Tiger (20 page)

All at once, the gunshots stopped.

Wally had a decision to make: there were five vehicles parked in the lot, three nice Cadillac SUVs, one black Humvee, and one big black Mercedes sedan. One of the SUVs—a black one that Wally recognized as Divine's ride—was parked facing outward.

They sidled toward the black SUV.

“OPEN IT!” she commanded, and Kyle obeyed, reaching for the driver's-side door.

Wally slid in, backward, pulling Kyle along with her until he was seated behind the wheel and she was in the front passenger seat.

“WHERE'S THE GUN?!” Wally shouted into his ear, certain that all of Divine's vehicles would have weapons readily at hand. Kyle's right arm flailed out, pointing desperately toward the center console. Wally clicked the console open and came away with a
9
mm Glock, fully loaded.

“KEYS!”

Kyle reached for the sun visor, grunting in pain, and pulled down the keys. Another quick jab with the glass and he started the car, putting it in gear and steering toward the closed gate of the compound.

“GO!” she said, keeping the shard pressed against his neck with her left hand and holding the Glock in her right.

Kyle accelerated toward the gate as Wally lowered the window on her side. Alabama and the shotgun guy were just emerging from the door of the warehouse, both of them with weapons raised. Wally pointed the Glock and focused herself: she squeezed off two shots, aiming not for the men but into the open doorway. The two gunmen sensed what she was doing and dove away from the door, just as one of Wally's shots hit a metal hinge and kicked up a spark, igniting the gas inside the hallway.

The ground floor of the warehouse exploded in a ball of fire that shot straight out the door and engulfed the SUV parked nearest to the explosion. Within seconds, the vehicle exploded in flames and the fire was threatening to spread to every vehicle in the lot. Kyle accelerated, plowing his father's SUV through the closed gate and squealing out onto the street, pulling away. Wally tossed the shard of glass out the window of the moving vehicle and now trained the Glock at Kyle's head.

“Keep going,” she commanded.

A mile to the north, Wally forced Kyle to pull over, and she took over behind the wheel. She forced him into a fetal position down in the passenger-side wheel well. He didn't resist, instead cowering into the jammed space with one hand over the open wound in his neck.

“I'll take you to Tiger,” Kyle sputtered, the blood still spilling out of him and clashing with his now ghostly pale skin.

“I know you will,” she replied.

TIGER MADE IT THROUGH THE SECURITY LINE
easily—he was the same age as most of the local kids who were pouring into the old factory, and he didn't have a cell phone or weapon on him.

The inside of the building was a storm of sensory overload. House music blared at deafening levels, and a full light show strobed along with the beat, the brightest flashes burning into Tiger's retinas until he was seeing spots everywhere he looked. A row of smoking tiki torches ran along each side of the huge, open space—their primeval glow framed the throbbing mass of youth that filled the dance floor, many of them half-naked already and stoned out of their minds on whatever party drugs Sweet's men were passing out.

As he moved along the outer edges of what was once the factory floor, Tiger had to step around the entangled bodies of partiers—some of them were obviously local kids, but an equal number were Sweet's young soldiers, who were mingling with the locals and taking what they wanted, however they wanted.

At the end of the floor Tiger found the staircase that led up into the tower section of the factory. There were four young men at the foot of the stairs, each holding an assault rifle and wearing dark sunglasses. How did they see anything in that room with those shades on? Two were dark-skinned black kids, probably African. The other two looked to be Thai or Indonesian. Their tight, muscular physiques were clad in classic American street-thug attire: white tank tops, brand-new oversized jeans, and spotless Timberland boots. Paired with the assault weapons, they were every street cop's nightmare.

When Tiger reached the stairs, one of the African kids held up his hand and spoke in heavily accented English.

“Mista man, we don't know you!” the kid hollered in Tiger's face. “Fuck off and move your ass away from here!”

“No, bitch—fuck you,” Tiger answered, unflinching.

