Citadel Of Fear. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
bleeding again yet. Nubian does good work.”
McCarter once again reconsidered that Propenko had marched twenty kilometers with a hole in his leg. “That he does.”
The Russian gave McCarter an interested look. “What is plan?”
McCarter was pretty sure Propenko had a plan but the Russian was interested in seeing what his new boss was made of. “Oh, let’s just walk right in.”
“That was my plan, also.”
McCarter walked up the short flight of sagging steps. Manning and Propenko fanned out to either side to form a three-man wedge. The establishment was mafiya-owned and protected and it was the middle of the day. The door wasn’t locked and no bouncer guarded the entrance. McCarter and his team walked through the tiny foyer and entered Luffy-Land. Manning had seen the insides of bad bordellos from Bangkok to Tijuana. He looked around and was appalled.
“Oh, for God’s sake…” Manning muttered.
Propenko nodded. “Yes.”
It wasn’t just that it was a bad bordello. Luffy-Land was an affront to all five senses. If Manning had possessed a sixth sense he was pretty sure the place’s aura would be urine yellow and thrown-up lime green, and he was pretty sure he could feel it pulsing against his skin, and sticking. The smell reminded Manning of a rugby locker room if the players mostly didn’t shower but wore perfume and smoked unfiltered cigarettes.
An interior wall had been knocked down to form the main “hospitality area.” The decor consisted mostly of old torn movie posters taped over old torn and peeling paisley-pink wallpaper and old tattered couches. There were a few stolen Russian military folding tables and chairs for drinking and playing cards. Bad Russian rap with too much bass thudded from somewhere deeper in the building, and some sort of Slavic soap opera played on a big-screen TV on the wall.
Hardly anyone was around. A few of the ladies of the house sat drinking straight vodka and watching television just in case some soldier or sailor managed to sneak off base for some afternoon delight. If one’s idea of love in the afternoon were middle-aged, Baltic women’s rugby players in pancake makeup spilling out of 1980’s vintage Jane Fonda workout wear, right down to the headbands and leg warmers, Luffy-Land might just be heaven. The working girls instantly picked up on the fact that the three very dangerous-looking men were not clients. They gave McCarter and his team a few heartbeats of bored and exhausted interest before returning to the TV and liquor.
“Gazinskiy brothers, pimpin’ large,” Manning mused.
Propenko made a noise. “Yes.”
McCarter walked right up to the zinc bar. A huge, bald, sagging bull of a man in a white tracksuit sat watching a European League basketball game on a small TV. He had sleepy eyes but eyed McCarter with keen interest. His right hand disappeared under the bar. “Dah?” he grunted.
McCarter grunted back. “Ilya. Artyom.”
Propenko took a cigarette from a pack of CCCPs lying on the bar without it being offered and lit up. The bartender looked as if he might say something and then thought better of it. Manning just leaned against the bar and glared. McCarter gave the bartender a dead “don’t make me repeat myself” look. The bartender nodded again. “Dah.” He jerked his head at one of the girls. “Roona!”
Roona sighed and scratched what looked like bed bug bites. She rose with a sigh to do the bartender’s bidding. The bartender’s right hand reappeared empty. He rose and took three cans of Baltika beer out of the cold case. He looked at the trio before him, frowned and reached up for some rather cleaner glasses and poured. The music in the back of the building suddenly got louder as a door opened. Ilya and Artyom Gazinskiy emerged, accompanied by three men even larger and goonier-looking than themselves. McCarter was bemused that both men wore $$$Luffy-Land$$$ logo T-shirts and he thought about acquiring one for Hawkins. Ilya’s eyes bugged at the sight of Propenko. Ilya’s fatter brother, Artyom, fired off a stream of surprised swearwords.
Propenko snarled. “Speak in English.”
The Gazinskiy brother blinked.
“We want no one besides us to understand this conversation.”
Ilya shrugged and spoke with a thick accent. “Hey, Nika, whatever you say, man. What happened to you? I thought you are maybe being in Guantanamo, or dead. And who are these guys? Friends of yours?”
McCarter and Manning drank beer and continued to stare at the Gazinskiy crew as though they were bugs.
“Mission went very bad, Ilya. I got shot and I have lost great deal of money.”
“Hey, man. Hey!” The fat Gazinskiy held up his hands placatingly. “We all lost money! Me and Ilya? We lost friends!”
“I lie for you. Tell them you are idiot hammerheads not speaking English. You get picked up and slapped around a bit by Polish police. Then you make bail and twenty-four hours you are back in Luffy-Land dripping in beer and whores. Me? I had to kill some people and walk back. My leg hurts and I hate Poland.”
“Hey, Nika. Me and Arty fought hard. We did not give up until they turned our own damn cannons on us.”
“This I know. How you made bail when you are found at battle scene hand-cuffed to antiaircraft cannon in Poland? This I do not know.”
McCarter glanced around Luffy-Land dryly and managed a TV-worthy Russian accent. “Girls did not pass hat.”
Manning laughed unpleasantly.
The Gazinskiy brothers pulled back slightly. The Gazinskiy goon squad bristled and glanced back and forth at each other. They did not understand what was being said but they did not like seeing their bosses intimidated. Artyom was becoming both scared and angry. “Hey! Who are these guys?”
McCarter continued. “You did not make call. You were surprised. Who is bailing you out?”
Artyom stabbed out an accusing finger. “Listen! You—”
“I am listening, but I am not hearing answer.”
Ilya grew some backbone. “You don’t come into our place! Make us speak English!”
McCarter smiled without an ounce of warmth. “I already have.”
The brothers Gazinskiy blinked in unison.
Propenko’s already gravelly voice dropped a dangerous octave. “Who bails you out?”
Artyom made an unhappy noise. “We were told not to talk about it.”
“Yes.” McCarter nodded at the wisdom of this. “Who told you not to talk about it?”
Artyom threw a desperate look at Propenko. “Listen, I do not think you want to be screwing with these people.”
Propenko glanced at McCarter and Manning and spoke the truth. “I know for fact you do not want to mess with these men.”
Manning noted that Ilya was staring at McCarter, and the Russian’s brows slowly knitted as if he was mentally doing long division counting on his fingers. It had been a decent ploy, but things were about to go FUBAR. Manning smiled and punched Ilya in the throat.
Gazinskiy the Elder did a short, remarkable imitation of a seagull squawk-and-flap and fell to the grimy floor. Propenko instantly followed suit. He shot the heel of his hand forward and made a credible attempt to shove Gazinskiy the Younger’s nose into his brain. The Gazinskiy bullyboy brigade seemed to have spent more time stomping drunken sailors and looking tough than in getting in real fights; seeing their bosses fall in the space of two seconds left them hesitating for one more. It cost the one closest to Manning a kneecap. It cost the one closest to Propenko a left eye.
The last remaining goon screamed something defiant in Russian. He pulled up his tracksuit jacket with his left hand and went for his gun with his right. McCarter slapped a hand over each of the Russian’s wrists and gave him the Danish Kiss.
McCarter