The Export J.K. Kelly (best way to read e books .TXT) 📖

Germany). But there was also the occasional lone wolf, an intriguingly beautiful prostitute occupying a barstool. Matt, like most men and many women, found the exotic and beautiful Russian women with their cool, blue-steel eyes exceptional and intriguing. Set those eyes in a movie star face and a bathing suit model’s body, sprinkle in a captivating Russian accent, and you have a recipe for a memorable night. A night of drinking, laughter, heavy spending, and perhaps a very happy ending.

“Nostrovia!” the men seated at the table directly behind Matt’s place at the bar shouted as they raised their shot glasses of vodka, again and yet again. Their suits all looked the same, grey, with white shirts and red or blue ties, all of which were loosened or gone completely at this point in the celebration. They weren’t from this big city. One man, this one with his tie pulled up and around his head, staggered to the bar to secure another bottle. He bumped Matt, splashing his beer onto his hand and arm.

“Sorry, sorry, my friend,” the Russian offered in an apologetic yet jubilant tone that wasn’t lost on Matt.

“Not a problem, mate,” Matt replied. “What are you toasting over there?”

Matt joined them and soon two more bottles of vodka had been nearly emptied into the Russians, who were celebrating the closing of a business deal. They were all from a company that was located way east of Moscow in Mongolia. Their facial structure and eyes, a touch of arctic eskimo and a bit of Asian, had telegraphed their origin long before they told him. Now they turned their focus on their newfound friend.

“We are glad you were able to join us,” one of them stated. “This can be a very dangerous place. You need to be among friends here!”

Matt raised his shot glass and toasted. “To friends,” he stated, and the group downed their remaining vodka in unison.

“What makes you think this is a dangerous place?” he asked.

“Because we have wolves here, like the ones at the bar,” a man slurred his reply.

“To wolves,” Matt stated, forcing the rest to fill their glasses and join him.

“Those wolves have been known to take down a grown man, no matter how strong they are,” the man continued. “They are carnivores for sure.”

“One can only hope,” Matt said with a laugh.

“No, my friend, I am serious,” the man insisted on continuing his lecture.

“They have been known to take down the wealthiest men, the most powerful political and military figures who come to our country.” Despite the alcohol, Matt knew exactly what the man was saying. He pictured the photo of the face the CIA had shown him the day before in Washington.

“It’s okay, I’ve been here many times before and know all too well what can get you in trouble here.”

As one of the servers stepped in to clear the table of the empty bottles, Matt ordered a dozen bottles of beer for the table.

“No, no, no,” many of them protested. “If you drink beer with vodka, you will get sick.”

“No, no, no,” Matt responded, waving his now empty shot glass back and forth with every word. “This is the way we do it in America!”

The two men who had been listening to the celebratory conversations at the table stepped in on either side of Matt. They were right out of a cold war movie. Short haircuts, scars on their faces, probably from bar fights in their younger days. Both wore black suits, black ties, and off-white raincoats, not to keep dry but to hide weapons. The looks on the faces of the men he had been partying with had all changed dramatically. In an instant, both men grabbed Matt under his arms and lurched him up from his chair. Instinctively, he responded, jerking his right arm loose and using it to punch the man to his left in the face.

With the sound of breaking glass, Matt fell to the floor, his head bleeding from the vodka bottle that had just crashed hard against his skull.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Matt’s head throbbed as the car sped away from the hotel and swerved to bypass one vehicle and then another. After he was clobbered with the vodka bottle, the two goons had grabbed him, drug him from the bar, and threw him very forcefully into the back seat of a black Lada SUV. The buildings, light posts, and traffic lights were flashing by. They were driving fast, too fast, but Matt had no idea where they were headed.

“Who the hell are you guys?” Matt asked groggily from the back seat of the Russian-made sedan.

The driver kept his eyes straight ahead while the man riding shotgun, the one who had introduced Matt to the vodka bottle, continued to speak into his cellphone. It had begun to rain in the city, and the car was moving quite fast. Matt could barely make out where they were headed, let alone why they had grabbed him so violently.

“You guys FSB? Moscow Police?” Matt asked. No reply from the front seat.

“Did I soil somebody’s sister? No, Russian mob, that must be it, then,” Matt joked but still no answer. Matt didn’t speak the language, other than the courteous spasiba, or thank you, dasvidaniya for goodbye, and, of course, the nostrovya he had said so often earlier in the evening.

The conversation on the cellphone up front was getting heated, but he couldn’t understand a word of it. Suddenly the car screeched to a halt, sending Matt flying into the seat backs of his captors. They weren’t amused, and both turned to curse him. The man with the phone continued what was now an argument for another minute, then he ended the call, threw the phone on the dashboard, and gestured for the driver to reverse course and head back where they had come from.

Minutes later, the car screeched to a halt again. From Matt’s position lying across the back seat, he could see immediately where they