All four assault weapons were in Tiger's face immediately, fingers tight on triggers, twitchy nerves unconnected to anything that resembled a moral conscience. These boys had been through hell in their lives, and Sweet had exploited their pain and suffering, turning it to a white-hot rage ready to erupt upon the world. Tiger looked at them and saw only darkness, nothing behind their faces but greater depths of fury.

Is that what others see when they look at me?
Tiger couldn't help but think it. Did his soul look as lost as theirs? He saw no sign that these soldiers—these children—were capable of redemption, but how could one person ever know that about another? Tiger realized that he would have no reservations about pulling the trigger on Sweet, provided he could get close enough.

“What's the worst way you've seen your boss kill a man?” he said to the boys, their rifles still in his face. “That's how you'll die if you do me dirt.”

His fearlessness gave them pause.

“Who the fuck is you, boy?” one of the Asian kids asked.

“Tell Sweet that Tiger Klesko is here.”

“Gentlemen, we're in the presence of
Vory
royalty!” Sweet boasted—a little drunkenly—when he saw Tiger enter the room at the top level of the tower. “Here we have Tiger, son of the notorious Alexei Klesko.”

Sweet hadn't changed since Tiger had seen him several years earlier. He was still pale and short and pudgy, his thinning blond hair even wispier. He spoke in the smooth, precise English that seemed second nature to so many Swedes, giving him an entirely civilized veneer. But the man's eyes—a steely, intensely focused blue with a sense of unrest lurking behind them—projected all the authority he needed to command the attention of the room.

The man stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Tiger, but the warm gesture turned into yet another pat down for weapons.

“No offense,” Sweet whispered into Tiger's ear when he was done.

Tiger shrugged—just business. Such caution was how a man like Sweet stayed alive.

The top floor of the tower was comprised of one large room with a high ceiling and windows on all four walls. Set off to the side were remnants of what must have been the administrative center of the old factory—broken-down desks and swivel chairs and endless power cables. The sounds of house music rumbled up from far below, and the floor under their feet vibrated from painfully amplified bass rhythms. At least five of Sweet's security crew kept post at the perimeter of the room, armed and ready.

A dozen mid-level crime bosses were also in attendance, just as Divine had predicted. Dressed in sharp suits and on their best behavior, the hoods hovered near Sweet, eager to curry favor with the man whose international connections could instantly raise their profiles and make them very rich—if that's what Sweet chose to do. The big man's warm acceptance of Tiger instantly gave him cachet among the others; he could feel their envious gazes.

Sweet took a step back and looked Tiger up and down. “Still very pretty. Not quite so much of a child as the last time we met. Not even a whisker on your face back then, yes?”

“One grows up quickly.”

“Ah,” Sweet agreed, with a sense of regret. “And your father?” The expression on Sweet's face told Tiger that the man already knew the answer.

“The Americans have him buried in a hole somewhere,” Tiger said, faking anger at the insult of it all.

“They won't be able to hold him,” Sweet said.

“No one ever has,” Tiger answered, sounding like a loyal and admiring son. “Not for long.”

Sweet nodded in agreement. “I'm pleased you've arrived in time for us to meet—I have only a few minutes to spend here before I'm off. And so . . . what can I do for you, Tiger-son-of-Klesko?”

“I've worn out my welcome in this place,” Tiger said simply. “If you can use me, I'm looking for work. And a ride out.”

Sweet studied Tiger, thinking, and nodded as if ready to consider the offer.

“We might have something for you,” he said. “Let me think on it. I have some business to finish up, first.
Noblesse oblige
. It's what we do.”

Sweet patted Tiger on the shoulder and then returned to his other guests, listening patiently to their praise and proposals. Tiger scanned the room and found the bathroom door near the northwest corner of the room. He made his way there, finding that one of the security boys was lurking just behind, shadowing him. Tiger stopped at the door of the bathroom and turned to the kid.

