Free The Accidental Existentialist by Joshua Graham Page A

and
even to staged witnesses. A messy but necessary measure, though he
and Masterson held divergent agendas and priorities.
    As a director of the United States
Marine Corps Criminal Investigations Division, Masterson had kept
Khrenikov in his cross hairs for upwards of three decades. The “Big
K”, as they not so endearingly called him, had been responsible for
a frightening number of criminal operations ranging from narcotics,
to illegal immigration, to human trafficking. The number of deaths
Big K was responsible for (directly and indirectly) numbered in the
hundreds. He had to be stopped.
    All of this, Chris agreed with. But
for him, it was so much more personal. You don’t attach
spreadsheets and statistics to the life of an eight year old child.
Khrenikov was responsible for the cold-blooded murder of Ben, his
firstborn.
    Last year when he first transferred to
CID, Khrenikov sent several warnings. Unfortunately, the subtly of
those messages was lost on Chris. He didn’t heed them. In fact, he
didn’t even bother reporting them because they were personal
threats and as the new guy, he didn’t want to appear intimidated
before his C.O.
    That pig-headed pride resulted in the
abduction and drowning of his son. Sins of the father. That’s why
there was no way he would make the same mistake. Not when his wife
and four year old would pay the price for his folly.
    He was still reading the article when
someone sat on the bench next to him. Chris ignored him, but could
already smell the cigarette smoke on the guy’s breath as he opened
his mouth and cleared his throat.
    “ They go fishing every
day.” The guy’s Russian accent could choke an elephant. Chris
turned the page and said nothing. “You like to fish? I take you on
boat, now. We catch snappers, bluefish.”
    “ No thanks.” He remained
aloof, though he knew the guy sitting next to him was Rayshkin, one
of Krhenikov’s most ruthless assassins who would not think twice
about gutting him in broad daylight and dumping his entrails into
the bay, just to watch the silvery glint of fish coming up to the
water’s surface to feed on them.
    “ You called me,
Nyet?”
    “ Da.”
    “ And now you mock me?”
Rayshkin ripped the newspaper from Chris’ hands. “You don’t want to
waste my time, O’Reilly!”
    Slowly, Chris turned his head to face
him, lifted his coffee cup and took a slow pull. “That’s Mister
O’Reilly, to you Sascha.”
    “ I call you whatever I
want!” Rayshkin swore in Russian and stood up. The white of his
snarl contrasted with the black scruffy goatee. The scar that ran
from his ear to the middle of his right cheek screamed B-movie bad
guy and almost made Chris laugh. But Rayshkin’s hand loomed
dangerously near his back, where no doubt he concealed a cruel
weapon. “Go to boat now. Or I put you under boat. You
choose.”
    “ Don’t get your babushka
panties in a bind, Rayshkin.” Chris- O’Reilly -Connor said. Then in
flawless Russian: “You never mentioned any damned boat.”
    “ You want to discuss with
my boss, I take you. You change mind, I kill you.”
    Chris snatched back the newspaper. “I
wasn’t finished with that.” He opened the page and showed him the
headline about Lieutenant Connor’s murder. “Are you the guy who
turned this Connor guy’s face into Swiss cheese?”
    Rayshkin leaned over, read the
headline and laughed. “I wish! Connor was pain in ass!”
    “ So who gets the
credit?”
    “ I don’t know.
Organization too big. Could be anyone.” He rubbed his fingertips
together. “Khrenikov pay big money to guy who kill Connor. And not
rubles. Euros.”
    “ So it was someone from
outside the States?”
    “ Why you care so much?
Deal or no deal?”
    “ What’s with the
boat?”
    Rayshkin shrugged, pursed his lips,
took another puff of his cig, and flicked it into the water. “He
likes fishing. What can I say?”
    “ Tell him, I’m not about
to give—”
    With surprising speed for a man