Synopsis
Natasha Orlova was the only surviving relative and daughter of a Moscow streetwalker. Though she grew up in poverty, she was full of ambition. At eighteen, she left Russia and her mother, whom she regarded as a failure, to the golden land of opportunity, America. Like many other young girls migrating to the United States, she dived into the adult industry in search of a living. Her breakthrough in the adult industry came two years later; when an American businessman took enough interest in her to marry her. He was a man involved in a deathly lethal game of crime, but it was all good; for she loved him, and he had money, and money was one thing that was essential to her life. But soon; the tides were to change. Tides, which would eventually force the confession from her, “Money Ain’t Loyal.” A hard-boiled Crime Thriller by Daniel Junior.

Copyright © 2021 Daniel Junior All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Victor Media
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America

Fortune smiles and then betrays
First episode drops in twelve hours.

Chapter One
Part One
It was yet another humdrum cold winter morning in CSKA Moscow, but not to Natasha Orlova. Her hands, tucked in the pockets of her black leather hoodie, shivered, her teeth rattled, and her stride down the narrow alley; broke into a trot. Her shoulders were hunched against the prevailing chilling wind - she felt was against her - as she advanced; hoping that the heat generated by her body from her little exercise of trotting would fortify her against the vicious attack of the cold.
She cursed herself for listening to the cabman who had dropped her at the mouth of the alley.
“Miss, you seem to be in a hurry.” He had said. “This is the shortest cut. Through this alley, then to your right and there,” he pointed, “you have the hospital.”
She dropped and paid him. She could still remember his broad, slick smile, as he pocketed the bill, made a U-turn, and drove away with the stream of traffic, going into the city. It wasn't until she advanced into the alley that she felt the full impact of the cold.
Never has the winter been this bad in Russia, or maybe five years spent in the comparatively warm climate of America has reduced my resistance to the Russian winter, she thought as she trotted along.
She paused at the end of the alley and looked to her right. She saw the two-story hospital building, adorned with lights. An ambulance was parked outside the hospital; a few yards from the gate. She hurried along the street to the hospital, nodded to the security guard, as she passed through the gate; reached the double glass doors of the hospital, pushed the right door in, and stepped into the reception room.
Her hunched shoulders eased, and she let out a sigh of relief as the heated air of the hospital enveloped her.
She sniffed the hospital’s air, which she considered depressing, and sighed again.
Well, circumstances had given her no choice but to be here. She dropped the hood of her jacket, releasing her long ash-blonde hair. Her fingers caressed her hair as she brought it across her shoulders and over her heavy breasts.
She looked around the small, neat reception room. To her left was the waiting room. Three benches were arranged in a row, with three or four couples occupying them. To her right was a hallway that led to the rooms of the hospital. Directly opposite her loomed an impressive curved reception desk. But it was empty.
As she approached an old man, seated among the couples in the waiting room, the door behind the reception desk opened, and an old lady, dressed in light blue scrubs, appeared.
Dr. Elena Brik owned and managed the hospital. Elena was large, or rather, heavyset, with short red hair.
A rosary necklace hung on her neck, with its cross, finding rest in between her enormous floppy bosoms, which were held in place by a crop-top, under the light material of her uniform.
She regarded Natasha with disapproval. To Elena, the hood jacket which was tight around her chest, the tight-fitting leather pants that stressed her heavily curved hips, and the long slimly built legs were deliberate temptations to the Catholic man.
“Would you exercise a little more patience, Mister,” she said in a voice that conveyed much authority to the old man, who on sighting her, had pushed past Natasha, rushing up to her, and inquiring about his wife.
Natasha, a woman of high status and power, perceived with admiration; the air of confidence and authority wielded by this woman, who Natasha was certain was the chief physician of the hospital. Natasha always felt a sense of connection when she saw women in positions of power. She watched the man trudge back to his seat.
“What can I do for you, Miss?” asked Dr. Elena, in her ever intimidating and commanding voice, but this time with a note of distaste.
Natasha spun her head to find the heavy-set woman, standing right in front of her, and dwarfing her.
Natasha opened her mouth, but closed it, as she found her mind blank. She realized in anger how intimidated she felt in the dominating presence of this large woman.
Dr. Elena's face relaxed, and she smiled. Her smile looked cunning, Natasha mused. To Natasha, it seemed Elena knew the effect, and power she had over her, through intimidation by her size, and the power she had acquired over the years.

“On the 27th, you got a call, requesting your presence, but you chose to come on the 29th.” Dr. Elena accused, as she strode down the hallway on the first floor.
Natasha, who was behind her, was surprised that a woman of Dr. Elena's bulk could move that fast, struggled to keep up with Elena’s pace.
“I came as early as I could. My flight was delayed.” Natasha paused as her eyes searched the face of the large woman. But she picked nothing from the expressionless face. “How is she?”
“Where were you all this while she was suffering from breast cancer?”
Dr. Elena stopped in her stride, turned, and looked at Natasha. Her eyes showed no mercy.
Natasha stopped, too.
“Cancer? Was suffering?” She paused, then went on. “What are you talking about?” Her voice was suddenly hard.
“Well, it appears you never had much use for your mother. Now, she's gone!” Dr. Elena turned to the door by her side, pressed down the handle, and pushed the door open. “There she is. You can go in and see her,” she said, and turned back with her purposeful stride, walked away.
Too stunned to utter a word, too shocked to move, Natasha stood transfixed, watching the back of the large woman walk down the hallway and disappear into a corner.
Her eyes moved from the now empty hallway to the room that now stood open before her.
At the center of the small room, she saw a body under a light blue sheet on the trolley. As if under a spell, she trudged towards it. By the time she reached the trolley, she was shaking from head to toe.
She heaved a long sigh to steady her shaking hands as she clutched the corner of the sheet and lifted it.
Although she had steeled herself for the sight. The pain still struck her with the sharpness of a bite of grit in a mouthful of food.
Tears rolled down her face; at the memories of the once fat woman, who was now reduced to a skeletal figure, in the painful embrace of death.
“I'm sorry, Mother,” she said in a voice that was far from steady.
She knew she had wronged her mother, but now it was too late to ask for forgiveness.
Five years ago, at nineteen, and full of ambition, she had left Russia and her mother, who she regarded as a failure to the golden land of opportunity, America. Like many other young girls migrating to the United States, she had dived into the adult industry in search of a living. Her break came two years later; when an American businessman took enough interest in her to marry her. Still following the Machiavellian principles that took her to the top, she stayed away from her mother, who she deemed unlucky. However, she had provided her with just enough money to live the way she liked to live.
Her eyes moved to a small rectangular brown envelope by her mother's head, and she picked it up.
It was sealed.
She turned the envelope in her hand.
Written in her mother's handwriting, on the other face of the white paper, was; “To Natasha Orlova.”
Her breath came out in quick gasps, as her fingers; instinctively tightened their hold on the envelope, knowing whatever was written in it were her mother's last words to her.

