Special Purpose Regiment known as the Spetsnaz GRU-the Russian version of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces-which was run by the KGB. The KGB gave special schooling to their brightest troopers, and Gregor was exceptionally bright. Hence, his fluency with English.
After combat tours in Chechnya and Afghanistan, he cashed in to the private contractor market, enjoyed his newfound money and freedoms, and opted for even more. He moved to Los Angeles, where he enjoyed the sun, sold collectible lamps, and worked for the Odessa Mafia.
George offered his hand, and Pike took it. Warm iron. George smiling, welcoming Pike into his store.
“Man, it’s been forever. You good?”
“Good.”
“I was surprised when Jon called. But pleased. Watch your head. That’s a deco Tiffany, circa 1923. Eight thousand to the trade.”
Pike dipped sideways to avoid the light. Despite being filled with lamps, the shop was dingy and dim, with shadows lurking in the corners. George probably liked it that way.
Pike said, “Business good?”
“Excellent, thank you. I wish I had come to America sooner. I should have been born here, man. I’m telling you!”
“Not the lamp business. Your other business.”
“I knew what you meant. That business is good, too, both here and abroad.”
George still accepted special assignments outside of the Odessa work if the price was right, though his clients these days were almost always governments or political agencies. No one else could afford him.
Pike followed George to a desk at the rear of the shop where they could sit.
“Jon tell you why I’m here?”
“Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry about Frank. Really. I never met the dude, but I’ve heard good things.”
“You still involved with Odessa?”
George’s smile flashed again.
“You wouldn’t mind a quick scan, would you? Would that be all right?”
Pike spread his hands, saying scan all you want.
George took an RF scanner similar to the one Pike owned from his desk, and ran it over Pike from his sunglasses to his shoes. Pike didn’t object. He would have been surprised if George hadn’t checked him. When George was satisfied, he put the scanner away.
“Old habits.”
“No problem.”
“Would you like a cup of tea? I have the black tea. From Georgia. Not your Georgia-ours.”
Pike didn’t want his tea and didn’t want to chat.
“I’m good. You still in with the ROC, George?”
George pursed his lips. Annoyed. The deadliest man Pike knew was pissy.
“It’s Odessa, and I’m not in with them. I’m not a member. I consult on a freelance basis. I’m my own boss.”
This seemed important to George, so Pike nodded.
“I understand.”
“That being said, if you want to discuss Odessa business, I can’t.”
“I don’t care about Odessa. I want to know about the Serbs.”
“So Jon told me. A hard people. Very tough. I fought them in Chechnya.”
“Not there. Here. Can you talk about the gang sets here in Los Angeles?”
George nodded, but a vagueness came to his eyes as if he had suddenly noticed something a thousand yards away.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. They do their thing, Odessa is something else. Like with the Armenians. The same, but different.”
“You know of a Michael Darko?”
George rocked back in his chair, the body language telling Pike that George was uncomfortable talking about Darko.
“He killed your friend, Frank Meyer?”
“Looks that way.”
George grunted.
“I know who he is. A hard man.”
“What does hard mean?”
“You understand the word, pakhan?”
“No.”
“A boss. Middle management for now, but he’s on the way up. These people aren’t given their promotions, they take them. Like cannibals eating each other.”
Pike saw disdain in the pale eyes, and realized George felt superior to the gangsters who employed him. Maybe this was why he was adamant that Pike understand he was an independent contractor, and not part of Odessa. All of them might be killers, but George had come out of Spetsnaz-the rest were just animals.
“What kind of crime does he do?”
“A finger in many pies, like all these guys. Girls and sex, hijacking, extorting his own people. He’s aggressive, and trying to expand. Quick with the trigger.”
George made a pistol with his hand and pulled the trigger.
Pike said, “Know where I can find him?”
“I don’t.”
“A place of business? He must have some kind of front operation. He’d need that for taxes.”
“I’m sure he must, but this man is just a name to me. Like I said, different circles. I’m a lamp salesman.”
A lamp salesman who could put a bullet through your head from a thousand meters away. Then George continued.
“They have a nickname for him, the Shark. Did you know this?”
“No.”
“Could they be more dramatic? The Shark. He probably made this up for