Page 94 of Tamed Enemy
Fiona Moran is a legend in the world of organized crime. Everyone knows how she took over the Old Colony Crew. Everyone has seen the images of her at the Corman Gala, standing under the gigantic photo of her legendary father.
Now, she licks her lips as she cocks her hip. “Why Mr. Bennett,” she says, her tone like whiskey poured over charcoal. “That sounds like a threat.”
He clears his throat. “It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”
Tarasov’s eyes are busy. He scans the room like a professional, measuring dangers and calculating opportunities.He reveals more visible shock as he takes in the sign over Megan’s desk: Mid-Atlantic Joint Task Force for the Interception and Interdiction of Organized Crime. He can’t be familiar with the name—we’ve made it up—but he clearly recognizes the FBI and Homeland Security logos.
For the first time since the pakhan was snatched near St. Basil’s, he knows what he’s up against. I wonder how the noose feels, settling around his feckin’ neck.
Fiona snorts and turns on her four-inch Louboutins. Patrick Moran, her husband and enforcer, stands beside a chair in the waiting area. The only path for Fiona to take requires her to walk past Tarasov and his guards.
The Sawgrass men grip their prisoners’ arms tightly, forcing him back half a pace. Fiona storms past, hesitating only a heartbeat as she “discovers” the Russian kingpin. They don’t compete directly for territory, but neither one would hesitate to take over the entire Eastern seaboard.
Patrick steps forward, settling a protective hand on Fiona’s arm.
“Not here,” she says, glancing back at the boardroom.
“But what—” he starts to ask. I’m not sure how well he was briefed, if his protective concern is real or merely very well-acted.
“Not a word in public.” Fiona shoots a hate-filled glance back at Bennett, then allows her scorching gaze to linger on Tarasov. “We need to get home. Now.”
She lets Patrick guide her to the elevators, where she looks back with one more spiteful glare. And then the pair of them disappear to the street, to the airport, to Boston, and home.
Fiona’s job is done here. It didn’t take much time, and she didn’t need to deliver many lines. But her presence in the boardroom provides a rock-solid foundation for Cole’s Big Store con. Tarasov has seen another captain of organized crimeharried by the task force. He’s heard an ultimatum. Now he understands precisely what is at risk.
The Sawgrass guards force the pakhan over to the boardroom. Tarasov drags his feet on the carpet. “I have been taken illegally,” he shouts. His voice is rough, like his throat has been scraped by jute. I wonder how long he bellowed in the dark last night, hollering for help that never came. “This is a violation of my constitutional rights! You cannot hold me here!”
Some of the workers look up from their stations. A couple shake their heads, as if they hear such protests every day. A few swallow smiles and continue with their so-called work.
The guards move with admirable efficiency, marching Tarasov into the boardroom. They force him into his chair and chain his hands to the table.
Richardson and Bennett introduce themselves, formally providing Tarasov with the full name of the task force.
“I know my rights,” he says. “I get a phone call.”
“Not today,” Bennett says.
“Lawyer,” Tarasov snaps.
“I’m afraid there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,” Richardson says. “Domestic terrorists are not entitled to counsel.”
“I am not a terrorist.”
“Said every terrorist in the history of the world,” says Bennett with a yawn.
“You cannot hold me here. I know my rights.”
“Wrong on both counts,” Bennett says.
And the interrogation begins.
38
COLE
We’ve wasted our first twenty-four hours.
I’m not surprised. Nikolai Tarasov didn’t become pakhan because he’s made of lace and tissue paper. His empire is built on tempered steel; it will take time to break him.