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Few minutes past eighteen o'clock, a taxi pulled up at NW 7th St. Overtown. It was a neighborhood, considered the black eye of the Miami area.
Out came a tall, dark man. His face was thin, his eyes dark and deep-set. His mouth was hard, and his jaw looked aggressive. A few scattered white hairs on his head made it apparent he was a man past forty.
He paid the driver, waited for him to drive away, then looked up and down the street. The environment reeked of poverty and abandonment. Young men in overcoats, played cards next to a windowless convenience store, grandmas sat on their broken-down verandas, and Miami’s downtown skyscrapers rose in the distance. Nothing to raise his suspicions.
He took out his phone and dialed a number.
“I'm here,” he said, ended the call, and dropped the phone back into his pocket.
He waited.
Out of the shadow of the ramshackle convenience store, among the men playing cards, a thin man came out and called out to him. Even from afar, and with the fading light of the day, it could be seen that he was shabby, but his shabby look blended into the dilapidated situation of the sorry-looking neighborhood. His pants were baggy, his hat on his head hung anyhow, his dark overcoat was of the cheapest quality. His name was Chris Wayne.
The dark man recognized Wayne and advanced to him. He reached him, and as they shook hands, he regarded the young man. He was a boy of either twenty-four or five. Looking at Wayne, he thought sourly; what a bright-looking boy. Though years of shabby living had etched its mark on his face.
“Have you got it?” The dark man asked.
“Let's take a walk,” Wayne replied, and led him away from the other men playing cards, and down the street, they went.
They turned onto a side street and stopped in front of a 1990 Toyota Corolla model. Wayne pointed to the car.
“This is it. Just as you requested.”
The dark man examined the compact car. They had polished the car up. Its tires were new. Everything seemed okay with the car, and he nodded with satisfaction toward Wayne.
“The other package?”
“It's inside the car.”
Wayne took out a key from his pocket, went over to the driver's side, opened the door, went round to the passenger side. He keyed in the key, opened the door, and entered the car.
Both men were soon seated in the compact car. Wayne opened the glove compartment, took out a paper bag, and passed it. The dark man collected the bag, reached inside, and as his fingers closed around the cold butt of a .22mm, a crooked smile flitted across his face.
Opening the bag, a shade wider, he peered in; at the gun and its silencer. “How many slugs are in it?”
“Five,” Wayne answered.
“Unnecessary. One would have been enough.”
Wayne shrugged impatiently.
“Well, I can't say I pity whoever it's meant for.”
“Even if you offered your pity, it would be of no use to him. But, he might make do with God's mercy to make it to purgatory.”
Wayne said nothing, and the dark man, sensing his impatience, took out his wallet, counted ten one-hundred-dollar bills, and passed it to him. He checked what remained in his pocket. He still had the freedom five hundred dollars could afford.
Wayne flicked through the cash. He drew three notes out from the bunch and extended it to the dark man.
“It's over. This would do,” he said, flapping the seven hundred in his other hand.
Not bothering to look at Wayne or the paper notes he was extending, the dark man folded the paper bag, dropped it back in the glove compartment, and locked it. Then he looked at him.
“I know how hard the street is for you, young man. Keep it. You’d need it better than I would.”
Scarcely believing his ears, Wayne cheerfully and quickly slid the bills into the pockets of his overcoat; for fear that his good fortune might be altered, the next passing second.
“Thanks, man.” He opened the door.
“Anytime you need me. You've got my number. So long, man.”
Wayne stepped out into the street, closed the door, and began his way back to his usual evening rendezvous, turning back at intervals, and smiling sheepishly at the car, happy with his serendipity.
The dark man smiled. He felt a sense of satisfaction he hadn't felt in a long time. Whoever had said, “Blessed is the hand that giveth than the one that taketh,” was surely right, he thought.
He coaxed the engine to start and was about to put the car into gear, then he cursed, remembering he was dealing with a manual transmission. Pushing the clutch pedal to the boards, he engaged gear and edged the car into the street.
Ten minutes of fast driving got him to downtown Miami. He turned off the avenue into a broadside street. His eyes searched for a parking space and just ahead of him, a car pulled out from the line of tightly parked cars and went roaring down the road. He swung the compact car into the vacant space, stopped, and turned off the engine.
He looked over at the Truck Agency a few yards from him. From where he parked, he had an unobstructed view of the gate of the Agency, and he nodded his head in satisfaction.
He took out a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, lit it, and drew in a lungful of tobacco smoke. He relaxed back on the seat as the smoke drifted through his nostril.
He took his phone from his pocket, opened it, and went to his call records. Second on the list was a name, Anya. He stared at it, hesitating; then dialed the number.
He brought the phone to his ear, listened to the crackling noise for a while, then again, the bored, flat, automatic voice he had heard fifteen times in the past twenty-four hours came up.
It spoke in Russian for a while, then in English, it said, “The number you have dialed is unavailable.” And the call ended.
Frustrated, he dropped the phone on the seat beside him and took another drag from his cigarette.
Why suddenly unavailable? He asked himself. But after a moment of intense thought, he gave up.
It had been over eleven years since he had last contacted her. Last night, he had called her. She had answered the call. He played back the call in his head. She had squealed with excitement when she heard his voice. He didn't even have to introduce himself, even after such a long time of being out of touch. It made him smile. But, he imagined the voice he heard was weak, forced, but genuine.
Abruptly, the call had ended. He had called again, unavailable. Maybe a network problem, he mused. He waited until the next day; this morning, before he tried again. It was still unavailable. Despite that, he had thought little of it. But now, with sixteen calls unavailable, in the past twenty-four hours, it was bothering him.
Had she found herself another man? A chill ran up his spine as the thought crossed his mind.
“No.” He shook his head.
She had been so happy to hear his voice. She wouldn't have been if she had another man. But even if she had, he couldn't blame her. He had been away for so long. It was only fair that she got herself another man. But he was sure of one thing, no man could take the space he held in her heart.
He lifted himself a little from the seat, brought out his wallet from his back pocket, and took out an old paper photograph of a girl probably in her late twenties. The paper was slightly old, but the girl in it remained an exceptional beauty.
He caressed the picture, imagining he was caressing her face.
“Hold on, An. I'm coming home.”
Carefully, he put the picture back in his wallet and dropped it in his pocket.
He was still thinking, puffing on his cigarette; when the gate of the Agency rolled open.
Immediately, he became alert, sat up, and waited.
Through the gateway came a truck, and he grunted in disgust. He pulled up the sleeve of his overcoat and consulted his watch. The time was twenty-five minutes past seven.
As the truck went past him, he glanced at the driver, who stared straight ahead. His eyes caught a sign painted across the door, and his attention went swiftly to the gate, which had been rolled close.
For the first time, he realized the big sign painted in white on the red background of the iron gate, which read; RICO TRUCK AGENCY.
Do you want good service? Go to a good truck agency.
Do you want better service? Go to a better truck agency.
Do you want the best service? Come to Rico Truck Agency (RTA).
Tobacco smoke drifted down his nostrils as it flared, and he threw the remains of his cigarette out of the window in anger.
So that punk… the son of a bitch, had taken his name off the company we both built. Well, it wouldn't do him any good now, he thought savagely.
“At least he kept our slogan,” he said in compensation to himself.
Still seething with frustration and fury, he took out his pack of cigarettes, selected one, and lit it. Puffing on it, he brooded about a series he had once watched with Anya, a long time ago in a local movie theater in Russia.

