Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Thirty-Four

Per the typical arrangement, Durwood found Yakov's key in the bathroom of the Kingsland train stop. The Kazakh hid it somewhere different every time. Durwood checked behind the tank, the sink's rusty drainpipe. Found it on top of the last hand dryer, Scotch-taped, and stuck it in his bluejeans pocket.

He and Sue-Ann boarded a westbound train. The conductor took Durwood's ticket with a glance at Sue. Said nothing, walked on. Between the M9 bulging in Durwood's coat and having bigger fish to fry, the man had no interest in quibbling over an animal.

Crumbling brick apartments, whole blocks ablaze, and decayed industrial husks sped by in the windows, several of which were cracked. One had bullet holes.

Sue-Ann drowsed under the seat. A queer catch sounded from her lungs. Durwood suspected the air quality, which had deteriorated in the Anarchy. It might just as well have been age.

Christmas Day. A day for celebrating Jesus Christ, and look what His world had come to.

They disembarked at the end of the line, walked eight dodgy blocks to the U-Store. Twilight had turned full dark. Bitter wind swirled up loose cardboard and chapped Durwood's face. They walked in the road, both sidewalks torn asunder. Possibly the metal in the pipes underneath had value.

Durwood circled to the back row of storage units. One bay was open, trash spilling from torn black bags. He found the unit matching the key's imprinted number, inserted the key, and turned.

The steel door rattled up its track, slamming at the top. Yakov sat waiting in a canvas chair.

"Six grams of Novichok were not easy to find," said the man, wiry, salt and pepper mustache. "I should have charged you a higher premium."

Durwood and Sue-Ann advanced into the storage unit. Durwood pulled the door down after them. The rattle was louder inside. The space, lit by a single bare bulb, smelled of sawdust and almonds.

Yakov said, "You should have secure transport. I can loan you a lead canister, but..." He trailed off as his eyes fell to Durwood's hands—which contained neither cannister, nor suitcase of cash, nor anything. "What is this?"

Durwood folded his arms. "Need information on a sale you made."

"All my transactions are strictly private," the Kazakh said. "This is my rule, as you know."

"I do know. But your rule needs to break, this once."

Yakov's arm whipped behind his chair and whipped back with a pistol. "This was not intelligent, Mr. Jones. Not at all."

Durwood kept his arms folded. "Few months back, you woulda sold some charges to a merc squad. Foreigners. Significant job. Few dozen charges."

"I never have betrayed a buyer, and I—"

"Found your pink Styrofoam at the site." Durwood nodded at a large chute of packing peanuts. "Their own fault. Laziness, lack of prep."

Yakov's aim was jittery, muzzle dancing like a firefly in a boy's jar.

"We have done business many years," the arms dealer said. "I have known you to be honorable, a man who keeps his word."

Durwood had no interest in this line of talk. "Who paid?"

"I'll ask you to leave now, friend. Later we will speak about payment for the Novichok."

"I ain't your friend. Never pretended I was."

He clucked at Sue-Ann, and the old coonhound began loping about the storage unit. She passed into shadow, her paws nicking the concrete floor.

Yakov said, "A dog? A dog can't go back there—I have chemicals! I have bombs with caesium, he will—"

"She."

"She, fine—what in God's name?" Yakov kept swiveling between Durwood and the dim recesses of the unit. "I deal with professionals, only with professionals! And this is not—"

He didn't get to say what it wasn't, because Durwood—perfectly timing the man's movements—drew his M6 semiautomatic and cocked the hammer.

Yakov swore.

"Now," Durwood said, "who paid?"

"You know what I know—they were foreigners. That is all I know."

"Who paid? I need names and nationalities."

Yakov made a show of keeping his gun up, but his shoulders shriveled to his chest. His knees pinched like he needed the john.

"They didn't give me names."

"Like hell. You know who you deal to."

Yakov shook his head, pained, his mustache aquiver. Durwood knew his operation up and down. It was pointless acting otherwise, and Yakov knew it.

"You have lost a supplier today. We're done, you and I."

"Plenty others in your racket."

"If you are comfortable shooting and detonating—" Yakov described his competitors' wares using a swear.

Truth be told, losing Yakov was a blow. Durwood had no other leads on the Mice's foreign connection, though, and it had taken long enough already, months, to tease Yakov out with the Novichok request. He hated losing access to Yakov's bleeding-edge technology, but finding the mastermind behind Pittsburgh—and probably the Anarchy itself—was worth the price.

Durwood burned with shame for not stopping this wickedness sooner. But stop it he would.

"Last chance, 'fore I start with a kneecap." He gripped the M9's barrel. "Who bought the charges?"

Yakov dropped his gun, started up whimpering. Durwood knew what he was thinking. I give up identities, I give up trust. And trust is the whole deal in this biz.

Durwood shifted his aim just over the man's ear. He would try a chose shave, then the kneecap.

A moment before he squeezed, Yakov croaked, "Rivard."

Durwood blew out a long breath, clucked for Sue-Ann to come.

Rivard LLC.

Darn. He should have known.