Page 96 of Canyon of Deceit
Rurik greeted me. “Jurg will meet you at ten tonight at the DimLight Bar on the southeast side of town. Come alone. He’ll have eyes on everyone who comes and goes. He has ways that are beyond your worst horrors so assume nothing. No wires. Trust me, he’ll check. Falin has your phone number and your truck’s license plates.”
“You gave him my new cell number?” I gulped my irritation. “Of course you did.”
“At the bar, tell the girl that ‘vodka is best straight up.’ You’ll be shown to a table where Jurg will join you.”
I ended the call and contacted Sergio. How the FBI would get a new bartender or server in place was beyond me. A slipup came with a high price. Sergio assured me the problem had a solution. “The FBI has an undercover agent who has worked at the DimLight in the past. She’ll record what’s said. You do your part, and we’ll do ours.”
—
I drove my Ford pickup to the DimLight, a sleazy bar in a sleazy part of town. I detected a car on my tail for the last twenty minutes. I expected it, and I’d have been shocked without one. Nothing on me or in my truck was wired. I was on my own. But I did have my SIGunder my seat. Falin’s men had plans to search my truck, and they’d find the firearm. Would they snatch it?
The DimLight lived up to my expectations. The firstiin the name flashed on and off in neon red. Maneuvering my casted arm while exiting my truck made me feel like an old man. Then again, the bandage on my head gave the impression I was harmless. I scrutinized the other vehicles—most at least ten years older than mine—where and how they parked, and any new friends exploring easy prey. A parking area on the side of the bar held two vehicles worth three times mine.
By the time I reached the door, maneuvering over crushed gravel, the car following me had found its spot beside my truck. I smelled the liquor, unwashed bodies, and trouble on tap. A young woman wearing fewer clothes than a bikini model met me.
I eyed her like a man looking for action. “Vodka is best straight up.”
“Yes, sir, we’ve been expecting you.” She whirled around, and I followed her to a corner table lit by a battery-operated candle. The ambiance escaped me. She pointed to a chair not to my liking... It didn’t face the door.
Three men sat at the bar and six together at small tables, nursing beer bottles and drinks. Staged and ready to open fire. One bartender and two waitresses clad in little more than the hostess. I looked pathetic, but their scrutiny almost made me laugh.
Within moments, I stared at my nemesis, more like an accountant than a killer, a man who preferred lifting numbers to weights.
Taking a chair that allowed him full view of the door, Falin pointed to my cast. “I assume this isn’t your shooting arm.” He nodded, and two men approached me from behind.
A man patted me down. Neither spoke a word to indicate their nationality. But they had features like chiseled rock and muscles bulged like CGI creatures. Did Falin think I was stupid enough to bring in a weapon or wear a wire? Tonight, observations trumped my chosen weapon, and I’d use it to my benefit.
The two men backed off, and I eased onto a chair. “Satisfied?”
“Temporarily.” Falin turned to one of his men and ordered a vodka on the rocks.
“Not me. Taking some strong meds.”
Falin laughed. “Nothing stands between me and a drink. Nothing but money.”
One man headed to the bar, and I counted to ten, inhaling confidence. “I need proof of life, or this conversation is useless.”
He reached inside his pants pocket and showed me his phone’s screen. A live video with a time stamp indicated Alina asleep on a bed. A lamplight lit her face. Zooming in showed her steady breathing. Her cheeks were damp as though she’d been crying. Nothing in the room revealed the location.
“All right,” I said. “Rurik’s agreed to pay you three million more and supply a private plane to get you out of the country in exchange for Alina’s safe return. All I need is a number to wire the money.”
“Not that simple. Why stick your nose in this? First in Dog Canyon and here. Rurik’s and my business have nothing to do with you.”
“Three reasons—a child got tossed into the problem. The FBI wants to arrest him for murdering his wife and child, and I want my hands on the cartel.”
“You’d rather he faced a judge on murder charges? Hmm. What’s your view of the FBI?”
I huffed. “If I had respect for them, I’d be wearing their badge.”
Falin tugged at his ear—indecisive about his next move or a gesture to throw me off. “Who’s flying the plane?”
“A connection in St. Petersburg.” I hid my tells.
A scantily clad waitress brought Falin’s drink. He eyed her. “Haven’t seen you lately.”
I maintained a stoic facade.
“Filling in for a friend, the bartender.” She bent to his level, and her cleavage plunged deep. “Do you need to see my résumé again?”