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It wasn't until ten minutes past eight that another movement of the gate brought his mind instantly to the present. The gate rolled open. He sat up. A Lincoln Navigator showed its head. His lips drew off his teeth in a crooked smile. He stubbed the smoldering cigarette in an ashtray in the car and turned on the ignition of the Toyota. As the Lincoln turned right and edged into the flow of the traffic, he drove the Toyota, in his bid to follow the Lincoln. He made sure two cars separated him from the Lincoln.
The night traffic was tight and slow. With the pace used by cars along the broad street, the dark man felt even if the driver of the Lincoln spotted him, he'd think of him as part of the traffic.
The car in front of him was a low Aston Martin sports car. Ahead of it was another low car, and he got an unobstructed view of the rear of the Lincoln. He admired the balance, the ease at which the big car edged its way through the tight downtown Miami traffic. But what good would it do him after tonight? He thought. Someone once said, “Life was useless.” Another, “Money Ain't Loyal.”
After ten minutes of slow driving, the Lincoln turned off the main avenue into a side street.
Seeing the Lincoln turn, the dark man also veered his car into the street. He was now sure the man in the Lincoln was headed for home. This was now an empty road, and he couldn’t afford to be spotted.
He saw a gap in the traffic, as the Lincoln signaled left; and he stepped on the gas. He overtook the Lincoln, then slowed down. From his driver’s mirror, he saw the Lincoln turn into the underground garage of a nine-story condominium building.
He continued down the street until he spotted a space in a line of tightly parked cars. He swung his car into a corner, U-turned, came back into the street, and slid the compact car into the small space.
The car just barely fit. He turned off his headlights, then his engine, and the car blended into the scene, as just another parked car.
He looked over at the condominium and was just in time to see the glass elevator stop on the top floor of the building. A few seconds after, the penthouse windows lit up.
It came to his mind that he could afford to take no risks. The light in the penthouse apartment must be out before he could make his move. He took out his wallet, satisfied himself that his plane ticket to Russia was still in it, then he slid the wallet back into his pocket. The ticket was scheduled for the next six days; 8:00 Am flight.
“I would have to make a clean job of this,” he told himself, “else I don't see Russia or Anya ever again.”
He opened the car and stepped out into the street. He looked around. It was just like the side streets of downtown Miami; with cars roaring up and down the street. Women, dressed in just the barest essentials, walking along the sidewalks, while some people could be seen riding bicycles. Cafes, restaurants, and bars; in corners, were also in his line of view.
Everyone seemed to mind their own business, and he reckoned no one paid him any attention.
He sauntered down the street. His head down, his eyes up. He searched for cameras. He looked over the building opposite the condominium. It was a warehouse. He wasn’t concerned about anyone from there watching the condominium. Turning his attention to the condo, he found one camera on the wall, but he had a plan to deal with that already.
He continued along the sidewalk, then his eyes spotted another camera fixed to the corner pillar of the residential building next to the condominium. They positioned it in a way that whoever sat behind the monitor screen in the control room had a view of not only the entrance to the residential building but also to the condo.
He passed the building. Next to it was a restaurant, and he went inside. He took a seat at a corner close to the window, ordered cheeseburgers with fries, and as he ate, his mind thought about how best to tackle the camera in the residential building.
He couldn't afford to go through the back. The rooms of the condo were positioned such that their windows and terraces faced the side and back.
You never know, he mused, some peeps never sleep at night, they're always wide awake, watching through their windows, standing on their terraces, looking down at the street below, as if in expectation of something bad. Someone might see me enter the condominium and although it might take time, with the efficiency of the police, I am sure they would get to me. No, the back was ruled out.
He finished his meal, wiped his mouth clean with the serviette, and then walked over to the counter. He settled his bill and left the restaurant.
As he came out onto the street, he pulled up the sleeve of his overcoat, stuck his arm out to see the time by his wristwatch, in the light cast by the restaurant. It was getting on for a quarter to nine.
He walked along the sidewalk, his head still brought low, his eyes still searching, his mind still thinking. He passed the residential building, passed the condo, and turned right into a dark narrow alley. Lined on the other side of the alley were Palm trees; their leaves darkened and yellow from the snowfall of winter.
He hadn't walked ten yards when he saw what he sought. Set in the condo's wall was a steel door that gave access to the fuse boxes. A crooked smile appeared on his face. It lasted for some seconds and disappeared.
He continued down the alley, turned round the backstreet, and returned to his car. He opened the door, got in, and as he settled himself more comfortably in the car, he looked up at the condo. A light still burned in the penthouse apartment.
“Well then, I've still got more time to wait.”
Few minutes past one o'clock, now lost in thought, exhausted from the long wait, and staring sightlessly at the condominium, he had a sudden vision of the lighted double windows of the penthouse apartment; becoming dark squares on the walls of the condo.
He sat up, alert, and looked over at the condo. The top floor was now submerged in total, damning darkness. His crooked smile reappeared on his face.
“The time has come.”

