“New guy on the block,” he says, jumping to the point. “Not much is known about him, but he’s been waving money around like crazy, using various proxies to try and get dirt.”
“On who?”
“Anyone. Mischa. The Saleris. Vanici.”
“Were you contacted?”
“Not directly,” he says evasively. “But I know that anyone who has that kind of dough to throw around wouldn’t be above bribery. The first thing I’d do is buy off someone high in every circle I’m looking to infiltrate—especially the mafiya.”
“Mischa vets his men carefully,” I point out. “I’ve worked with them. They’re loyal.”
And yet, I keep seeing the face of one man in particular—the rookie who, overnight, was promoted to replace me. Jealousy could be why I think of him now. If I were that damn childish, at least. No. There has to be another reason.
“Enough money can buy anyone, Ev,” Louie remarks. “Except, probably you. Though, hey, if you and Mischa are on the outs, it would be an easy way to make some money…”
“Not interested. But I will take a name.”
“Don’t have one. He just utilizes his contacts, but I doubt any of them could give you one either. Not a real name, anyway,” Louie says. Judging from how he’s slurring his words, I doubt he’s sober enough to lie. “I can tell you one other thing, though. Whoever the bastard is, he’s been hiring men. Maybe ten guys. Twenty. All to do labor down on the docks, on the west side. I couldn’t tell you what, though. Not for free, anyway.”
My interest is piqued enough to bite. “Fine. If it’s worth my while, I’ll owe you a favor.”
“A favor, Ev? You must be desperate.” He laughs loudly, followed by a clink of glass as if he set his drink down. “I have your word on that?”
I mull it over. Working with Mischa, I haven’t had to make deals with scum like him. While his information may be good, the price is always steep.
Again, I can’t escape the suspicion that a better option would be to swallow my pride now and return to Stepanov manor before it’s too late.
“I don’t got all night, Ev—”
“Fine. Tell me.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll give you an address. Sixth street. That’s where the men have been working mainly. I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t know the details, but I can tell you that it’s manual. Anyone who works there comes back dead on their feet. Like they’re trying to mine to China or something.”
“Digging? Near a harbor?”
“I didn’t say it made any sense, now did I? Anyway, don’t forget, boy. You owe me one.”
I hang up, not that it will matter in the long run. Louie is a drunk, but he’s no pushover. Sooner or later, I’ll have to pay him.
For now, I put that out of my head as I leave the hotel. Unsurprisingly, my van is missing from the garage. Despite the late hour, I’m able to rent a car from the hotel’s selection, and I head straight for the west end.
Sixth street is a lonely road bordering a row of decrepit warehouses that have seen better days. It should be damn near deserted—especially this late at night.
But low and behold, it’s a hive of activity.
At least ten men mill about a yard close to the water’s edge. They’re only visible due to the bright orange safety vests they wear. Each one reflects what little light there is, blinking in the darkness as they march from a darkened warehouse to the water’s edge.
I strain my eyes to make out what they carry. Boxes?
Large, metal crates.
“Hey!” A man I didn’t notice steps to the curb, holding a flashlight that he shines directly through the windshield. “This is private fucking property,” he says. “No trespassing.”
Rolling down the window, I greet him with a nod. “I’m looking for work. Nightshift, too. What kind of labor are you guys into? Shipping?”
His nostrils flare, his expression unwelcoming, to say the least. “We ain’t hiring. Now don’t make me tell you twice to move the fuck on.”
He deliberately reaches for the pocket of his dust-coated slacks. Louie wasn’t exaggerating. The man is covered in dirt and grime. Digging to China would probably be a cleaner endeavor.
I’m tempted to dig for more answers, but I nod instead.
“Have a goodnight.”
I don’t go far, following the water’s edge, across the bridge separating the west end of the city from the eastern center. By the time I near the hotel, it’s almost dawn.
But still no word from her.
Obviously, because she was lying from the start, using me for her own ends. Fuck Briar Winthorp.
If there is a plot involving the city, there’s no reason why I can’t get to the bottom of it my damn self. Starting with the Saleris’ yacht.
It’s already on the water by the time I reach the marina. At least part of her story wasn’t a lie. Luckily for the Saleris, it’s a decent day to sail, bolstered by a steady breeze.
Typically, I suspect the marina would be packed with boaters looking to take advantage of the beautiful weather. Instead, it’s empty—of the average citizen, anyway.
I don’t fail to notice the men scattered at least a ten-block radius, up and down the water’s edge. Dressed in black, they blend in well with their surroundings. Too well.
The longer I watch them, the more hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I know a trained man when I see one. The caliber of this sort looks high enough to match the Stepanovs’ private retinue.
And, as if on some unknown cue, my cell phone goes off.
“Volkov.”
“6th street to 12th,” a woman says in my ear, her voice hoarse. “You have an hour to clear it.”
Son of a bitch. I eye the number she’s calling from but don’t recognize it. A trick?
Then I spy the white vessel gleaming on the water. The only boat on the water,
