The mark got the message. He spun on his heel, wobbling a little, and started walking down the highway.
Sergei got back into the car beside Eugenio. He pulled out onto the road and followed Nicolá.
Nicolá looked over his shoulder and then started running. Or trying to, anyway—he was still unsteady on his feet, and his gait was uneven and clumsy. He looked to his right, probably trying to make a quick decision about jumping into the deep, rocky ditch or taking his chances on the shoulder.
He didn’t think fast enough.
Sergei slammed on the gas. Nicolá hit the hood with a meaty thud and rolled up onto the windshield, cracking the glass. Sergei swerved, and the man’s body tumbled off the hood and into the darkness of the ditch.
Sergei parked, got out, and made his way down to where Nicolá lay. He shined a small flashlight into the shadows and quickly found Nicolá. The impact had contorted his hips and spine, and his head was attached to his neck at an unnatural angle. If he wasn’t dead, he was close to it.
Just to be sure, Sergei climbed down, peeled off a glove, and touched the man’s neck. Yep—dead.
Now all he had to do was finish with Eugenio.
He put the glove back on, returned to the car, and drove it a short ways down the road. Then he nosed it off the shoulder, put the car in neutral, cranked the wheel toward the ditch, and got out. He went around the back, gave it a push, and let physics do the rest. The car rolled off the road and down into the ditch.
Eugenio was still slumped in the passenger seat, and at this angle, Sergei wasn’t going to be able to move him, so he improvised—he pulled the man’s feet up hooked one under the pedals, giving the impression that the crash had sent him tumbling into the passenger seat. His forehead had even left a little smear of blood beside the glove box, completing the illusion that he’d been tossed around.
Mission accomplished.
Normally, Sergei would just leave both bodies and let the authorities find them in due time, but he didn’t want to risk Eugenio waking up and finding a way to cover his tracks. For that reason, he’d brought along a burner phone.
He dialed 911 and cleared his throat.
A woman answered, “911, what is your emergency?”
“I… oh my God…” Sergei breathed heavily for effect, making sure it sounded ragged and panicked, and devoid of his accent. “I’m up on the 103, out by Mountain Junction and a car just ran off the road!”
“Sir, stay calm, do—”
Sergei hung up. Then he wiped the phone, tossed it into the bushes, walked into the forest, and headed toward Cape Swan.
And in the distance, sirens started wailing.
Chapter 6
Every attempt to find out who’d paid Floresta and Mandanici to rough up Dom had come up empty. It was highly unlikely that they’d done this on their own. Neither was made, and for them to fuck with a made man, especially one as high up in the ranks as Dom, had been asking for a lot worse than the stripper had given them. In a way, he’d done them a favor—had Corrado gotten his hands on them, they’d still be screaming now, three weeks later.
But every lead came up empty and every trail went cold. Dom still had questions, though, and there was only one person he could think of who might have answers. Now that his body had healed enough that he could move around comfortably—thank God for ribs that were bruised and not broken—he decided it was time to pay the enigmatic stripper a visit.
Tracking him down would be easy enough. There weren’t many clubs in Cape Swan with male strippers. If he wasn’t there now—laying low, maybe—someone had to have seen the guy before. And just in case they weren’t willing to talk, Dom brought a thick stack of hundreds with him.
He debated going incognito. Civilian clothes that wouldn’t get him spotted from a mile away like pinstriped Armani had a tendency to. But he wanted anyone who saw him to know he was there for business. Nothing personal. Showing up in a strip club occupied only by men—the strippers and most of the clientele—was dangerous to say the least.
On the way into town, following the directions to a cluster clubs along either side of a rundown road, Dom tried to conjure as many details as he could remember. Though the face was clearly etched in his mind, he replayed everything over and over anyway, just in case there was something he’d missed.
Blond. Definitely bleached. He wasn’t sure why, but he was certain that hadn’t been a natural color. And he’d heard a subtle but unmistakable accent. Sharp, both the accent and the voice. Slavic of some kind? Russian? That would match those prominent, hawk-like features he was sure he remembered.
Yeah, he’d recognize him. This guy was committed to memory, and Dom would know exactly who he was the moment he laid eyes on him. Assuming he was here, of course.