Raynor Sinclair parked his Acura SUV across the street from Ivan Markovich’s apartment building. His muscles creaked getting out of his car. Too many hours confined, sitting and driving, had turned Raynor into a tin man. He promised himself a long vacation outdoors with his bow and arrow once this job was over.
He crossed the street, mindful to look both ways. He was mindful about everything, which was how he knew nobody was watching him or Markovich. He also knew Markovich was at home. The GPS anklet kept a reliable 24/7 vigil on his prospect.
For this meeting, Raynor went with a black suit, a black shirt underneath, and dark sunglasses. He knew he looked like a badass, but it was a fitting choice for the business he had come to discuss.
He stepped into a cool marble foyer with a fancy inlaid design fronting a mahogany reception area topped by green marble. The man seated behind the desk wore a rumpled suit and a sleepy expression. Raynor asked to be connected to Ivan Markovich in 3B. The receptionist dialed a number and handed Raynor a white landline phone.
“Who is it?” The voice on the other end sounded gruff, annoyed.
“You don’t know me. But we need to talk.”
A pause first, and then, “Are you police? You can talk to my attorney.”
“The police don’t want to help you. I do.”
“Why?”
“If you have to ask, then I guess I should go.”
“No. Wait. Come up.”
Raynor handed the white phone back to the attendant and was soon on his way up to the third floor. Markovich was waiting at the door to let him in. He was dressed in jeans and an oxford shirt, with loafers on his feet and no socks because they didn’t fit over the ankle monitor gracefully. The chains draped around his neck, same as his Rolex watch, were made of gold.
From the doorway, Raynor took a look around. He expected a bit more opulent décor—perhaps a large jade rhino or a crystal chandelier, something worthy of someone who had conceivably made millions peddling people. The place was nice enough, though. The apartment had wood throughout, and the living room visible from the doorway featured modern looking furniture favoring black leather, but the view wasn’t much to behold.
Raynor believed Markovich could afford much more. Good. A man who was careful with his money had money to spend.
Markovich might have been somewhat frugal, but he wasn’t a trusting man. He had opened the door with a Glock pistol in his hand. The G37 Gen4 was big bore technology, a gun suitable for law enforcement, not something a first-time enthusiast would own. The choice of weaponry told Raynor plenty. Markovich was comfortable around guns and his warning look sent a message that he had pulled the trigger on a person before.
Raynor kept his sunglasses on because he wasn’t about to move his hands. He also wasn’t armed and wasn’t worried. “You can search me for a weapon, check me for a wire, if that’s your wish. I assure you I don’t have any such items on me.”
“Yeah? How do I know? Wires these days can be small, easy to hide.” Markovich’s accent was somewhat pronounced, but Raynor knew he could dial it up and down at will. Eventually it would play in Markovich’s favor.
“May I take something out of my pocket?” Raynor asked.
Using his gun as a pointer, Markovich motioned him inside the apartment. He closed the door with his foot and aimed the Glock at Raynor’s chest. “No tricks.”
Raynor reached into his front pants pocket and removed a key with a square shaped head and an unusual tip that would fit the key ring hole on the ankle monitor. “I can take that off,” he said, pointing to the GPS tracker that was part of Markovich’s bail condition.
“Are you a cop?”
“I’m a friend.”
“It comes off, an alarm goes off.”
“No,” Raynor said. “It will continue to broadcast your signal. We could move you across town and the people monitoring you will think you’re still in your apartment.”
“How is that possible?”
“I pay people who control the software. It’s not hard.”
“What is it you want?”
“May we sit? Drink?”
Markovich didn’t think long. “Vodka?”
“I would have been disappointed if you had suggested otherwise.”
Raynor sat on the black leather sofa and took off his sunglasses while Markovich retrieved two chilled glasses from the freezer and brought a bottle of Russian Standard out of a cabinet. Raynor took a sip of the proffered drink, appreciating the slight mineral taste and hints of caraway spice.
Markovich took a seat on the black leather chair across from him. The chair was higher off the ground than the sofa, putting Markovich in a power position. Raynor had selected his seat wisely.
“So what’s this all about?” Markovich asked.
“You’re going to be convicted for your crimes. You’ll do twenty years minimum, but the penalty could be life.” Raynor never danced around the issue with his prospects.