Penalty Time


Shea O’Brien was tired of listening to Kirill Sholokoff ramble about his prowess, all the girls he’s had and all the ones that still want to get with him.  Kirill smiled that gappy grin floating on gray stubble beneath his tall, charcoal hair, acting as if he had magical powers.  The guy was a major-league crime boss.  Yeah, he got pussy.  What’s the shock?

Kirill drifted into Russian with Anatoly – stocky, balding, brown goatee – and Vlad – slim and blonde – on either side of him in the booth.  Shea sat in a wooden chair on the opposite side of the table pretending he didn’t understand, but the Bureau had trained him for deep cover, making certain he was fluent in Russian.  The trick was not to let on to Kirill and his goons that he knew their language, so Shea had made an art of achieving a disinterested affect, even though his ears were constantly pricked.

 

But in this conversation, every other word was a female body part, so Shea drifted away in his mind.  All he wanted was Valdez or, more precisely, Kirill admitting to killing Valdez, an admission caught on the tiny recorder attached to his key chain.  If he could get that, then it was bye-bye undercover work and hello witness protection with Patty.  New names and a new start.  He wanted South Beach.  He’d settle for Lauderdale.

“Shea, my friend,” Kirill said, “You have lost interest in our banter.”

“I can’t follow that gibberish,” Shea said.





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