“What? You want to come in and hold it for me?” Tiger said.

The kid backed off, and Tiger entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him. As soon as he was alone, he exhaled heavily, releasing the tension he had fought back in the room with Sweet. Tiger hated any kind of pretending—he was always better at the shooting part.

He looked up and saw that the bathroom had a paneled ceiling—all sagging and yellow and water-damaged—but the panels closest to the wall were more or less intact. He stood on the toilet lid and reached up, pushing the corner panel up and sliding it out of the way. He felt around in the empty space above, his fingers finally making contact with two items, which he pulled down and set on the sink: a small
9
mm Browning with an eleven-shot clip and a cell phone.

He picked up and checked the Browning's mag and slide, making sure it was in working order. He chambered the first round. The cell phone was the folding kind, and when Tiger opened it he found a small note taped to the screen. It read:
Text to speed dial #
1
when in position
. Tiger opened the texting app and typed,
In
. His thumb hovered over the “send” button, but he paused.

He considered his options. There were two ways Wally would survive the night: if she somehow managed to escape the Ranch, or if Tiger carried out the hit and Divine kept his word to let her go free. Tiger had faith in Wally's resourcefulness, but the odds were steep against her escaping on her own. The second possibility was equally unlikely—he couldn't trust that Divine would keep Wally safe—but that scenario was the only one Tiger had any control over. If he went ahead and killed Sweet, his action might at least give Wally more time to break free.

Tiger checked the gun a second time, making sure every part of the mechanism was working smoothly. He slid the weapon inside his waistband, just near his right hip, where he could draw it quickly. Sweet's security boys would gun Tiger down almost immediately, but not soon enough to stop him. In that final moment, Tiger would have held the value of someone else's life—Wally's—above his own. If that didn't prove how different he was from his father, nothing else would.

Tiger opened the door and stepped back into the big room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WALLY STEERED

THE ESCALADE OFF THE INTERSTATE and onto a two-lane county road, following Kyle's directions. She passed by a large suburban housing development, but after that the road turned dark and rural—mostly farmland to either side of the road, as far as she could tell.

“How long before the turnoff?” she asked.

Kyle was still curled up in the passenger's-side wheel well, mostly quiet except for his pained, labored breathing.

“Kyle,” she repeated, keeping her eyes on the road ahead of her and impatient with his weakness, “how long before the turnoff?”

“I don't know,” he said, in a weak and pathetic voice that made Wally cringe, disgusted all over again that she had allowed herself to be made a fool of by someone so unworthy. “A mile, maybe three . . . I'd have to see it for myself.”

“Fine. Sit up in your seat.”

Kyle slid up and onto the passenger seat, unfolding himself slowly until he was seated upright. The bloody marks on his neck had mostly dried, but the wounds still looked angry and raw, ready to bleed again at any time. He stared out through the windshield, the SUV's headlights stretching far ahead on the country road. After about two minutes of driving, he pointed to a blue reflector on the right side of the road, marking a paved service road that ran northeast off the county road.

“There,” Kyle said. “Up that way.”

Wally steered the Escalade onto the service road, which was well-paved but completely dark, surrounded by dense woods on either side. Wally was on edge now, anticipating the location that Kyle had eventually described to her on the way: a large, abandoned factory space that was being used as a site for a massive rave. There would be a tower to one side of the factory, where Tiger would be headed. The entire facility would be well defended by the security team of a man named Sweet—who was also Tiger's target.

Within just a minute of driving, the sky ahead began to glow a little, reflecting bright lights from somewhere below. Wally rolled down the windows of the Escalade and could hear house music—thumping bass and piercing electronica—a bit faint for the moment but growing in volume as they rolled closer.

“It's already happening,” Wally said, more to herself than Kyle.

She had barely gotten her words out when Kyle suddenly reached for his door handle and pulled it, swinging the door outward and hurling himself out onto the dark shoulder of the road.

