Mafia Family.”
“Well, we know what happened to them, don’t we?”
Kurtzman’s rumbling chuckle made Bolan smile.
“You take care, Striker. These people have bad reputations. I kid you not.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Pictures are coming through when we finish speaking. Any thing else?”
“Background on this Cameron and his outfit might be helpful.”
“Leave it with me,” Kurtzman said. “Oh, and Fredo Bella has a number of properties in and around Chicago. His main residence…”
2
Fredo Bella’s main residence was a 2,500-square-foot apartment in a glittering steel-and-glass high-rise situated on Chicago’s North Lakeshore Drive. On the southwest corner of the building the apartment looked out over the city skyline and also had a view across the lake. According to Kurtzman’s intel, the apartment cost in the region of $1.5 million. Probably small change to Bella.
Like many career criminals, Bella, who viewed the law with distaste, had a penchant for flaunting his wealth. He was confident enough to show the results of his illegal operations because he felt secure, untouchable. He surrounded himself with legal battalions and bought favors from those in high places.
Bolan located the building on his arrival in Chicago. His drive by was just a recon. He parked up short of the apartment building, looking it over. He liked to know where his quarry was based. He had no hard and fast plans for the man’s home yet. The Executioner was more interested in Bella’s operations. He was hoping that a visit to Guido Bertolli’s office might give him that information.
GREGOR LEMINOV was far from happy, despite the luxurious surroundings of Fredo Bella’s apartment. The Russian Mafiya broker was not in good humor. In the past half hour he had ordered his burly bodyguard to pour him two more glasses of Bella’s expensive whiskey and had quickly downed each tumbler in hefty gulps.
The heavyset Russian stared out through the apartment’s panoramic windows, watching sheets of rain sweep in from Lake Michigan and slam against the glass. The gray clouds over the choppy water matched his mood, and the longer he had to wait, the worse his mood became. Leminov snapped his fingers and held out his glass.
“I might as well drink his liquor,” he said to Mikhail Rostov, his personal bodyguard.
Rostov, who would never drink while he was on duty, took the tumbler and refilled it. He handed it to his boss, then resumed his position close by.
“Is taking a long time, boss,” Rostov said.
“Always one to state the obvious, Mikhail. In this case you are right.” Leminov sat forward. “Perhaps it is time to remind our host how long we have been waiting.”
The double doors to the spacious room swung open then, and Fredo Bella strode through, a beaming smile on his rounded face.
“Gregor, my friend.” He noticed the almost empty glass in Leminov’s large hand. “Let me fix you another drink. What would you like?”
“An explanation would be nice. Fredo, where are Mr.
Poliokof’s machine guns?”
Bella sat behind his curving pale wood desk. The heavy executive chair creaked as Bella’s weight put it under some strain. The man was six feet tall, and carried a lot of weight. Even his hand-tailored Versace suit failed to hide his soft bulk. He was a big man with big appetites.
“No crap, Gregor. I’m nothing if not truthful. There was an incident in Florida. Somebody, and I don’t know who yet, showed up at the exchange. He killed my guy, Soames, and took out the driver of the van. He took off with the cash, as well.”
“What about the weapons?”
Bella dug a finger inside his shirt collar, where it suddenly started to dig into his neck. “Worst fuckin’ part,” he said. “The son of a bitch went and called the cops in. Miami PD have the M240s in their lockup, along with the delivery guy. I am not worried about him, though. His knowledge is limited.”
Leminov felt a compulsion to drain his glass of whiskey. As he held it up for a refill, Rostov stepped forward and took it.
“So everything has gone and the deal falls flat. I have to tell Mr. Poliokof he doesn’t get his weapons?”
Bella held up a hand. “No, Gregor. The guns will be delivered. A fresh shipment. That takes time. It may be a little late, but the weapons will be delivered.” He cleared his throat, forcing words out that plainly hurt to utter. “You won’t be out of pocket. I’ll stand the loss. It was my end of the deal, so I’ll take the hit.”
This time Leminov sipped the whiskey slowly, savoring it as much as he savored Bella’s offer.
“Look, Gregor, we’ve been doing business for a good few years. This is the first time something like this has happened. I’ve got my people on it. They’re looking for this bastard. We’ll find him, and when I get my hands on him he’ll beg to be killed.”
“Before you do, ask him what he did with the money.”
“If he’s spent it, I’ll strip it out of his flesh.”
“I wish you luck with that. This man sounds extremely capable. He’s not a reckless crackhead.”
Bella shrugged. “I didn’t get where I am by luck. Everything I’ve got is due to hard work. This asshole isn’t going to get the better of me.”
“I think he already did.” Leminov leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Be as casual as you like, Fredo. Just remember who you are dealing with. You do not want to upset Mr. Poliokof. In business he accepts no excuses. Late delivery is late delivery. All I say is this will be marked against you.”
“Christ, Gregor, what am I supposed to do? Snap my fingers and make the fucking guns appear like magic? Poliokof is going to have to wait. Okay?”
Leminov took out his cell phone and hit a number. He stared impassively across the room as he waited. When his call was answered he lapsed into Russian, leaving Bella to wonder what was being said. He completed the call and snapped his phone shut.
“So?” Bella asked.
“Mr. Poliokof is not happy. You lose the guns. You lose the money. Delivery is delayed. Nothing is resolved. He is angry that you make him wait. Mr. Poliokof is not the kind of man you disrespect like this. He warns you this is not the end of the matter.”
“Gregor, I have other clients. The only merchandise I have at the moment has already been sold to someone else. It’s due for pickup. When that goes, the pot is empty. Your order was next. Since it’s gone, I have to wait for my contact to bulk up on stock. Poliokof will have to stand in line until I can sort things out. He’s not the fucking President of the United States. Simple terms, Gregor. If I don’t have it, I can’t supply it.”
Leminov gave a slight shrug. “Then it will have to be. I will pass your remarks to Mr. Poliokof. Then we see what happens.” He
