Claim

26

Lyon sat in the passenger seat of the SUV and dialed Roman while Markus watched the door of the brick house near a highway overpass on the South Side of Chicago.

“You sure you sent me the right address?” Lyon asked when Roman answered without a greeting.

“You didn’t expect the men to stage from West Town, did you?” Roman asked.

“No,” Lyon said. Staging for Ivan’s assassination from West Town would have been stupid. Lyon didn’t expect anyone to connect him or Roman to the murder — they were being careful, very careful — but anything tying the operation to the bratva was an invitation for disaster, and West Town was bratva territory.

“Well, what do you suggest? The Village?” Roman asked.

Lyon saw Roman’s point. Little Village was home to the cartels, and the bratva tried to stay as far away from the cartels as possible. A clash between the two might just tear a hole in the city.

“Alright,” Lyon said. “I get it.”

South Side was a stronghold of the Irish mob. Having Roman’s men stage there for Ivan’s assassination was another way to put distance between the bratva — any branch of the bratva — and the murder of one of the most prominent members of the Chicago organization.

“My lead is inside,” Roman said. “He’s not connected.”

“A freelancer?” Lyon asked.

“Listen,” Roman said, “I understand the argument for getting me involved. You’re right. We’ll be next if we don’t squash this now. But everything I’ve put in place is designed to make sure I don’t get blowback. Trust me, these guys are good, and Fraser is the best. I’ve used them before and they’ve never let me down.”

Lyon sighed. It made sense, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Going in now.” He hung up and looked at Markus. “Don’t let your guard down.”

Markus nodded. “You got it, boss.”

Lyon got out of the car and made his way up a cracked sidewalk to a small porch with a rusted iron railing. The door opened before he reached it. He hesitated when he couldn’t see the person standing behind it, then stepped into the house.

Zavaril kashu, tak ne zhaley masla.

Lyon remembered his father using the phrase, which translated roughly into, “You’ve brewed the porridge, so don’t spare the oil,” the equivalent of the English phrase, “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

The house was cramped and dim, the entryway all of two feet and opening directly into the small carpeted living room, bare except for a worn sofa and love seat and a couple of side tables.

“Hello,” Lyon said to the man closing the door. He catalogued the details: large, big-boned, and muscular, probably former military of some kind, with thick blond hair and a full beard that obscured all but his watchful eyes and broad nose. “You Fraser?”

Lyon didn’t know if it was a first or last name and he didn’t care.

The man held out his hand. “That’s me.”

Lyon shook it and stepped into the living room. He took note of the duffel bags spread across the floor, weapons spilling from one, tactical gear from another.

“Where are the other men?” Lyon asked.

“Arriving tonight,” Fraser said.

“Will that be enough time to prepare?” Lyon asked. The dinner that was to be their cover was the next night, the wedding the day after that. He knew his own men could prepare for anything in less than twelve hours if pressed, but he knew nothing at all about Fraser and his team.

The blond giant smirked. “More than enough.”

“And you’ve been given the blueprints to the house? The likely number and position of the mark’s personal security detail?” Lyon had provided the details to Roman through a series of encrypted online networks, but this was the first contact he’d had with anyone from the team who would actually be invading Ivan’s house.

“We have everything we need.” Fraser sounded almost bored, like a seasoned babysitter being given last-minute instructions from a nervous parent.

“I’m not trying to insult your expertise, but I do want to be clear that the mark is surrounded by men trained in the art of killing,” Lyon said.

Confronting Ivan when Lyon had first learned of his mentor’s betrayal had been easy. Then, Ivan hadn’t been on alert, hadn’t known that Lyon knew about his betrayal.

It wouldn’t be so easy this time. Lyon had already gotten confirmation from Borya that Ivan never went anywhere without security, and it had taken Lyon three weeks and the utilization of drones to determine exactly how many men traveled with Ivan when he moved from one place to the next and how many were stationed at his home.

“We understand the dangers of the mission.” Fraser crossed his arms across his chest with a patronizing smile. “But I appreciate your concern.”

Fraser’s confidence unnerved him, but Lyon had no choice except to put his faith in Roman’s decision to use him. “Use the approved channels to let us know if you need anything.”

He headed for the door. This was it. His last chance to change course, to call off the execution of his old friend and mentor. After this, wheels would be set in motion that Lyon couldn’t stop, and he had absolutely no idea what that meant for him, for Kira and their baby, for the bratva.

He hesitated at the door as Kira’s face swam in his mind. He’d asked her to leave town until Ivan was eliminated, the threat from Russia ferreted out and neutralized. They could have the wedding at a later date, when he wasn’t spending every minute worrying about her safety.

She’d refused of course, as he’d known she would.

But it wasn’t too late. He would ask her one last time to go into hiding until things calmed down.

The thought made him feel better. Maybe now that the moment had drawn near, she would see reason.

He stepped onto the porch and heard the door shut behind him.