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She dug the gun a bit deeper against his head.
He winced, trying to push it away with a hand. He was clearly indifferent to whomever was behind him.
“Alex?” She snapped.
A weary sigh. He glanced back and up, his eyes rolling. He was a very small man, with only tufts of hair over his ears. And though he was small, he didn’t look weak. His chest was too wide. His hands, playing with the glass and the cigar, were stained from a life of work.
He looked at her and said, “Who are you?” in a heavy accent.
More shouting. She spun, fired through the door. A guard who had been sneaking up behind fell across the threshold.
Her fingers were buzzing. Her chest pounding. She shoved the back of the chair down. And with it, the leader of the Russian mob came tumbling.
The small, squat man fell over the back of his recliner and hit the floor, cursing.
She put her foot against his neck, pointed a gun at his head, and said quietly, “Tell your guards to let the dancers leave, or I’ll paint the ground.”
He swallowed a couple of times, prying at her foot. When she released it, he took another drag of the cigar, blew it in her face, and then said, “They can leave anytime.”
Cora raised her gun, an eyebrow following.
He held up a finger. Then, in Russian, he called something else through the door.
He then gestured at the patrons cowering in the corner of the room. One at a time, each feeding on the bravery of the one who came before, they hastened forward, rapidly leaving the space.
Cora watched them go, and then returned her attention to the mobster. She backed away slowly, hooked the door with her foot, and closed it in the brick frame of the tunnel’s entrance. And with the sound of theclick, the two of them were suddenly alone.
Alex sat up slowly. He looked far older than his most wanted photo. Even older than time might have allowed, suggesting that stress had also played its part.
He nodded at her and swallowed. “DEA? FBI?”
She shook her head.
He scowled. “What?”
“Youanswermyquestions.”
He shrugged. “Did Tito let you in?”
She smirked. “Is that your nephew?”
“Son. Stupid son.”
Cora shrugged. She didn’t think it would be sporting to further put the tall scarecrow in harm’s way. He’d gotten somewhat frisky, and she dropped him on the ground. Fair play as far she saw it.
But now the man’s father was staring at her, and he looked like a banker. Not a mobster. In fact, as she stared at the man, she couldn’t quite understand why anyone might find this small, unfortunately shaped fellow intimidating.
“How come you have some of your soldiers employed by the mayor?”
The Russian blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“It isn’t my choice who Castillo hires.”
She pointed at him. “I didn’t say which mayor.”
He shrugged, smirked. “So what?”
