Voicemail.
“Boy, does your dad really love you,” I say to Mozart, who’s staring at us with a pale face and crying.
On the fifth FaceTime call, Fredricko finally answers.
Fredricko Rocko—apparently shit naming runs in the family—has the weapons connections we want.
“Say hello to your son,” the Russian says, aiming the camera at Mozart, following my earlier instructions perfectly.
“Dad!” Mozart yells, sounding like a fucking panicked teenager instead of a man my age. “Please! Tell them you’ll do anything if they let me go! Tell them we have money!”
“What do you want?” Fredricko asks, sounding almost bored.
“All your weapons connections,” the Russian replies, keeping the camera pointed at Mozart so Fredricko doesn’t see us. “We want to know how you’re getting so many unmarked weapons, so fast. You’re getting shit even the military doesn’t have.”
“I’m afraid to tell you that’s private information that I don’t share,” Fredricko replies.
“You’d better turn it into public information if you want your son to stay alive,” the Russian says.
“You are one dumb motherfucker,” Fredricko replies, his tone now more amused than bored. “You have a strong Russian accent. It’s clear who’s behind this.”
“Fuck you,” the Russian says.
“I won’t give you my connections,” Fredricko says. “Now, like my son said, I will pay you whatever you want to let him go, unharmed.”
I tap my foot against the concrete, letting the Russian know he needs to hurry and close this deal.
“Not even for the safety of your son?” the Russian asks.
Fredricko chuckles. “My son has disappointed me plenty of times. You know what hasn’t?”
None of us answers him.
Mozart continues to bitch, moan, and plead for his life.
“Money. Wealth. My legacy.” Fredricko leans forward and lights a cigar. “Whoever you are behind the phone, will you at least do me one favor?”
None of us says anything.
“Leave a few limbs for me to bury. My wife will be heartbroken about this and want a proper funeral.”
“I’ll leave you his decapitated head,” the Russian says.
“At least she’ll be able to look into the eyes, she says look so much like mine,” Fredricko comments. “I’ll text you the address where to send his remains, should you see fit to kill him. It’s in your best interest not to because there aren’t many Russians who’d be interested in my weapons in this country. I’ll easily find out who you are and kill everyone. You let my son go, and I’ll forget this ever happened.”
The Russian glances over at me, as if the severity of his actions is finally sinking in. I give him a nod of reassurance that he’s doing the right thing.
He’s not.
Rats and traitors always die, but it’s not like I’ll tell him that.
It’s common fucking knowledge. Go to the bookstore like my wife and read about it.
As seconds pass, I notice the Russian overthinking this.
I pull my Glock from my blazer and shoot Mozart in the forehead.
To further prove my point, I pull the trigger and watch another bullet hit his cheek. I keep doing it until he has enough holes in his body to play Peg Solitaire with it. The Russian has no choice but to play by my rules now.
