Extreme Faction by Trevor Scott Read Free Book Online Page B

They want me around until they head in for the night. After all, that’s what I’m here for.”
    â€œRight. This won’t take long.” He scribbled something on a beer coaster and handed it to Jake.
    Jake looked it over. It was an address. Not a great neighborhood, if he remembered correctly. Residences mostly. Cheap communist housing. “What about it?”
    â€œPick up a woman there. Petra Kovarik. Tvchenko’s research assistant.”
    â€œWhat about your own guys?”
    Tully inhaled deeply and then slowly let out the smoke. “They’re all inexperienced. Except for Quinn Armstrong, and he wasn’t in yet this morning.”
    Jake checked his watch. “I see you run a tight ship, Tully.”
    â€œFuck you. I had him out looking for her all night. After we almost got our asses fried, I figured we better bring her in.”
    â€œShe was working for you?”
    â€œYeah. Our main source on Tvchenko. She’ll know what he was working on.”
    â€œWhy didn’t she tell you before?”
    Tully thought about that, finishing his cigarette and snubbing it in the ashtray. “I don’t know.”
    Jake smiled. “She was working both sides?”
    â€œThat’s what I want to find out. Bring her in and we’ll have a little talk.”
    Jake agreed. He had some time to kill, and besides, he didn’t like the idea of someone trying to blow him up. Maybe she had set off the bomb. Jake left Tully at the bar and wondered if he’d order another drink or go back to the office to work like he had said.

6
    Petra Kovarik lived in a crowded, congested section of Odessa where immigrants from former Soviet republics like Bulgaria and Romania were cramped into tiny apartments. Many of the brick row houses and concrete slab buildings were occupied by wives of Black Sea sailors, who were gone most of the year and didn’t seem to mind the squalor when they were there, for they had seen far worse in ports with names that most Ukrainians had never heard of.
    Jake had taken a cab, paid the man, who was glad to leave, and stood on the sidewalk gazing two blocks to Petra Kovarik’s apartment building. He figured it was better to get out early and walk a short distance to her building. Who knew if someone else might be looking for the woman?
    He slowly walked off toward her place. It was closing in on noon and the streets were fairly vacant. Two young boys were having a stick war along an iron fence, and they didn’t seem to notice him pass. Cars that were parked on both sides of the street were mostly old Volgas or Trabants, the communist answer to the Volkswagen.
    Kovarik’s building was a four-story concrete monstrosity with balconies enclosed by metal railing that were currently being used as clothes lines. The steps leading to the front door had chipped away already, even though Jake suspected the apartment building was no more than thirty years old.
    Inside, Jake checked the mailboxes in a foyer area. Above each box was a button, where, supposedly, guests would call up to an apartment and the occupant could decide whether to buzz the person in. The problem was, someone had bashed in the speaker and ripped the electronic lock from the glass door that was now opened wide.
    There was a P.K. on the box for room 222. Jake headed up the scuffed wooden stairs. At the top, he noticed the hallway was dark. The far wall was a bank of glass blocks that had somehow been darkened and now let in very little light. The ceiling paint was peeling and chips scattered about on the wooden floor. The overhead lights were either off or burned out. He checked a switch. Nothing.
    Jake started down the passageway, wondering if he should draw his Makarov. He thought of the kids playing down the street and imagined more were probably lurking about. He left the 9mm in its holster, but unzipped his leather jacket.
    Since the even numbered rooms were on the right, Jake