He took from his pocket a pair of thin silk gloves, and when he wore them, they became like a second skin on his hands, then waited some thirty minutes before opening the glove compartment. He took out the paper bag, and taking the package from the bag, he screwed the silencer slowly to the gun. His mind calculated.
Done screwing the silencer to the gun, he slid the gun into the pocket of his overcoat, opened the car door, and stepped out into the street. Gently, he swung the door shut, pushed it until he heard, ‘click.’
He looked up and down the moonlit street. A few taxis still bowled rapidly along the road, a few dawdlers loitered in the street beyond. It was a fine chilly night, and downtown Miami was still reluctant to go to sleep.
Moving quickly with stealth, he crossed the street, stepped into a dark shop doorway, and looked around. As he saw no one looking in his direction, he slunk along in the shadows, invisible in his black outfit. He reached the narrow alley before the condo and turned into it. Screened from the moonlight by the condo, the alley was in thick darkness.
Taking out a small flashlight from the pocket of his overcoat, he snapped it on and edged to the steel door. He stopped in front of the door, examined its lock. It would not be a problem for him. He rummaged in the pocket of his overcoat, brought out a gadget of thin steel, and; transferring the flashlight to his mouth, he squatted down and began handling the lock.
It took him less than thirty seconds to turn the lock. Then, slipping the pins back into his pocket, he eased open the door, moved into the small recess, and shut the door behind him.
He examined the fuse boxes, and almost immediately found the fuse, which controlled the electricity supply to the condo.
He rummaged again in his pocket and brought out a small screwdriver. Confidently and calmly, he set out to work.
He screwed out a hot wire from one circuit and screwed it into the main. Screwed out another hot wire, and screwed it into another circuit. He spent five more minutes working on the system. When he finished, he took out the flashlight from between his teeth and let out a breath in relief. He swallowed the excess saliva that had formed in his mouth, snapped off the flashlight, and wiped the saliva on it with the hem of his overcoat; before slipping it along with the screwdriver into his pocket.
He placed his ear against the steel door, listened for a while, then silently, he opened the door a few inches, peeped into the street. Satisfied there was no one in sight, he stepped into the alley, closed the door, and began a quick walk to the street.
He reached the mouth of the alley and stopped to peer into the street. He stiffened.
Some five yards from him, walking along the sidewalk, coming towards the alley, was a patrol cop. His mind froze with fear. His right hand automatically slid into the pocket of his overcoat, groping for his gun, but as soon as he felt the cold butt of the gun, his rationality came back to him, and he thought of the consequences of killing a cop.
So, moving with the speed and silence of a snake, he crossed to the Palm tree closest to him, slid himself behind the trunk and into its shadow.
It was a close call; for immediately, the cop reached the alley. He peered around the trunk, saw the cop pause at the mouth of the alley, turned and looked into the alley. But the thick darkness that hovered over the alley assured him that the cop couldn't see a thing.
Then, he saw the cop take out a pen-like thing from his pocket, raised it. As he pointed it to the alley, the dark man suddenly realized what it was, and ducked his head back into the shadow of the trunk, as a sudden sharp beam of light shot into the alley.
The light sliced through the darkness, like a knife through butter; swiftly, smoothly, and effortlessly.
The beam drifted around the alley and the dark man moved his bulk silently with the moving shadow of the trunk.
Did the cop see me? He wondered.
His fingers closed tightly around the butt of the .22mm. He had enough confidence in the silencer. He waited. After some seconds, the light went off. Then he heard the sauntering footfalls of the cop as he continued his patrol down the street.
He waited for the footfalls to recede completely out of his hearing before stepping out into the alley. He peered cautiously into the street. The cop had gone some hundred yards from the alley. He waited. He had to cross the street, but he feared the cop suddenly turning back the moment he was crossing the street.
Time was getting on. The cop had wasted enough of his time. He couldn't afford to hang about any longer. From his mental calculation, he had less than a minute before the fuse system blew up.
Deciding the risk was worth taking, he stepped into the light of the moon, tiptoed, his eyes fixed on the cop's back, as he sprinted across the street.
The cop didn't turn, and successfully, he slipped into a dark shop doorway. He exhaled deeply, touched his forehead, and found he was sweating a little. After a moment of rest, he crept on, keeping well in the shadows. He crossed the warehouse and moved onto the dark patio of the café.
Wasting no more time, he took out the gun from his pocket, cocked it silently, and lifted the gun. It was a tough shot, as the target was small, and he was about some ten yards from it. But difficult shots were nothing new to him.
Suddenly, there was a loud blow and a blind flash from the alley, and as if in sync with the system, he squeezed his trigger. The gun recoiled in his hand and he heard the faint 'plop' as the sound from the firing gun was suppressed by the silencer.
He saw some pieces of plastic and glass fall from the camera at the corner pillar of the residential building to the ground. He looked over at the condo. It had been thrown into total, damning darkness.
Suddenly, he heard the patter of feet coming up the street with short, quick steps. He moved closer to the wall and peered into the street. The cop was running back. He stopped at the mouth of the alley, shone his flashlight, and went in.
Shortly after, a powerful beam of a flashlight, followed by a chubby man, came out of the condo. He waved the flashlight around the street, hurried to the alley, and turned into it.
The dark man edged out of the patio, crossed the street to the condo, gently opening the door that led to the building, and stepped into the lobby. He closed the door and listened.
Just out of the light of the moon, he could make out nothing in the thick darkness of the lobby. He stood still, listening, but heard nothing. He brought out his flashlight, snapped it on, and proceeded swiftly with stealth to the stairs and up the flight of stairs.
He arrived at the tenth floor; no more breathless than a pregnant woman, who, after over six months of pregnancy, had just taken the doctor’s advice on a walking exercise. He paused at the head of the stairs for breath before continuing down the corridor to the double glass doors.
He kneeled before the doors, transferred the flashlight to his mouth, brought out his gadget of thin steel, and went to action.
Done, he stood up, slipped the steel back into his pocket, and with little turns at intervals, he turned the handle of the door and eased open the door.
As he stepped into the foyer, he heard a generator start-up downstairs. Shortly, a light came through from the stairwell into the penthouse corridor.

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The circuit blow brought Jamie Rico instantly awake. He hadn't seen the flash, as he had his back turned to the window and his curtains drawn. So, he thought it was a gunshot. He laid still on the bed, his ears straining. Then, as he relaxed, his quick suspicious ears picked out the faint noise of a door click. He stiffened.
His hand drew out a drawer by his bedside and his fingers closed over the steel butt of a .38mm.
He raised his head from the pillow and listened. The noise was repeated. It was a soft sound, like someone taking care not to be heard, was slowly turning the handle of a door.
Silently, he took out the gun from the drawer, raised himself, and with his left hand, he groped for the light switch, found it, and turned it on. There was no response from the light bulbs as if the switch and bulbs had recently had a discord.
Darkness still hovered around the room, but he wasn't scared. He had a gun. He pulled back the safety catch of the gun and gently drew off the blanket, and slid out of the bed.
He groped his way across the room and quietly drew the curtains back. The moonlight came in, providing him with enough light to see around the large room.
Suddenly, the lights came up, flooding the room with hard light. His heart skipped a beat, and he swiveled around with the gun raised, ready to fire. But nothing unusual presented itself as a target. He listened. The noise from the running generator downstairs drifted up to the penthouse.
Suddenly, it made sense to him. The blow he had heard thinking it was a gunshot must have come from damage in the electrical lines. “That would explain the earlier darkness and the running generator.”
A reasonable explanation it was, but he was uneasy. His built-in instinct for danger still nudged him. It was this same instinct that had kept him alive up till now in a deadly lethal game of crime, where only the paranoid and ruthless survived.
Jamie Rico, born of an American migrant and a rural farmer, had lived his early years as a farm boy. Those years in rural poverty had left him with a deep scar of a humorous face and a humble look. But behind his humble eyes hid a cold, ruthless, and deathly soul. He was the CEO of Rico Truck Agency. A business that was just a front for his real dealings; drug trafficking.
He tiptoed to the door of the bedroom. His fingers closed over the door handle and turned it. Gently, he eased open the door a few inches. The light from the bedroom spread out into the corridor. He peered through but saw no one.
Cautiously, he opened the door wider, so he could see the full length of the corridor. He listened. He heard nothing to alarm him. But he felt the danger was there. He was sure of it. The feeling in him was growing intense, the tension in him was rising.
Quietly and swiftly, he edged out of the room and flattened himself against the opposite door. His gun and eyes fixed on the direction of the living room. He was almost certain the noise he had heard had come from there.
His left hand moved over the wall in front of him, reached for the light switch, and turned it on. The lights in the corridor came up, spreading far into the living room. He leaned back against the door and listened. His hand pushing on the trigger, ready to squeeze. When he heard no sound, he turned the handle of the door he was leaning on, eased it open a few inches, maneuvered his left hand behind the door, pulled out the key, closed the door, and locked it.
He paused for a moment to listen, then quietly, he crossed to the door to his room, drew the door close, pulled the key from the back, and also locked it. Even as he did all this, neither did his eyes nor the gun in his right hand, ever waver in the direction it pointed.
He slipped both keys into the pocket of his pajamas. He now had one more bedroom, the living room, the foyer, the powder room, the kitchen, and the terrace, to search. The benefit of living in a small house, he thought gloomily.
Staying close to the wall to his right, he headed cautiously for the living room. He stopped at the mouth of the corridor, and with care, peered left into the foyer. Then, in one swift movement, he swiveled right into the living room, gun in hand. His eyes swept over the room in one glance, and almost immediately, he turned left to the foyer.
Both rooms were empty, and he drew in a deep breath in relief. But, instinctively, he knew it was just a delay of the danger, which was to come. His hand reached for the light switch, and he turned it on.
The hard lights came up, illuminating in all its glory, the products of success; Picasso's painting, hung elegantly on the marble accent wall, a leather upholstery L-shaped sofa, complemented by imported armchairs, a 75-inch flat-screen hung above the linear fireplace. All that gave confidence to a man, but Rico wasn't to be reassured by their tranquility.
The danger was near. He felt it. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing. The danger was near, lurking around, waiting for its moment to strike.
He looked again into the foyer, and suddenly, he went cold, his nerves fluttered, his legs shook. A single detail he had been searching for, and dreading to see, confirmed his suspicions.
The house key was no longer at the keyhole of the double glass doors. It was never taken out, so long as there was someone in the house, and he could vividly remember leaving the key there when he locked for the night.
In two quick strides, with his gun pointing to the living room, he backed into the foyer. He turned the handle of the front door and drew it inwards. The door didn't move. It was locked. So, he was locked with the intruder. Sweat trickled down the side of his face. He felt his rib cage could no longer contain his pounding heart.
He thought sourly of how ten years ago he would have appreciated a set-up like this, but now, he couldn’t afford to take any risk with his life going after this intruder. He was at the top of the crime game and when one climbs the ladder, without being murdered or jailed; to the top of this lethal game, one suddenly realizes that just a bullet through the head can end it all.
He had to get back to his room, get Pascal to come here, and fish out this intruder.
Pascal would handle this set-up better than I would, he told himself. After all, this is why I pay him.