“
Kyle!
” Wally shouted, pounding her fists on the steering wheel. She was outraged with herself at being caught off guard.

Wally immediately skidded the car to a stop and jumped out, but Kyle was nowhere to be found. The SUV had been traveling at just over thirty miles per hour when he had jumped, but it still would have been a hard, painful landing. How far could he have made it in just a few seconds? The shoulder of the road was dense with brush and she had no flashlight, so Wally stood still and listened for a few moments, waiting for Kyle to reveal his location. There were no sounds at all coming from the brush, and no sign of movement.

Kyle was disciplined enough to keep himself completely still.

Shit
. Wally wanted badly to go in after him—feeling her way through the darkness on her hands and knees, if that's what it took—but realized that if she ventured out into the dark brush, she would be vulnerable to an attack from Kyle. Reaching Tiger was her priority, and she couldn't risk screwing it up.

“I'll find you, Kyle,” Wally warned in a normal tone, knowing he had to be very close. “And you'll never see me coming.”

She listened for a moment more, then climbed back into the Escalade and motored on along the service road, all the while trying to set aside her frustration at letting Kyle escape. She passed through another mile or so of dark forest before finally reaching the factory complex.

It was a huge building with one long section about four or five stories high and a higher tower section on the far end—where Tiger would be headed, if Kyle's information could be believed. The compound was surrounded by a very high cyclone fence with razor wire on top. Two or three hundred vehicles of every type were already parked in the surrounding fields, with a few dozen young people—excited and talkative—walking across the ground toward an open gate in the fence. A rainbow of flashing strobes leaked from every opening in the factory, and even outside the building, the house music was almost deafening.

Wally left her gun in the car, sure that it would not make it through the kind of security she was expecting. She casually mixed with the other kids as they approached the gate, trying to act relaxed, but in reality staying hyperalert—she could sense that Tiger was very close now, and already approaching his target.

Wally didn't know all the details about her brother's mission, but everything she had learned about Divine and his organization—his involvement in black-market arms sales, the extreme violence he'd used, and the fact that Alabama had been in the market to purchase very powerful, untraceable explosives—told her that something devastating and huge was about to go off. Wally needed to find Tiger before he was destroyed by whatever Divine had planned, and time was critical. She felt as if a bomb was ticking inside her chest.

The guards at the gate—four of them—were nothing like she expected. They were of various nationalities, and no older than she was. They'd dressed in a hodgepodge of guerrilla military gear, and most of them possessed the distant, impassive look of battle-hardened veterans. All were armed with “choppers”—assault rifles—plus knives and handguns stuffed into their belts. Wally smiled blankly as she approached the gate, matching her outward mood to that of the gleeful, stoned kids around her.

One of the guards patted Wally down, lingering too long on her curves as his hands ran along her body. He had a strange gleam in his eye, as if imagining the things he would do to her when he had the chance.

“Find anything you like?” she smiled flirtatiously, letting her eyelids droop as if she was heavily stoned. The guard—an Asian kid no older than fourteen but with a look like he had been through the wars—winked at her.

“Maybe I see you inside?” he said.

She and the other kids entered the main building and were immediately swallowed up in a storm of music and light, hundreds of dancing, sexing, tripped-out kids filling the vast space. Wally was impressed—the scene was more depraved than most of the action she'd witnessed in Manhattan clubs.

At the edges of the room were dozens of young bodies wrapped up in each other—half-dressed boys and girls in groups with no gender boundaries, writhing around on the floor. They were lit dimly by rows of tiki torches set to either side of the room, flames flickering to the vibrations of the house music and smoke rising up toward the ceiling in oily, acrid plumes. It was like a level of hell, Wally thought—the kind you'd see in a classic old painting at the Metropolitan Museum, where legions of the damned were being roasted alive in a fiery pit.

Wally soon focused her attention on the north end of the room, where a staircase led up into the tower section of the old factory. There were four security “men” on guard there, each armed with choppers—military-issue assault rifles.

