Chapter 19: Jack

At four that morning, I drove to the Denver International Airport, parked the Impala, and caught the first flight to La Guardia. Yuri Yevgeny was no longer in the picture, but that didn't mean my troubles were over. As soon as word got back to the organization that Yuri was dead, someone would have moved in immediately to fill the vacuum. I just don't know who. To the best of my knowledge, there are no more Yevgeny brothers waiting in the wings. Maybe a cousin, perhaps. Maybe someone back in Russia. But I'm not aware of anyone.

The Yevgeny operation is headquartered in a five-star hotel in the Bronx—the seat of Yevgeny's power. I walk into the hotel—garnering a lot of strange looks from the staff. Immediately, I'm confronted by security. One of the guys frisks me while another watches dispassionately. They're probably hoping I'm carrying so they have an excuse to shoot me. When they realize I'm empty-handed, they let me continue on into the bar, although I can feel their eyes on me every second.

I take a seat at the bar, front and center, and wait. Two armed security guards take up positions behind me.

It's not long before a man dressed in an Armani suit claims the empty barstool next to mine. "Hello, Mr. Merchant," he says as he lights a cigar. "Welcome back to The Big Apple."

I glance at the man next to me. He's probably in his mid-forties, blond hair, blue eyes, tall and fit. "And you are?" I ask.

He offers me his hand, and we shake. "Vladmir Pavlenko. You may call me Vlad."

"First name basis, already? I suppose you're the one in charge around here now."

"Yes," he says, very matter-of-fact. He takes a puff on his cigar, then blows a cloud of smoke into the air. "I took advantage of a recent opening in management."

"I see."

A bartender approaches and takes our orders. Vodka for Vlad. Not a surprise there. "I'll have a whiskey, double, neat."

"Yes, sir," the bartender says, and then he proceeds to prepare our drinks. He hands Pavlenko his first, then mine to me.

"So, what brings you to my hotel?" Pavlenko asks.

"I wanted to find out if you have a problem with me."

Pavlenko puffs on his cigar. "I guess that depends."

"On?"

"On whether or not you have a problem with me."

I take a sip of my whiskey, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. "I do not."

"Well, then," he says, "it seems we are in agreement."

"Glad to hear it." I knock back the rest of my drink, then pull out my wallet.

"That won't be necessary," Pavlenko says. "It's on the house. Consider it a token of my gratitude."

Gratitude? Inwardly, I chuckle. Yes, I guess he does have me to thank for the promotion. I stand and slip my wallet into my back pocket. "Have a nice life, Mr. Pavlenko. If you don't mind me saying so, I hope we never cross paths again."

"I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. Merchant."

* * *

After leaving the hotel, I walk for a while, taking in the sights and sounds of the Bronx. It's lunch time, so I stop in for authentic New York pizza.

I keep an eye out for any potential tails, but there isn't one. It appears Pavlenko meant what he said. We have no problem with each other.

It's over.

I can go live my life without a guillotine hanging over my neck.

It hits me that I'm free to go anywhere, do anything. Most importantly, I'm free to settle down somewhere and establish roots. I can finally take steps working toward what I've wanted for a long time.

Having given it a lot of thought this past week, I've decided to try my hand at bartending. I think I'd be good at that.

With a plan in place, I grab a taxi and head back to the airport.