Page 50 of Last Hand

“You think Mikhail gives a shit about his dead sister?” I step closer, lowering my voice so only Dante can hear. “You think the Russian who’s been systematically taking over every smuggling route in three states suddenly developed a conscience? A sense of justice?”

Dante’s jaw tightens. Behind him, Mikhail’s men shift their weight, hands hovering near concealed weapons.

“You know what’s funny?” I continue, circling Dante. “Mikhail’s using the oldest trick in the book. He found your weakness—your pathetic jealousy—and he’s playing you without even trying.”

Before he can answer,the rumble of engines draws our attention. Three more black vehicles approach from the east. More of Mikhail’s men. I signal to my crew, and they take defensive positions around our trucks, weapons ready.

There’s no second firefight. The vehicles stop thirty yards away. Ten men emerge, including Mikhail’s second-in-command, a bull-necked Ukrainian named Petrov. They approach with weapons lowered.

“Leone Presutti,” Petrov calls out, his accent thicker than Mikhail’s. “We come to inspect the shipment. Then we go.”

I nod to my men to let them approach, and to know to keep their weapons ready. “Inspect away. And make it quick.”

Petrov and his men walk to our trucks. They open several at random, checking the contents. One man cuts open a kilo brick, tests the powder with equipment they’ve brought. After five tense minutes, Petrov nods.

“Shipment is good.” He glances at Dante. “Problem?”

I shrug. “Family dispute.”

Petrov almost smiles. Almost. “Mikhail says thank you for smooth transaction.”

“Where’s Fallon?” I demand, not bothering with pretense anymore.

Petrov doesn’t answer, he hands me a radio, and he and his men return to their vehicles and drive away, leaving us with the cocaine, the Russians who came with my brother.

I look at the radio. “We need to talk, Mikhail.”

The radio crackles, and then his voice slides through the static. “Leone. I trust everything went well?”

“Where is she?” The question comes out like a snarl.

“In good time.” His tone is maddeningly calm. “First, I need you to do one more thing. Burn the shipment.”

I stare at the radio in disbelief. “What the fuck are you talking about? Your men just inspected it.”

“Yes. To confirm it was real. Now burn it. All of it.”

“That’s millions of dollars,” I protest, though I already know it’s pointless.

“Consider it price of admission,” Mikhail replies. “You want the girl alive? Burn the cocaine. Now. My men are watching.”

I turn to look at the deserted dockyard. “Vince,” I call. “Get the men back. We’re burning the shipment.”

Vince’s eyebrows shoot up. “Boss, are you?—”

“Now.”

My crew exchanges glances and move quickly, unloading the duffel bags from one truck and piling them in the center of the second. The smell of diesel fuel fills the air as they douse the pile. Dante watches the proceedings, his bloody smile fading to confusion.

“Wait, Mikhail never said…” I backhand Dante across the face without looking. The crack of impact is satisfying in a hollow way.

“You never understood what matters,” I tell him quietly. “That’s why you’ll always lose.”

When everything is prepared, I take the lighter from Rodriguez. The flame dances in my palm, small and deadly. I hesitate for just a moment, watching it flicker against the darkness. Then I toss it onto the fuel-soaked pile.

The whoosh of ignition splits the night. Flames climb hungrily up the sides of the truck, licking at the metal frame before engulfing the entire vehicle. Heat blasts against my faceas the fire grows, feeding on the cocaine and diesel. Black smoke billows upward, a signal visible for miles. If any cops are watching the docks tonight, we’ve just sent them an invitation.

The fire roars, flames writhing around the wheels like tortured spirits trying to escape hell. The paint bubbles and peels. Windows shatter from the heat.

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