The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(95)

Zhomov felt himself becoming weightless, the door and the floor pulling away from him. “What the hell?” he said.

He had been picked up and hurled backward, into the concrete wall. The hat dislodged from his head and the gun slipped from his hand, both clattering across the floor. Zhomov had the presence of mind to lunge for his weapon, but a boot struck his back and pinned him against the ground. Hands gripped his wrists, pulled his arms behind his back, and quickly applied zip ties. Duct tape was wrapped around his mouth and the back of his head, and a harness was fitted around his torso. Then he was again suspended in air, this time hung from one of the empty hooks, his shoes two feet off the ground.

A setup. An elaborate setup. But who?

The man who had lifted him so readily wore a white coat and hard hat. He was as big as one of the slabs of meat. A second man, familiar somehow, stepped forward dressed in an expensive suit and tie. It took Zhomov a moment to place the face, one he had not seen in several years.

His eyes widened with recognition and confusion. He had seen the face at Lubyanka.

“I see you remember me, Colonel Zhomov. I am flattered,” Viktor Federov said. “And I am delighted that you have decided to hang around to see how this all turns out. No pun intended, of course.”





51


Irkutsk Meatpacking Plant

Irkutsk, Russia

Yekaterina Velikaya considered Charles Jenkins, battered and beaten, but not yet broken. Remarkable. Most men caved at just the thought of enduring such pain. Those who considered themselves tough enough gave in after less than half the beating Jenkins had endured. It had convinced her that Jenkins had not been part of any CIA operation to kill her son, but rather had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It did not change the outcome, though. Because Jenkins had chosen to become involved, Eldar was dead. Jenkins might not have been the bullet, but he had been the gun. The former could not be deadly without the latter.

Under other circumstances she would have offered a man with such fortitude a job. Men with such conviction, such unquestioned belief in their principles, were rare and became more so with each passing year. But Yekaterina had no further use for him. He would not tell them Maria Kulikova’s whereabouts, or he did not know. If the former, he was the toughest son of a bitch she had ever encountered. It didn’t really matter.

She stepped away, again checking her watch. She needed to leave. They needed to find Maria Kulikova some other way.

“Do you know what they do with the scraps of meat and the sides of beef they do not sell, Mr. Jenkins?” she asked.

“I can guess,” he said.

“Yes. I’m sure you can. But let me tell you. They grind the unwanted pieces into hamburger and sausage. Have you ever seen a slab of meat go through the meat grinder, Mr. Jenkins? No? The grinder crushes everything—the bones, the cartilage, the tendons, the muscle, the fat. Of course, the cow is already dead. It feels no pain.” She turned and considered him, eyes as blue and cold as ice. “You will not be so fortunate.”

Jenkins smiled at her, but without a hint of arrogance or defiance. He smiled as if he knew her pain, and he was sorry for it. Then he said, “Nor will be the person who gets a sausage made out of me.”

A joke.

It almost brought a smile to her face. Almost.

Yekaterina turned and addressed Mily before she lost her nerve. “Advise me when this is finished. I will meet you at the plane.” She did not want to stay and watch. She’d learned long ago, when her father had died, that vengeance did not bring satisfaction. It didn’t even temper the pain of death. It would not temper the pain of Eldar’s death. It only let others know that killings would come at a heavy cost. Retribution. An eye for an eye.

Heavy is the head that must wear the crown, she recalled her father saying.

“Something else, Comare?” Mily asked.

She thought of Jenkins’s family, of his wife whom she would make a widow, and his two children who would grow up without a father. What was worse, she wondered, to grow up without a father or to grow old without a child? She thought the latter, if only because it was against the natural order. “No,” she said.

She climbed into the back seat of the SUV and took one last glance at Jenkins. She could not help but think he looked Christlike, hanging dead on the cross, arms straining from the weight of his body, no longer able to hold himself upright. Her driver started the car and dropped the engine into drive, moving across the finished concrete floor toward one of the rolled-up bay doors. The driver slowed. Then he stopped, causing her to look up from her thoughts. “What is the problem?” she asked.

“I don’t know. A worker just rolled the bay door shut and has padlocked it.”

“What?” She leaned forward to look through the windshield. The worker disappeared behind strips of plastic. “Try another bay.”

Her driver did as she instructed. Again, as the car approached the bay, a worker rolled the door closed and padlocked it. Once was chance. Twice was coincidence. She pointed to a third bay, but before she could get the words out, the door rolled shut. Three times is a pattern.

All around the warehouse she heard the bay doors rolling shut, slamming when they hit the ground.

The lights to the building dimmed, everything now cast in the red glow of the emergency lights near the exits.

The driver put the car in reverse and hit the gas, tires spinning on slick concrete, smoke filling the air. He swung around and returned to Mily and the other men, who had pulled automatic assault rifles and stood back-to-back.