Free Countdown to Zero Hour by Nico Rosso Page B

Nothing with a scope, so their range would be limited. The roof was too pitched for a sniper up top. The top-floor windows were the highest vantage.
    He took Hayley’s phone from the lockbox and closed up the car. A lot of the house’s angles needed to be mapped. He’d have to take his time to avoid suspicion, but the clock on the operation was always ticking. It sounded in his head like the cylinder of a .357 spinning.
    Back at the front door of the house, the shooter with the bad attitude didn’t even glance at him. Fuck it if Art wasn’t completely trusted. His goal wasn’t to move up in the organization. His involvement with the Orel Group ended when the last shot was fired and the bosses were either dead or being handed over to the appropriate authorities.
    The men who controlled the empire, who ran the guns, the drugs, the girls and intimidated or killed anyone who stood in their way, were literally at the top of the house. Art climbed the stairs to the third floor. The uppermost landing revealed a broad room and bright windows to the right and a wall of five doors on the left. These were the bosses’ rooms.
    It had already been arranged that Rolan would have the second door. As far as Art knew, only one other boss was there, Dernov. Three to go. When all five were in place, Art would call in and lead the strike.
    He tapped on Rolan’s door and was told in Russian to enter.
    The silver-haired man sat in a plush chair by a far window. The room was nicely furnished. King-size bed, couch, matching lamps. Rolan took off his reading glasses, folded his book and motioned Art forward.
    “Has the cook settled in?” he asked in Russian.
    Art knew Hayley would never be comfortable in the house. “She’s putting together the kitchen now.”
    Rolan checked his heavy, expensive watch. “But not in time for lunch.”
    “A bachelor’s lunch today.” Art held up Hayley’s phone. “Do you want to hold on to her phone, or should I?”
    “Give it to Garin, Dernov’s man. They have a lockbox.” Rolan put his glasses back on. His ice-blue eyes peered at Art over the lenses. “There will be times we bring you into the room to talk about the Mexicans, in America and across the border. Don’t worry about the other bosses’ bloodlines. You have something to offer, and I vouch for you.”
    “Thank you.” Art smiled proudly, like he’d been given a gift. He knew Rolan couldn’t see past the mask. If the boss could peer into the darkness within Art and see the black fury, he’d be screaming for the guards.
    When the week was over, Art wouldn’t have to pretend to like any of these sons of bitches anymore. He wouldn’t have to give them slivers of information about the Latino population in San Diego. He wouldn’t have to spend any more time with Rolan or the organization that had murdered his father.
    Not that any of them remembered Tony Diaz. The Russian mob had just been getting a foothold in San Diego and had been on a mission to wipe out any competition. Art’s mother had described Art’s father as the mayor of their little corner of the city. He’d probably been running some social drugs, maybe a couple of dice games, but it was neighborhood business. The economy of the street, for and with the locals. He hadn’t been a pusher and he hadn’t shaken people down. He’d been a father to a five-year-old son, hustling what he could to keep his family afloat. Tony had been eliminated in a simple drive-by. To the Russians it was business. To Art is was his mother crying on the phone, aunts and uncles showing up, and a pain he still hadn’t learned to understand.
    Had Rolan pulled the trigger back then? Maybe he’d been the driver. They’d killed a lot of people to establish their power and continued to kill in order to hold on to it. And not just gangs and petty criminals. Business owners were beaten close to death if they didn’t cooperate. And ordinary people who were unfortunate enough to witness a crime