Wow! I really appreciate the dedication it makes me so happy. Meanwhile the action and suspense is really tingling

ashatoda:
Wow! I really appreciate the dedication it makes me so happy. Meanwhile the action and suspense is really tingling

Thanks dear. I appreciate.

Suddenly, Rico’s feet seemed to stagger. A heavy thud vibrated the floor where he laid as Rico's massive frame hit the floor. His head dropped to the floor a few inches from the closet door. The noise came as sharp and loud as it could be to the dark man, who had his ear to the ground. He got up, swung the door open, and crossed over the body into the room. He moved to the wet bar, drained the remaining whiskey in the bottle, and rinsed the tumbler.
Then, sliding his gun into his pocket, he hoisted the massively built body over his shoulder. He moved with difficulty across the room and dropped the body on the bed. He arranged the body, lifted its head, and pulled the pillow under it. His eyes caught the wedding ring on Rico's finger, and he grunted.
He moved to the wet bar, picked up Rico's gun. He checked how many slugs were in it.
Three.
He crossed to the bedside drawers. As he drew the top drawer open, he heard a soft creak and smiled his crooked smile. Things seemed to benefit him.
His fingers closed over the silencer in the drawer. Taking the silencer with him, he tiptoed across the room, climbed onto the wet bar, and propped himself against the corner. He screwed the silencer to Rico's gun as he waited. Just as he finished, he saw the door handle turn slowly.
A voice called out in a whisper, “It is me, Jamie.”
The man, having discovered the door was locked, called out again.
“Jamie? Jamie?”
There was a pause, then the dark man heard soft clicking noises. He guessed he was picking the lock. Before long, he heard the lock turn. He readied himself.
The door handle turned slowly and eased open a few inches. The voice called again. “Jamie? Jamie?”
The door opened wider, and a man peered cautiously into the room. Seeing nothing, he edged in cautiously, his gun moving before him.
As he moved past the door, he felt the barrel of a cone-shaped silencer touch the back of his head.
He stood still.
…
“Don't make any rash movement. Just drop the gun.” A voice behind him said in a smooth, deceptive mildness.
Pascal's face hardened, and he let the gun drop to the floor a few inches away from his leg.
“Kick the gun away, Pascal,” the voice whispered.
He did as he was told, and the man behind ran his hand over him. The barrel of the silencer bumping against the back of his head as the man frisked him.
The dark man pulled out and threw across the room the two daggers tucked into his pants and held by his waistband.
As all this was going on, Pascal dug into his memory. There was something about the voice which sounded familiar. That this man knew his name...
“I'm not here to kill anyone, Pascal.” The voice brought him out of his search. “I’m after some files. As you can see, your master's fast asleep. I've searched, but can't find them here. I reckon it's going to be in the agency, so you'll drive me there now.”
The man behind, motioned him out of the room with the barrel of the silencer tapping gently on the back of his head. Even though the gun was so close to his head, he noticed the man was at a distance.
He slowed his pace, trying to draw the man closer, but the silencer pushed him forward, and he moved on.
“This is going to be so much waste of time. Rico keeps no file in the agency.”
“I will confirm that after I've searched. Now, fast with your legs and do nothing rash. Remember, there's a silencer to this gun. I might pull the trigger even if I feel threatened.” The dark man chuckled.
Pascal stifled a shudder. Again the voice, that chuckle. It was all too familiar, and again, his mind groped into the past but failed to pinpoint its proprietor.
They crossed the corridor, and as they got into the foyer, a key thrown forward landed a few feet before his legs. He felt the man behind him withdraw.
“Get the door open.” The voice came from behind.
As he bent to pick the key, the dark man's voice came again with its deceptive mildness, but this time with a little chuckle.
“Be careful, Pascal, try nothing brave or smart. It wouldn't be an exciting experience for me to drill a hole in the back of your head.”
Pascal remained motionless. That chuckle had a way of unnerving him. It reminded him of a sanatorium. He felt a chill of icy fear run up his spine. He realized the man behind must have sensed what he was up to, and attempting to steady his shaken nerve, he said, “You can chuckle all you want now, you've got the upper hand. But, I advise you, hold on to it. For when I take it, you will find nothing more to chuckle about.”
“Don't talk too tough, baby boy. I might get scared,” the dark man said with a false quaver. “Now, get that door open!”
Pascal picked up the key, and as he turned the key in the lock, his mind made another frantic effort at placing the voice. He had a poor memory, his mom had always told him. Well, now he agreed. But of one thing he was sure, whoever owned this voice was as lethal as it.
He contemplated turning round to glimpse at the man, but the knowledge of the gun pointing toward his spine dismissed the thought from his head as fast as it came.
Ten years in the drug business, and he counted himself lucky that up till this day, he had recorded no bullet wound, but secretly, he dreaded the day when he would have to put one, two, or more down in the register of his memory.
The lock clicked open, and as his fingers moved to turn the handle, he suddenly realized a shadow had fallen on the door, and the barrel of the silencer dug again into the back of his head.
“Careful Pascal, I don't want you running out into the corridor.”
He hadn’t heard the man creep up on him, and that movement did a lot to his nerves. He took a breath, swung open the door, and both men edged out of the foyer. The dark man picking up the Lincoln Navigator’s key from the top of the small table, which stood close to the double doors. He closed the door behind him, and they crossed to the elevator.
With the gun ramming against Pascal's spine, the elevator whisked them to the underground garage.

Next episode drops in 14hrs

Thanks for the constant update man...
ATHEMISIA is impressed....

Athemisia:
Thanks for the constant update man...
ATHEMISIA is impressed....

