The Dysfunctional Mob – Part 13


“Why so many Russians in your phone?”

“Because while I’m American, my mother is Russian, it’s why everyone who calls speaks it.”

“Who Yuri?”

“My cousin,” I lied again. He shrugged at me and put the phone to my ear.

It rang three times and I was suddenly worried this wouldn’t work. However, I had money for Yuri that I wouldn’t be able to give him in the morning if my situation didn’t change. On the fifth ring, he finally answered.

“Yuri Chakoff.”

“Yuri, it’s Nadine Daniels, I have a small problem that affects you.”

“Explain why you think your problem affects me, unless you do not have what we asked for,” Yuri said.

“At the moment, I have it, but you should call Vasilli and get the details from him, I can’t discuss it right now, not really.” I told Yuri. Yuri started to say something else. “Call Vasilli Zeitzev, I know you have his number, he will explain,” I said and nodded moving away from the phone. I was calling the mob to save me from Chechens. Which was only half true, I had called Yuri so that Zeke would have access to guns and more men if necessary. I had a tracker in my phone and Zeke had started embedding them in the soles of my shoes, so he could always find me. Not because he often wondered where I was, but because this wasn’t the first time I had been kidnapped from mostly under his nose. Maybe I should put him back through training for protecting against snatch and grab kidnappings.

“Yuri did not seem to want to help you either.” The man said.

“Yuri Chakoff will definitely be looking to help me. I’m here to make a deal with the Russian Mob to keep a girl in the US safe and they absolutely want what I’m offering.”

“So, you do have money,” one of the men practically purred at me.

“No, I have Aislinn Cain’s personal phone number, that’s worth its weight in gold to the Russian Mob right now because they want her to come sort out their syndicate problem.” I told him.

“How is some American woman going to help the mob?” The guy asked me.

“Your English is improving.” I told him. “Aislinn Cain is a serial killer hunter with the US Marshals Elite Serial Crimes Tracking Unit. Everyone they try to put at the top of their syndicate ends up dead, so they would like her to come catch the serial killer that is making them that way, so someone can take power and get things running smoothly again. It is in their best interest to unite under one leader, especially for the guns and drugs they run in the US.”

“I not believe you.” He said.

“You aren’t actually from Chechnya, are you?” I asked, detecting a faint accent that was not native to any of Russia’s eleven-time zones.

“I am,” he screamed at me.

“Totally not,” I answered with a smile. “You do not get that accent growing up in Chechnya or Russia or the Ukraine or even on this continent. If I had to guess, I’d say Florida, where it is currently a lot warmer than Moscow because it’s freaking March in Moscow.” I yelled back. “I’d agree that your parents are Chechens and grew up there, because you do speak Chechen like an almost native Chechen, but you also roll your r’s every once in a while, which is something done in Latin languages, like Spanish and you seem to understand every word I am saying just fine even though you say you don’t. So, I’m guessing you grew up in Florida, probably around Miami where you hung out with a lot of Cubans and Puerto Ricans.”

“You think you’re psychic now,” he asked, rolling the r in you’re.

“No, I just know another American when I hear them,” I said. “Do your friends not know? Should I have told you privately, so they don’t kidnap you and try to ransom you back to your family?” I asked.

“We know,” one of the other guys said. My phone started ringing again.

“You should definitely answer that,” I told them.

“Vasilli.”

“Or not,” I said having thought it was probably Ivan. Ivan and I were the closest because he was constantly getting me out of sticky situations with police officers.

“Nadine?” I heard Vasilli shout through the phone. He began to speak very quickly in Russian. The guy holding my phone handed it to someone else.

Yep, this was my circus…

All rights reserved.  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction.  Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious.  Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.

Copyright © Hadena James 2016

All Rights Reserved

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