Wally was willing to bet her life that Tiger would be there. She slowed her pace a little and passed by the foot of the stairs, fixing a playful gaze on one of the guards—an African-looking guy of no more than sixteen—his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark aviator sunglasses and a soldier's red beret perched sideways on his head, the edges of an Afro poking out the sides. Once she was sure the guard had clocked her, she headed for an exit at the east side of the floor.

She didn't need to look back—Wally could sense the boy following her. She reached the doorway and exited back out into the night, headed toward a shadow at the edge of the building. This side of the grounds was empty, save for one young sentry standing post at the southeast corner of the building, about forty feet away.

Wally had just reached the shadowed area when a hand grabbed her by the shoulder and roughly turned her around. The African kid wore a cocksure grin as he set his assault rifle against the cyclone fence and leaned in toward Wally, jamming his tongue into her mouth without skill or nuance, like he was pushing a plunger into a toilet bowl. Wally placed a hand on his chest and pushed him gently away.

With a suggestive smirk, she glanced toward the sentry at the corner of the building. Romeo took the hint and yelled at the sentry to get lost. The sentry complied, disappearing around the corner of the building to give the young lovers some privacy. Romeo turned back to Wally, running his hand up her shirt as he leaned in with his lips parted.

His tongue never made contact this time. Wally brought her elbow up hard and drove it into the kid's throat. His eyes bulged hugely as he absorbed the full force of the blow and struggled to breathe, a surge of adrenaline burning through all the oxygen in his lungs until he went limp and passed out on the ground. Wally grabbed his rifle from its place by the fence.

Now she was armed.
What next?
The firepower of the assault rifle clearly wasn't enough to get her through the tower sentries, so she'd have to be more resourceful. There was an outside staircase leading up to the tower, but it seemed inevitable that there would only be more guards posted there than she could handle.

Wally looked around and spotted a metal shed set off from the main factory building—was there some sort of mechanical sound coming from inside? She thought she could hear something barely discernible beneath the dense bass of the house music that filled the air. The shed was about fifty feet away, near the corner where the sentry had disappeared a few moments before. Wally approached the corner and peered around it, smiling at the sentry, who was now leaning against the outside wall of the factory, his rifle slung across his shoulder as he smoked.

“Hi,” Wally said.

The sentry smiled back and tossed his cigarette away, heading toward her. As he rounded the corner, Wally whipped her new assault rifle around, striking the unsuspecting boy on the forehead. He dropped to the ground in a motionless heap. Wally grabbed his rifle and flung it away, then approached the metal shed. As she drew nearer, the ground underneath her vibrated with the rhythm of a motor.

She darted into the shed, finding a large engine inside that was running at a high pitch. A generator, of course. The factory probably hadn't been on the power grid in decades, Wally figured, and lots of power would be needed to light it up for the evening's festivities. She knew nothing about engines, but she reached out anyway and grabbed the round rubber thing on the front of the motor that had two cables coming out of it. She gave the cables a strong pull and the rubber part popped right off the engine, which sputtered for a few seconds before shutting down completely.

The music and lights in the factory immediately went dead, and the echo of the sounds bounced back and forth across the valley for a second or two before giving way to complete silence. Wally could imagine the hundreds of stoned kids all standing completely still on the dance floor, trying to figure out what was happening and wondering if the interruption was real or just in their own heads.

After a moment of quiet, Wally heard a stirring from inside, voices speaking and hooting and booing at the interruption of their fun, while others laughed out loud at the sheer surprise of it all. The dim glow of the flickering tiki torches inside the factory could just be seen through the windows, and Wally realized that it was the light of the torches that was preventing an all-out panic among the partiers.

Chaos
, thought Wally.
That's what we need
.

She looked up to the highest part of the main factory roof, where there was a row of glass skylights that stretched the entire length of the building. About half were already broken but many remained intact. Wally shouldered her assault rifle and aimed high, toward the glass.