And Daniel is grateful

Dedicated to @ATHEMISIA

As Pascal edged to where the Lincoln was parked with the dark man following behind, his mind worked swiftly. Any moment from now, he felt the man behind might slip up. He might come too close before they got to the Lincoln. Then that would be his chance, he thought.
As they reached the Lincoln, the signaling lights of the Lincoln flashed. Pascal stopped abruptly, but the gun nudged him forward.
“Get in the driver’s side.”
With fallen shoulders, he got the car door open and got in. His gamble hadn’t come off. The thought that he might be dealing with a man as efficiently professional as himself brought cold sweat to his forehead.
The dark man got in the back and settled himself directly behind Pascal.
“Get us to the agency,” he said and relaxed back into the luxury of the car.
Ten minutes of steady driving with the speedometer needle flickering over forty and fifty brought them to Rico Truck Agency.
Pascal sounded the horn twice at the big gate. He had this sick feeling he was only a few minutes from death. He had to think of a way out, and he had to do that fast.
“Listen, pal, I know the dude on today's shift; some slick fellow. He might be in one of these clubs in downtown Miami having himself a good time with some girl he's recently caught while we stay here hooting-”
The abrupt movement of the gate stopped the words in his throat. The high beams of the Lincoln beamed on a rotund man in his late sixties as he rolled open the gate.
Jason Carter had been gateman now for the past ten years. He was a man who hardly slept. He believed sleep was for the younger man. What all old men like him could do at night was lie in bed and relive good old memories. He had heard the Lincoln hoot, and surprised, he had rushed out to open the gate.
“Tell him the boss wants to check some papers in his office shortly, that he should leave the gate open.” The dark man spoke for the first time since leaving the underground garage.
Pascal engaged gear, drove through the gate and, as he paused beside Carter, he felt the barrel of the silencer dig into his side.
“Speak out loud. I'd like to hear your voice,” the dark man whispered.
He did as he was told and drove into the agency.
Carter thought there was something wrong with Pascal. Well, maybe the young man isn't too happy to have had his sleep disturbed. Shrugging, he walked down to a chair in front of his lodge and sat down.
Pascal brought the Lincoln to a stop between two trucks.
“There's the boss’ office.” He pointed to the door at the end of a rectangular building lined with offices.
The dark man got out of the car, then he signaled for Pascal to follow suit. Pascal dropped.
“As we move to that office, you might have the temptation of sliding behind one of these trucks, but I assure you, such rash actions will be unhealthy. I'm after some files. Let me have them, and you'll be safe.”
And with a rough shove from the gun, he set Pascal moving.
Pascal peered at the face of the dark man before moving. He didn't make out much from the face as the man had his back to the security light and his face was in darkness.
As they approached the truck, Pascal saw his chance of getting behind it. But, the words of the dark man echoed in his mind, “I'm after some files, let me have them, and you'll be safe.” Why not let him have them, then go after him later? He didn't know how fast this man was with a gun.
As they passed the truck, Pascal told himself, if he were to try anything, it was now or never. If he waited for a second longer, the opportunity would pass. But he could not bring himself to do anything. The cold professional manner of the man behind him hinted at speed, and with the barrel of the gun, he could feel grinding into his spine, he warned himself against such foolishness.
They reached the office.
“Get the door open,” the dark man said from behind him.
“I think we left behind a vital instrument. The…”
He was still speaking when he felt the butt of the gun slammed down against the back of his neck.
White-hot pain ran through him, and he stifled a cry. His left hand rubbed the back of his neck as his right hand felt in his pocket for a pick-lock.
He found it, inserted it into the keyhole. It took him a few seconds to turn the lock and, opening the door, both men edged into the office.
“Get your butt on the chair behind the desk. I want you where I can monitor you.” The dark man motioned him to the executive chair they could just make out in the darkness.
With the pain still nudging him at the back of his neck and holding a hand to it, he moved compliantly as an obstinate child who had just been tamed. He reached behind the desk as the lights came up. The thought that with the light now, he could see the face of the dark man came to his mind, but he dared not turn around. Any movement he made now with his neck drove sharp pain down his spine.
He continued to the chair, sat down, and looked up.
His face suddenly went white, his mouth became dry as he stiffly gaped at the tall dark man standing a few feet from the door with the gun pointing at him.
“Gorevoy?”
Beads of sweat popped out from the side of his face and went trickling down to his neck. So, this was how it was, he thought, and suddenly; he was afraid to die.
He attempted to shout for help. His mouth opened, but that was as far as he went. The slug caught him in the center of his forehead, shattering his brain.s
Gorevoy turned off the lights, edged out of the office, closed the door, and with the headlights of the Lincoln off, he drove out of the agency.

Sincerely this is an awful way to die. Gorevoy is a real killer haba taunt your victim and only allow him see your face for a second and shoot him straight not allowing him to soak in the surprise very awful. Thanks @DanielJunior asking for more

ashatoda:
Sincerely this is an awful way to die. Gorevoy is a real killer haba taunt your victim and only allow him see your face for a second and shoot him straight not allowing him to soak in the surprise very awful. Thanks @DanielJunior asking for more

That's why I labeled the story hardboiled. Thanks for the comment dear. Dropping the next episode shortly

Seated in the first-class cabin of a Boeing 747 flight; from New York to Florida, Miami. Natasha Orlova stared blankly through the window at the blue sky and white clouds.
Her mind was unsettled. She turned her attention again to the white envelope, which she held in her hand. The words, drawn by the black ink, “To Natasha Orlova.” stared unfeelingly back at her.
She couldn't help but take out the paper, unfold it, and read through its content yet again.
The first sentence struck a knife into her heart. As she read further, each word pushed the knife deeper, each sentence twisted the blade in her heart.
“Your father might still be alive. Ever since your conception, I promised myself I wouldn't let him know of you. He was bad. I wanted the best for you. But you struck a knife in my heart, child, as you grew up to be as bad as him. I was stubborn to believe this. You're my child. Then, when you moved to America, I knew it was fate. It was by every means drawing you closer to him. Attached to this letter is a photograph of him. His name, I've sworn not to remember. I wouldn't want to stand in the way of fate. Goodbye, daughter.”
She flicked the paper and stared at the small-sized photograph of a young boy, probably only eighteen, dressed in a suit that was far bigger than his age. He was pretty handsome. There was something about his smile that inspired a smile from her.
So, this is you, father? But, how do I hope to find you in a country with so many people, with no name, but only a photograph dated over two decades ago? Well, there was no length she wouldn't go to, to find him. But the letter had said he might still be alive. What if he was long dead? Then, she would find his grave and drop a bunch of roses on it. She would visit every week with a bunch of roses. Who knows, her father might get up one day and say he was sick of her roses. She smiled. But what if I find him? What will it be like? Who was he? Will he accept me as his daughter? He knows nothing of me. What if he isn’t the man I imagined him to be? Will I make compromises?
Natasha thought for a moment, then decided whatever he turned out to be, she would embrace him. She was no better herself. For as long as she could remember, she had always longed for that fatherly love. Now was her chance to get it. She would not screw it up.
She thought back in time, her earliest memory, she imagined, she was age five then, when she first confronted her mother about the absence of her father.
Seated on an armchair; the only chair padded with foam in their clumsy, airless two-room apartment, her mother stared gloomily through the dirty windowpane at the quiet street below.
Natasha, close to the fireplace, played with a big bear doll; a doll her mother had barely afforded from her proceeds of walking the streets.
She had turned abruptly to her mother.
“Mama,” she called in her little voice.
Her mother turned to her.
“Why is papa never around?”
Her mother's face had hardened. She could still remember the look of anger that had jumped into her mother's eyes. It was the first time she had seen her look like that. And it was that look that had kept this memory indented in her mind.
“Natasha, how many times do I have to tell you? You have no papa.”
She noticed the struggle her mother made in keeping her voice calm, but with the innocent obstinacy of a little child, she pushed her case even further.
“But Lydia has a papa.” Her little index finger pointed in the direction of the room opposite theirs, where a girl about her age lived with both parents.
“Yours is dead. He's dead to me, and he should be to you.” Her mother had stood up, crossed the room, and shut herself in the bedroom.
Later, she heard her sobs from the bedroom and her curiosity transformed into guilt as she imagined the pain she had caused her mother. For years, she probed no further about the subject.
But growing up in the cold city of Moscow without a father wasn't easy. She tried to stay content with her fate, but then, the sight of any young girl of her age with a man she presumed to be her father would bring to the surface; the pain, the bitterness, and the envy she felt inside. For she knew she could never be like them.
At thirteen, she took up the courage, and in a quiet voice, she asked her mother, “How did papa die?”
To her surprise, her mother had flared up.
“What is it about your father? Do you think he was any good?”
This reaction from her mother, she remembered. For it was what sowed the seed of coldness between mother and daughter.
As she grew into the age to be legally engaged in her mother's life of sin and excitement, a thought haunted her. Maybe she was the product of a foolish mistake made by a prostitute. Maybe her mother didn't even know who her father was because she was having it off with too many men.
As this thought continued to nudge her, that seed of coldness germinated into resent.
At eighteen, equipped with beauty and a body, men thirsted after. She made her plans. Men were dogs. She had the merchandise they wanted, and she knew how to sell it. She wasn’t kidding herself that they would find her attractive forever. A time might come when some other younger girls struggling to survive; would push her down the line of desirables, but before then, she would have had her fair share of all the money the world offered.
At nineteen, with enough money saved, she migrated to America.
A voice from the loudspeaker in the plane brought her back from her thoughts.
“Flight attendants, prepare for landing, please. Cabin crew, please take your seats for landing.”

