The Dirt on Ninth Grave(99)

He turned to me and flashed a nuclear grin. I thought about tackling him to the ground. Instead I just stormed up, all stormy like. About that time I realized he was wearing Kevlar. Did bad guys wear Kevlar?



Before I could say anything, he asked, "Vy you are here?" Then he threw back his big head and laughed.



I was still processing his presence when Agent Carson walked up with the woman from the dry cleaners as well. She also wore Kevlar.



She looked at her comrade. "Vy she is here?" Then they both threw back their heads and laughed. It was so bizarre, like a bad laugh track for a sitcom.



I was in the Twilight Zone. And not the good one the dentist puts you in.



The woman stopped first and pointed to my head wound. "You have balls," she said. "I am Klava Pajari, and this is my partner, Ilya Zolnerowich. Ve are retired FSB agent. Ve vork -" She considered how to put it. "- job on side."



"Oh, so this is a side job?"



Ilya nodded. "Because of you, ve sleep together. Vith our minds."



"You're psychic lovers?"



Klava gave a nervous chuckle while glaring at Ilya. "His English is not so good. Vat he means is our minds are rest knowing how you have help us. Ve clean your coat for free, yes?"



They laughed again. It echoed through the tilting fun house that used to be my brain.



After they got over teasing me  –  which took forever  –  they told me the story of how they had been on the trail of a Russian arms dealer for years. They'd tracked him to America, but he moved around a lot, and they couldn't get a lock on his location. The only thing he did religiously, no matter where he went, was bet on street fights. He grew up fighting on the streets of Russia and was addicted to the life.



So when the US ignored Russia's application for extradition, they set up a sting operation involving an illegal street-fighting organization that had been going on for a few months. The metal that the Vandenbergs' captors were going to plasma-cut through was a panic room, but one set up to keep someone in instead of vice versa, if they should ever catch him. He had a lot of muscle around him. They needed to keep him both hidden and unattainable.




 

 



"Is called extraordinary rendition," Klava said. "Is to kidnap and force transfer of a criminal to another country for prosecution."



"Ve are like Dog," Ilya said.



"Dogs?" I didn't get it. "Like bulldogs?"



"No, Dog the Bounty Hunter. Only I have better hair, yes?" He smoothed a hand over his bald head and laughed again. It was growing on me.



"Is Dog even a thing anymore?"



He pounded his chest. "He is big thing inside me."



I could have gone so many places with that.



"Ilya is good fighter," Klava said. "He vin much of money."



I didn't doubt it. "You've been after this guy for two years? Is he in the area?"



"Da. Ve grab him last veek, but have to keep him in box until papervork is coming through."



Considering the guy's illicit hobbies, I shouldn't have been alarmed, but I was. "You've been keeping him in a metal room for a week? He'll freeze to death."



"Ve are Russian. Ve can handle ten of your vinters. Also, is heated and cooled and have little toilet."



This was the craziest story. One that I wouldn't have pictured if it had been a paint-by-numbers.



"But how do these guys fit in?" I nodded toward the cabin, or, more pointedly, toward the body bags on the ground by said cabin, and shuddered.



"They vere his best customers. Al Qaeda. They vant him back. Mostly, they vant his money and veapons cache."



"Sucks to be him."



"Yes!" Ilya slapped me on the back. "Totally."



I resisted the urge to call him a Valley Girl. Mostly because I used that word way too often myself. And I was afraid of what he'd do to me if I called him a girl.



"Janey?"



I turned to see Mr. V standing there and straightened my shoulders. "Mr. Vandenberg, I thought you were with your family." They had been taken to the hospital immediately. I'd wanted to see them so bad, but the children were suffering from dehydration and a massive need for therapy for the rest of their natural-born lives.



"I'm on my way," he said, his voice cracking. "I just -" He stopped and shook his head. "They told me …  I don't know how to thank you."

 

I walked up to him and put a hand on his arm. "You could thank me by not pressing charges." I still had a crapload of antiques to pay for, but if he'd just hold off on the breaking-and-entering snafu …