do was to offer some lame excuse.

“Get me a drink,” Danichev said to Kolchak, suddenly reverting to English.

Kolchak stepped behind the bar. He sought out a bottle of expensive vodka and filled a tumbler, handing it to Danichev. The Russian savored the liquor before taking a swallow.

“At least this delivers as it should,” he said after the vodka slid down his throat. “Pour one for Marco. I think he is going to need it.”

Conte took the offered drink without protest. He hated the stuff, preferring a good malt whiskey, but at that moment he wasn’t going to do anything to upset Danichev further.

“Get rid of the monkeys,” Danichev ordered.

Conte dismissed his bodyguards. He was aware of Danichev’s scrutiny, so he took another swallow of the vodka.

“So,” Danichev said in a more conversational tone that did little to make Conte feel any better. “I got angry because you fucked up. You now understand how bad you fucked up. Because of your error the organization is now vulnerable to the Feds. The last thing we need is to be placed in their sights any more than we already are. Do you agree, Marco?”

“Yes. But we will find him.”

“That is not the answer I was hoping for. What I asked was whether you think Sherman has left us in a vulnerable position.”

Conte noticed that his hand holding the glass of vodka was trembling slightly. It angered him that Danichev could have that effect on him. And it annoyed him the way the man talked down to him.

In the seconds following his thoughts, Marco Conte realized his position, his power over events, was only granted by the ultimate heads of the organization. They wielded the big stick from their power base back east. His empire, out here in the sticks, only existed because it generated revenue—that ultimate power being demonstrated to him by the presence of Vitaly Danichev. If Danichev decided to end Conte’s reign, he could do it simply by clicking his fingers and unleashing the hulking figure of Tibor Kolchak. It could happen in an instant and Conte would cease to exist.

“If he manages to hand over that information to the Feds, we could have problems,” Conte conceded.

“Good. With that out of the way we must move to prevent this matter getting any further out of hand.”

Danichev glanced at Kolchak.

The big man took out a cell phone that was dwarfed by his massive hand. He tapped in a speed-dial number and waited until the call was answered. He leaned across the bar and handed it to Danichev.

“Where are you?” the Russian asked. “Excellent. Come straight inside when you arrive.”

* * *

TEN MINUTES and two more glasses of vodka later, Danichev heard the sound of raised voices. The doors to the lounge were pushed open and five men walked in.

“On time, as usual,” he said.

The group was headed by a well-muscled man in his late thirties. His dark hair was close-cut, his angular face tanned, emphasizing the pale color of his eyes.

“Mr. Danichev,” the man said, respect evident in his voice. His gaze passed over Conte before centering on Danichev again. “Ready to go, sir.”

“This is Marco Conte,” Danichev said. “He heads this territory for us. Marco, I want you to meet Anatole Killian. Anatole and his men are here to put right our little problem. I want you to give Anatole all the help he needs. He has my permission to ask any questions. To go through everything there is to know about our absent accountant. He has the full backing of the organization to do whatever is needed to resolve this matter.”

Conte understood exactly what was implied by Danichev’s words. He didn’t need to have it spelled out any clearer. He knew exactly who Anatole Killian was. His team’s reputation within the organization was well known, as was its purpose. He and his men were known as the Kill Squad.

“It appears that Sherman accessed sensitive data from Marco’s computer and saved it to a flash drive,” Danichev said. “That data, if handed over to the Feds, could prove extremely embarrassing to Mr. Bulova.”

Killian considered what had been said. “Is this information that important?”

“Yes. It is Conte’s master list of people, the amount of money paid to them, as well as the reason why it was paid and dates.”

“I can understand why that kind of information is important,” Killian said, “but how did Sherman manage to get hold of it?”

“Because he’s a smart son of a bitch who managed to get into my secure files and access what was on them.”

“Not so secure then,” Killian said.

Conte emptied his drink. “So it fucking well seems.”

“Anatole, don’t upset Marco. He’s not having too good a day.”

“Sorry,” Killian said. “Let me have everything on this Sherman. I need to find a starting point. Contacts this guy might have. Places he might go. Any family he might run to.”

“Sherman has a sister and a niece. They live in Des Moines. A nephew is deployed overseas,” Conte said. “We did a background check when he applied for the job. Apparently, Sherman and his sister don’t really get on. The sister doesn’t approve of his lifestyle. She believes Vegas is not the place to work.”

“You think she is worried we might corrupt him?” Danichev asked.

“Something like that.”

“If Sherman is on the move, he might contact his sister,” Killian said. “Family loyalty.”

“Have a local contact arrange for a home visit,” Danichev said. “The sister might have what we need.”

Killian nodded. “I’ll get on it.”

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