To divorcee and separated couples, always tell your children what happened between you and your ex... Let them be the judge don't pick a side for them...
Op, nice one... Athemisia is impressed!

Following quietly, weldon @DanielJunior

dawno2008:
Following quietly, weldon @DanielJunior

@dawno2008 thanks for the encouragement

This chapter is dedicated to @dawno2008
If this chapter gets up to twenty likes, I would drop another episode in 24hrs


The plane touched down at 10:55 a.m. at the Miami International Airport. Among the passengers to leave the plane, Natasha alighted. A Hermes handbag hung over her left shoulder, a diamond and emerald necklace on her neck, and a small-sized leather traveling bag was on her right hand.
She walked briskly to the Arrival center, passed the police control with a wide, sensual smile to the officer in control, and walked out into Miami's cold winter morning.
She hurried to a waiting taxi, and as she opened the rear door, a hand dropped on her shoulder.
Startled, she swiveled around. Seeing her husband, she relaxed, then smiled.
“Are you going to enter that, not when I've been here for the past half hour waiting for you?” Rico said. A false, stern expression on his face.
…
Gorevoy Egorov came slowly and lazily awake. He turned over on the small-sized bed that barely fitted his muscular frame and grimaced as his leg contacted the floor. He drew back his leg onto the bed, picked up his phone that laid on the floor by his side, and opened it. The time was 8:15 a.m.
He looked around the closet-sized room and concluded that his den back in prison was a lot spacious than it. Stretching, he yawned, ran his fingers through his dark hair, and then reached for a cigarette. He lit it, sat up, and relaxed with his back against the wall.
Even through the thick material of his cotton shirt, he could feel the coldness and dampness of the wall.
He drew down a lungful of smoke, coughed, then stared up at the now brown but formerly white ceiling. Twice, he had woken up in the night and dialed Anya's number. Not that he had expected anything different, but he considered there was no harm in trying.
He stared at his phone, hesitated, then made another hopeless attempt as he dialed her number again.
As the bored, flat voice of the operator came on the line, he cut off the call, locked the phone, and dropped it on the floor beside him.
He let the smoke drift down his nostrils. It was no use getting himself worked up. In six days, he would have finished his business in Miami and be on his way back to Russia. Once in Russia, he reflected, he would surely know what had happened.
He stubbed out what was left of the cigarette on the floor, threw off the sheet, and rolled out of the bed. He got rid of his clothes, crossed the room, and went into the bathroom.
The apartment was a dreary one-room affair with a bathroom and a toilet. It was the best he had afforded; for three days since he got out of prison. He didn't grumble. It wasn't in his nature to grumble. After all, he had seen better days. But, while he lived in jail like a caged animal, he had promised himself revenge when he got out.
As he shaved, he recalled when he had turned on the light in Rico's office. The sudden expression of fear and shock, which had appeared on Pascal's face; when he had lifted his head and recognized him. He would give anything to see the same expression on Rico’s face. But he had to be patient. He had to find out first if Rico was truly getting out of the game. If he was, then there could be money in this for him.
He took a shower and patted his face with an aftershave. Returning to the room, he took his suit from the hanger. He polished his black shoes, put on his shirt, tie, and pants.
Then he lifted the foam and upturned it. Tucked inside the foam; were the dollar bills he had helped himself to from Rico's hidden recess. He took it out. There were fifteen stacks. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Not a bad sum of bread for a jailbird to get his hands on.
He tucked in his shirt, then tucked in the money into his pants, around his waistline. The waistband of his pants held the bills tight. He left two stacks out on the floor, fastened his belt, and turned the foam back.
He put on his suit, satisfied himself that the money showed no bulge, then wore his shoe, put on his black overcoat, and black hat, dropped the two remaining stacks with his gun, and its silencer, in his pocket, and left the room.
Mrs. Atabei owned the apartment block. It was a derelict two-story building in Little Haiti. She was a large and floppily built woman, well into her late fifties.
Her old floppy face fell when Gorevoy told her he was moving out.
Well, he didn't blame her. He guessed her husband had handed the apartment over to her. She was just a woman who was trying to make a living off what she had but was finding it difficult because she couldn't keep pace with the fast-changing times. He had to admit that even the homeless wouldn't find it so exciting to live here.
He dropped a hundred in her hand, and before she could bring herself to thank him, he was out of the apartment.
He crossed the street to where he had his car parked, got in, and started the engine.
It was 9:05 by the time he reached Little Havana. He turned off the avenue and into SW 6th St. and pulled up in front of an abandoned-looking bungalow.
Jack Jerry had a basement apartment in the bungalow.
He got out of the car, shifted his hat to the back of his head, and walked down the path to the front door of Jerry's apartment. He rang the bell and waited.
There was a brief delay while he stood in the early morning cold. Then, the door opened. A small, shadowy man wearing steel-rimmed spectacles appeared in the doorway.
“Who is it?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper.
Gorevoy said nothing and the old man, probably in his sixties, adjusted his glasses and peered closely at his face.
“Is it you, Gorevoy?” he asked in doubt.
Gorevoy smiled.
“It's me all right, Jack.”
The small head jerked backward, threatening to snap out of its frail-looking neck. His mouth hung open for a moment.
“Is this you, Gorevoy? After all these years... Well, come on in,” the old man said and stepped aside.
Gorevoy, pleased to get out of the cold, moved into the passage. The heat from the house welcomed him, and his hunched shoulders relaxed. The hard light stretching out into the dark passage from an open door led him to the living room.
He moved into the shabbily furnished living room and took a seat in a well-worn armchair, while Jerry locked the front door. Looking up at the elaborate chandelier which produced the light in the room, he noticed only two of its many bulbs functioned.
Jerry came into the room. He took a seat on the sofa opposite Gorevoy, his face beamed with pleasure.
“When did you get out, Gorevoy?”
“Some days ago,” Gorevoy said, relaxing back in the chair.
“Pardon my manners, Gorevoy. Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
“You needn't bother, Jack,” Gorevoy protested, but the old man was already across the room at the electric percolator. “I haven't much time, Jack.”
“Come on… I know you want something ... that's why you're here, but I wouldn't hear of it not until after a cup of coffee.” Pouring the coffee into the cups, he asked, “Does Jamie know you're out?”

