The Hunted

"It's almost summertime, and the prison lacks air-conditioning. I want him sweltering in 120-degree heat, locked into a small cell he has to share with a complete sociopath. I want him mixed in with the general population, eating horrible food, and worried every minute of every day for his life. I want him more miserable than he's ever been."

"I think that can be arranged."

"If you want your agents in Moscow, you'll make damned sure it is. You've embarrassed me with my bosses, John. You owe me for a year of humiliation and lame excuses."

Before Tromble could say another word, Tatyana punched off. She leaned back into her chair and placed her feet back on her desk. The prison had been Nicky's choice. He knew of ten Russians inside Yuma, three of them hit men with impressive credentials. He swore that any one of them could do the job.

Courtesy of Golitsin's fat wallet, a bonus would be offered to sweeten the pot-$500K to whoever killed Konevitch. A way would be found to get this word inside. Quick results were expected.

The next idea was Tatyana's. To encourage speedy action, the price would decrease by $100K a month, until the job was done.

28

Warden Byron James leaned back in his seat and contemplated the glistening toes of his spitshined wingtips. He peered into the reflected face of Special Agent Terrence Hanrahan and informed him, "Won't take long."

"You're sure?"

"Damn sure. Ask around. This here prison's the rottenest sewer in America," he said very loudly, smacking his lips and looking quite proud about that boast.

"What have you done with him?"

A slow smile. "A week in solitary for starters. Moved him to D Wing today."

"What's that? High-security?"

The warden's feet hit the floor and he leaned forward. "Just say he's not in the best of company."

"Tell me more."

"D Wing's for the undesirables. Big-time dealers, gangbangers, Mafia hoods, Black Power brotherhood, and recalcitrants who can't seem to behave. Plus, he's got a special new cellmate, Bitchy Beatty."

"That supposed to mean something to me?"

"If you were an inmate… then yeah, damned sure it would." Hanrahan was pretty certain it was best not to know. In the event he was subpoenaed later, total ignorance was his best defense. Curiosity got the better of him, though, and reluctantly he asked, "Tell me about Bitchy…?"

"Beatty. Bitchy Beatty. Guess you might know him better as Benny Beatty."

"Oh… that Beatty?"

"Same guy. You know, before that awful assault thing happened." Hanrahan vaguely recalled the case, about three years back.

Beatty, formerly of one of those big Kansas college football factories, and in his second year as an All-Pro tackle for Arizona, had rushed into the New York Jets locker room with a baseball bat after getting creamed in a championship game. Like a whirling dervish, he spun and bounced around the room and brutally assaulted fifteen of the Jets' top stars. By the time he was wrestled down, the locker room was filled with busted teeth and broken bones, three shattered kneecaps, and more gallons of blood than anybody cared to measure.

Beatty got more than the max, ten to twenty: turned out the judge was a rabid Jets season ticketholder; turned out it would be five to ten before the Jets could rebuild and field a reasonable team. The furious judge threw away the sentencing guidelines and gave Beatty double what he gave the Jets. An appeal was pending. The grounds were solid, but it would be heard in a New York appellate court, of all places. His lawyers weren't optimistic.

Hanrahan asked, "How'd he get that nickname?"

"Short for 'bitchmaker.' Ol' Beatty misses all those groupie sluts something awful." A broad smile at the faces in the room. "Guess you'd say his cellmates are his surrogates."

Two special agents leaned against the wall and joined in the laughter, halfheartedly, little more than forced chuckles. They stopped as soon as it seemed polite.

This was the third prison inside a year. And the third cocksure warden who swore he would break Konevitch like a swaybacked pony. Konevitch had adapted to each new facility quickly, with surprising ease. Go figure.

As a prisoner in the federal system, though, he enjoyed one protected right they badly wished they could withhold: monthly visits from that pretty little wife, who appeared like clockwork. No matter where they moved him, no matter how closely the secret was kept, she somehow learned where he was. The Feds monitored his mail, an easy task, as there had been no mail-none coming in, none going out. That nosy lawyer of theirs peppered the system with requests for his location, but none had been answered. Somehow, though, she always knew where he was.