If The Seas Catch Fire(50)

“All right,” he said, making a mental note to go to the marina the night before and do a security check. “What time?”

“Saturday. Party starts at three-nineteen.”

The boat is in row three, slip nineteen.

“That only gives me a few days to prepare,” he muttered.

“That’s when the party is. Be there, or don’t count on another invitation.”

Invisible scorpions crawled up Sergei’s spine. This was one of those contracts—kill him when you’re told, or it’s your head next time. No room for error.

“This is another hundred grand job,” Baltazar said. “They want it done right, and they want it done on time. You in?”

As if Sergei had a choice. He knew about the job, so now he either had to accept the contract or wait for a bullet of his own.

“Yeah. I’m in.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up when it’s done. I don’t see you by 10:30 am, though, you’re on your own.”

Sergei nodded. “Where will you be waiting?”

“Red four.”

When the navigational buoys had been placed out in Cape Swan’s harbor to guide watercraft, he couldn’t help wondering if anyone had ever imagined they’d be used as rendezvous points for people like him and Baltazar. But, intentionally or not, the buoys served that purpose well, and Sergei would either be at the fourth red buoy by 10:30 in the morning, or he’d be in for a very long swim back to shore.

He settled up with Baltazar, and the Greek left the club. Not long after, so did Sergei. He’d already made arrangements for a shorter shift tonight because he needed to meet with someone out in a remote spot off Highway 103. It was a hell of a drive—almost two hours through hills, forest, and not much else.

Out in the middle of nowhere was a rest stop, and this time of night, there was no one around except a single silver sedan parked near the restrooms. There weren’t even any idling semi trucks out here. Most truckers didn’t stop here for long unless they were lost or broken down.

He didn’t like this area. This whole road was littered with bad memories. He couldn’t remember exactly where his family had been massacred, only that it was out here somewhere.

He shuddered and ignored the echoes of gunfire and screaming that always needled him out here.

As Sergei parked, his contact, Katashi, got out of the sedan.

“What’ve you got for me?” Sergei asked.

“Special delivery, of course.” Katashi set a box on the hood. “Eight hundred.”

Sergei opened the box and inspected the vials inside. They were intact, full, and appeared to be legit. Katashi had people on the inside of several pharmaceutical companies along the west coast, and they managed to smuggle out all kinds of shit. In this case, an experimental sedative that the FDA hadn’t yet approved but was helpful when he needed to put a mark on ice for a little while like he had with Nicolá Cannizzaro.

“Looks good.” Sergei paid him. “Anything else coming down the pipe?”

“Well, I got a lead on that stuff you’ve been asking for. Guy I know says he’s got something that’ll do the job.”

“Yeah? What’s he got?”

“Don’t know.” He shook his head. “But he said it’ll put someone out”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that. No pain, nothing.”

Sergei raised his eyebrows. “But you don’t know what’s in it?”

“There’s cyanide, that much I know.”

“Cyanide? Seems a little old school.”

Katashi shrugged. “Gets the job done. Just gotta spray it right in a guy’s face, let him breathe a little in, and good night. Long as you get the dose right, it looks like he’s had a heart attack.”

“Interesting.” That was a method of delivery Sergei hadn’t considered. Usually he’d heard of putting cyanide in food, or mixing it into a drink, but it was difficult to make sure someone got enough to kill them. Worse, with the wrong dosage, the symptoms were horrific. Surviving cyanide was a hell of a lot worse than dying from it.

“I need to know what’s in it to get the dose right, though.”

“I’ll make sure I get that for you along with the chemical.”

“Good.” Sergei nodded. “I need that one ASAP.”

“Guy wants two grand an ounce.”

“He does?” Sergei lifted his chin slightly. “Or you do?”

“Hey, man. I gotta get my cut too.”

“Yeah?” Sergei narrowed his eyes. “How big of a cut are you getting?”

Katashi gulped. “I can do eighteen hundred an ounce. No lower.”

“Mmhmm.” Sergei held the man’s gaze.

Katashi shifted. Squirmed. Cleared his throat.

Sergei didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t break eye contact.

“All right!” Katashi threw up his hands. “Seventeen fifty. Can’t go any lower, man.”

“Fine. Get me three ounces.” He counted out three grand and pressed it into Katashi’s hand. “You’ll get the rest when I get my merchandise. And I want it ASAP.”

“Man, I can’t—”

“For that price, you’re damn right you can.” Sergei stepped closer, looking straight into Katashi’s eyes. “And let’s get one thing straight. If this doesn’t work, and it’s not quick and painless and undetectable like you and your guy are saying it is—”