TORPEDO INK MEMBERS
Viktor Prakenskii aka Czar—President
Lyov Russak aka Steele—Vice President
Savva Pajari aka Reaper—Sergeant at Arms
Savin Pajari aka Savage—Sergeant at Arms
Isaak Koval aka Ice—Secretary
Dmitry Koval aka Storm
Alena Koval aka Torch
Luca Litvin aka Code—Treasurer
Maksimos Korsak aka Ink
Kasimir Popov aka Preacher
Lana Popov aka Widow
Nikolaos Bolotan aka Mechanic
Pytor Bolotan aka Transporter
Andrii Federoff aka Maestro
Gedeon Lazaroff aka Player
Kir Vasiliev aka Master
Lazar Alexeev aka Keys
Aleksei Solokov aka Absinthe
NEWER PATCHED MEMBERS
Gavriil Prakenskii
Casimir Prakenskii
PROSPECTS
Fatei
Glitch
Hyde
ONE
Isaak Koval, known to his brothers in Torpedo Ink as Ice, moved with the crowd of tourists down the Las Vegas strip. He could fit in anywhere. It was a gift, and one he worked on as often as possible. He’d learned early in life that if he chose, he could be invisible, or nearly so, fading like a chameleon into whatever background surrounded him. That gift had saved his life on more than one occasion.
He was very careful to keep several people between himself and the two men he followed. He wove his way through the tourists but was always careful his reflection wasn’t caught in the glass as he passed windows and doors. That was simply a matter of matching steps for a moment. He kept his head down but his eyes up, scanning the crowd, the buildings and even the rooftops.
Heat waves bounced on the sidewalk, hitting him squarely in the chest. At times it felt as if he couldn’t breathe, but then he’d been feeling that way for some time, even at home on the coast.
His quarry stopped for a moment just inside one of the doors leading to a casino, forcing him to stop as well. He couldn’t get in front of them or take a chance they’d pick him out of a crowd if they spotted him more than once. There was a brick pillar just on the other side of the doors of the casino, and he paused there to pull out his cell and look at text messages, just the way dozens of others were doing. He glanced across the street to where his twin brother, Storm, mirrored his actions. Ice was able to keep the two men in sight while studying his phone, and then moving at a snail’s pace with a group of tourists from India.
The two men they followed argued for a moment over something they read on their phones and began walking the strip again. They appeared to be looking for a good time, stopping briefly at the strip joints, as if debating whether they’d go in or not. They never did, and Ice didn’t expect them to. His club knew just about everything there was to know about the men they were tracking down the strip. They knew for certain that neither man was looking for a night of fun with strippers, prostitutes or women they picked up.
They were coming up to a red light. That was always a danger zone. The two men, Russ Jarvis and Billy Kent, were in the habit of taking the opportunity to look around them when they got to a crosswalk. The crowd pushed together at the stoplights, and both men would casually turn and survey those beside and behind them. They often looked across the street to study everyone waiting to cross to their side.
Still, Ice could come up right on them, do them both just as the light changed and walk across the street with the crowd before the bodies fell. He wiped the sweat from his face and kept sauntering. His club needed the two alive long enough to lead them to the asshole they were hunting. He forced himself to put one boot in front of the other.
He was dressed in blue jeans and motorcycle boots. It wasn’t like he had a lot of clothes to choose from. The tight tee stretched across his chest, damp now with sweat from the unrelenting heat. He fucking hated this place almost as much as he detested the two men he followed. Worse, he couldn’t wear his distinctive colors. That felt like walking down the street naked, which would have actually been better than being without his colors.
Sometimes, like now, he thought he might go insane from the chaos in his head. He listened sometimes when Czar, the president of Torpedo Ink, their motorcycle club, and his wife, Blythe, said some things needed talking about no matter how difficult. That was such bullshit. Who did someone like him spill his guts to? And what fucking therapist would understand what he’d been through? What any of his brothers and sisters had been through?
He could just hear that conversation. How many men did you say you killed? How did you say you killed them? How do you feel about that? How did they fucking think he felt about that? It would be prison or a padded cell, and he’d been locked up most of his life and wasn’t ever going there again. Not ever.