Once they were inside, Godunov’s demeanor became venomous. “Who the fuck are you?”
Bolan remained calm, with an expression that implied Godunov didn’t intimidate him. “Not important. What’s important is that I have something here I think you want.”
Godunov exchanged glances with Lutrova, and then asked Bolan, “What makes you think that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Maybe your sources are wrong,” Godunov said, moving to a position behind his desk.
Bolan reached into his jacket.
Godunov raised a palm. “Easy.”
“As long as you keep your hands where I can see them. Try anything and you’ll be dead before help can arrive.”
“You seem a bit jumpy, Mr….”
“Just never mind that right now. What I want to know from you is if pretty boy—” Bolan jerked his head in Lutrova’s direction “—is worth anything to you. If not, I’ve got some buyers who could put him to work on some pet projects they got going.”
Godunov laughed. “You’re not actually here to sell him to me. Are you?”
“So you’re saying he’s not worth anything to you.”
“That’s not what I said,” Godunov replied.
“Look, don’t make a jerk out of me, pal.” Bolan bristled in true mobster fashion to help sell the act, then continued, “You want to pull someone else’s rod, then you go ahead and do that. Me, I’m just a man who looks for business opportunities wherever I can find them.”
“Well, you must understand my position,” Godunov said, switching tact to appeal to Bolan’s sense of reason. “You’re asking me to basically turn over my own hard-earned cash for this young man. What makes you think he’s of any value to me?”
“Because I know where I took him from,” Bolan said. “How do you think I knew you’d be here?”
Godunov appeared to seriously consider this, and then gave Lutrova a look that was murderous, at best. It seemed Lutrova had given away information he shouldn’t have—or Bolan had given away something he shouldn’t have, slipped up in some way, and that had made Godunov very suspicious. In any case, it didn’t appear the Russian crime lord planned to show his own hand, since his original demeanor returned in a moment.
“You’re saying that it was you who snatched him from U.S. Customs?”
“That’s right,” Bolan replied. “That so hard to believe, pal?”
“Put yourself in my shoes,” Godunov replied, spreading his arms. “You show up here, armed, with something that doesn’t really belong to you. You tell a crazy story about how you wrested this man, whom you do not know, away from a group of armed U.S. Customs agents—”
“Not a group,” Bolan interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
“You said I took him from a group of agents. Not true. He was with just one man when I found him.”
“And who was this man?”
“Don’t know and don’t care,” Bolan said. Inside, though, the statement confirmed his suspicions that Godunov—or someone in his employ—had a mole inside the U.S. Customs offices.
“And how did you even know where to look?”
“I got my sources,” Bolan said. “Listen, let’s cut out all the BS and get right to the chase. I have some inkling of who you are, and you can, and most likely will, find out who I am before too much longer. Hell, I wouldn’t doubt you got cameras all around this room right now, and you’re running that high-tech face recognizing stuff. Well, fine with me, then we don’t have to waste a lot of time. Now I’ve got something here you want, and I went to a lot of risk to get it. The question is, are you willing to pay for it, and if so, how much? That leads to another question, and that is whether or not you’re impressed enough with my work that you might want to offer me a job.”
“You’re looking for work?”
“No,” Bolan said flatly, “I’m looking for an opportunity. You can provide something solid, then we talk. Otherwise, I’m walking out of here now and taking your prize with me.”
“Then I guess there’s nothing more to discuss,” Godunov said.
That’s when Bolan’s senses went into high gear.
The pair of goons who emerged from two separate panels hidden in the walls came bearing sound-suppressed .22-caliber pistols. Bolan half expected a bit more firepower, but Godunov would have had trouble getting anything more past building security. Bolan had counted on that, and it looked like he’d proved his theory.
They came hard and fast, but the Executioner was ready. Bolan brought the sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R smoothly into play and took the first hood with a 9 mm Parabellum slug to the chest. The impact spun the gunner into the thick plate-glass window of the big corner office, and he bounced off, leaving a bloody splotch as the only evidence of his presence. The goon from the panel about sixty degrees to Bolan’s left tried to flank his position, but the Executioner found cover behind a leather couch that provided him with a good defensive posture.
Bolan got the second target with a double-tap to the head. The first round punched through the gunman’s face even as he was taking aim: his finger curled reflexively against the trigger and a bullet discharged into the carpeted floor. Bolan’s second round creased the top of the guy’s skull as his body started to topple, and deposited a patch of blood and flesh on the wall behind him.
The subsonic cartridges from the Beretta 93-R had suppressed any significant reports. Coupled with their distance from the front desk and the fact that the heavy door was closed, Bolan figured the fight hadn’t been heard. He doubted that anyone even occupied the adjoining offices, but if they had it still might not have made enough noise to cause alarm. Either way, Bolan now had another hurdle to overcome with Godunov.
“This isn’t what I came here for,” Bolan said as he leveled the pistol at the Russian. “I’m not looking for a fight.”
Godunov’s voice was icy. “Then you shouldn’t have come here with your deals.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have,” Bolan said.
He looked at Lutrova and said, “Let’s go, pal.”
They were nearly at the door when Godunov said, “Wait!”
Bolan turned and eyed him.
“I didn’t say I couldn’t be reasonable,” the man continued with a mock smile. “After all, only a fool wouldn’t explore all his options. Such relationships are built on an equal measure of trust.”
“Trust and loyalty aren’t my problem,” Bolan said. He grabbed Lutrova’s arm and thrust him into a nearby seat. Lutrova hit it with surprise on his face, and glanced at Bolan, who pretended as if he wasn’t there. “I’m a freelancer. I’ve built a reputation on getting a job done. You want what I have, then you have to pay for it. Keeps things simple.”
“Then you won’t mind giving me your name,” Godunov replied.
Bolan made a show of considering it, and then shrugged. “Guess I’ve got nothing to lose. Name’s Frankie Lambretta. I used to work for the Righetti Family until this last stint in Otisville.”
Godunov nodded knowingly.