I have liked the last post o please don't wait for 20 likes pity we that follow back to back. Thanks for the update

ashatoda:
I have liked the last post o please don't wait for 20 likes pity we that follow back to back. Thanks for the update

Haha! For your sake and the sake of others following, I will drop another episode today

Next episode drops in 12hrs

Awww thanks so much for the kind gesture, truly appreciate, and can't wait for the next update,keep it flowing

Gorevoy's face darkened.
“He would know all right.”
Jerry brought the coffee over, handed one to Gorevoy, and with the second cup, he sat down. He stared at Gorevoy for some time, hesitating. He hadn't missed the tightness in Gorevoy's voice.
“Gorevoy, sometimes I wonder if Jamie wasn't behind the whole set-up. It was too glib that only you got implicated, and who gained most from it? Jamie!”
Gorevoy said nothing, but Jerry who was watching him saw the muscles of his face twitch. He took a sip from his cup.
“Things aren't the same way they used to be before you went in, Gorevoy... a lot has changed.”
The corners of Gorevoy's mouth twisted into a sour smile. Looking at the old man was enough confirmation that a lot indeed had changed.
Ten years ago, he had met Jerry at a cocktail party hosted by a man up the food chain in the drug business. The two had got talking. Jerry had taken a liking to him. After the party, they had met up several times. Jerry knew his racket and had confided in him.
“I'm an artist,” he had said. “Passport, certificate… whatever it is, I can handle it. We never know when we'll need these things.”
Jack Jerry wasn't so much of an ambitious man and he had been content to work shifts as an elevator attendant at one of the big hotels, and he owned this apartment. He was a man who was satisfied with himself, whose standards weren't high, who was beyond caring about the vanities of this world, but he had been a man of extreme handsomeness. Looking at him now, Gorevoy saw that age had taken away whatever claim he had to that title.
“A lot has changed, Gorevoy,” Jerry continued. “Jamie isn't the same man he was ten years ago. He's added a lot of weight, money, and power.” He paused as he drank from his cup. “Whatever you're planning, take this advice from an old man, be careful.”
There was a long pause, then Jerry dropped his empty cup on the table. Leaning forwards, he asked, “What can I do for you, Gorevoy?”
“A change of identity,” Gorevoy said. “Your special.”
Jerry's eyes smiled.
“Then, let's get to it. As you said, you haven't much time.”
“What is it going to cost, Jack?”
“For you, my friend... it comes free,” Jerry said, getting to his feet. He crossed to his inner room and brought back with him a briefcase. He set it on the table and opened it.
From the suitcase, he took out scissors, a shaving stick, and a make-up set.
He began by cutting Gorevoy's thick black hair to a crew cut, then he led him to the bathroom where he gave the hair a strong peroxide rinse.
“We would have to get rid of the mustache.”
Gorevoy ran his fingers over the thick bristle mustache that had taken him so many years to grow.
“This's some kind of identification in my family. My father had a thicker one than this before he died. But, anything you say goes, Jack.”
Thirty minutes later, Gorevoy was completely transformed.
A tall, blond man with a crew haircut stood before the full-length mirror in Jerry's inner room, regarding himself with startled eyes, but full of interest. The clean face rid of mustache and beards made him look ten years younger.
A nice transformation, Gorevoy thought. That was as far as he would admit to himself, for he wouldn't admit this was a more handsome man than his former self.
“Good work, Jack... good work,” he said, nodding appreciatively.
Jerry beamed. He thrived on praises.
“Now, for a means of identification for our new character, what name would you propose?”
“Pick an American name for me, Jack,” Gorevoy said absentmindedly, still admiring his reflection in the mirror.
“You've got a passport?”
“Yeah.” He brought out a small envelope and handed it to Jerry.
“I guess a passport to return to Russia?” Jerry asked.
“No... A driver’s license.”
Jerry raised an eyebrow and focused his gaze on Gorevoy, but Gorevoy turned away from his reflection in the mirror, went out of the room, into the living room, and sat down in the armchair.
Jerry followed him out, his eyes looking inquiringly at him.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be a jailbird, Jack. The world is unfavorable enough as a place; for the man with a job, but hell for a jailbird. The system designed it so he would starve. I intend to use it to get a job. It wouldn't last more than a week, but the pay is substantial.”
Jerry lifted his shoulder in a shrug of disappointment. He wasn't born last night to believe what Gorevoy had just told him.
“I've got this feeling you are planning something, Gorevoy. But whatever it is, be careful. Vengeance is a two-edged sword.” He paused for a long moment, then went on. “Won't you tell me what it is you've got up your sleeves?”
Gorevoy shook his head.
“The lesser you know about this, the safer you would be if it fails. And tell no one I'm out.”
Jerry nodded and crossed to his inner room.
Thirty minutes later, the door leading to the inner room opened, and he came out.
“This's it,” he said, as he came into the living room. He handed Gorevoy the license. “It's a beautiful job.”
Gorevoy examined the plastic card. It looked genuine enough, and well-worn, as it had only six months before its expiry. The name on the card was Larry Gates. Address: California. He nodded approvingly.
“It's a marvelous job, Jack… you sure you want nothing for it.”
Jerry's mouth tightened.
“Gorevoy, you've had a tough time in jail... Keep what you've got left, you'd need it better than I would.”
Gorevoy smiled.
“You're a loyal friend, Jack.” He took his empty coffee cup from the table and waved it at Jerry. “One more of this, please… it's a damn fine coffee.”
This pleased Jerry. He took the cup from Gorevoy and hurried away to the electric percolator. As he reached the percolator, Gorevoy glanced back. He saw the old man pouring coffee into the cup and quickly; he took out one stack of dollars in his overcoat's pocket and slid it under the newspaper on the center table.
Jerry returned with the cup full and gave it to Gorevoy, who collected it appreciatively. Carefully, he emptied it, dropped the cup on the table, and stood up.
“You've done a lot for me, Jack,” he said, taking the old man in a warm embrace. “One of these days I could repay.”
“You owe me nothing, Gorevoy,” Jerry said firmly.
Gorevoy left the apartment with Jerry staring after him. As he reached his car, Jerry closed his door.
In the car, he glanced once again at his reflection in the driver’s mirror. He knew it would last more than a week. Soon, his hair would grow dark again and the make-up would fade. Well, one week was enough time to finish his business in Miami.
He started his car, drove down the street, and turned onto 18th Avenue, heading for downtown Miami.

Nice update, I can imagine the look on jack's face when he discovers the money