Traffyck Read Online Free Page A

reporters chased you out one of the lesser-known entrances of the House of Government. Hasn’t anyone told you killing yourself with cigarettes is old school?”
    The cigarette smoker inhaled, blew a thick stream of smoke toward the silver-haired man, and then said in a low voice, “The idiot filmmaker rotting in the mountains was named Ivan. I never trust a man named Ivan. As for my smoking, perhaps like our Chernobyl expatriates, I am in search of a convenient way to expire.”
    There was a long, tense silence. Finally, the bearded heavyset man struggled to his feet. “We took care of business. The teenagers stay. Although my church has worked on the project for millennia, our newly enlightened Pyotr must be given his opportunity to cleanse his corner of Ukraine of its evils. We will see how far he gets.”
    The silver-haired man named Pyotr also stood, towering above the other two, anger obvious in his stance. “It’s definitely time to leave, gentlemen. The van is waiting on the left bank to take you back to Kiev.”
    In the shadows, the three men shook hands reluctantly. Then, invisible to one another but obvious to an observer in the woods seeing the men backlit on the porch, the cigarette smoker and the bearded heavyset man wiped their hands on their trousers, as if the tall silver-haired man called Pyotr had power over them and they were trying to wipe it away.
    A young man in sweatshirt and jeans approached with a flashlight, pointing the way to lead the visitors down a path into the woods. The flashlight was in the young man’s left hand, which was on the end of an arm half the length it should have been. His right hand, also on a shortened arm, hung limply, bumping against his side as he limped ahead of the cigarette smoker and the bearded heavyset man. Beyond the dark woods the gurgle of water could be heard against a shoreline.
    Pyotr Alexeyevich, the tall silver-haired man who shared his name with Peter the Great, stood with his normal-length arms at his sides. After the wriggling flashlight beam disappeared down the path, Pyotr raised his head and stared up at the stars. As if to celebrate the departure of the visitors, several tree frogs began tuning their instruments in the surrounding forest. To Pyotr, the frogs were obviously using the Russian rather than the non-Russian pronunciation to call their mates. He smiled as he continued staring up to the heavens.

    All of this occurred in spring when it was cool in the Carpathians and in northern Ukraine. During spring and even into early summer, the pulls and tugs of powerful elements in this subsurface world were in equilibrium. Good versus evil maintaining a delicate balance, which resulted in temporary harmony.
    But in mid-summer, the weather changed and the heat was turned on by southerly winds and by a Kiev private investigator named Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved. Young people were missing, pornography makers were dead, and Shved wanted the Ukraine underworld to dance on hot coals. Unfortunately, excess heat can be dangerous.
    Here is what Shved once said to his colleague Janos Nagy who had, like him, opted to leave the Kiev militia and start his own private business: “The underlying problem with increasing the heat, Janos, my Gypsy friend, is that often you cannot distance your ass hairs from the flames quickly enough.”

CHAPTER
TWO
    In a small bathroom, all in white, including walls, sink, shower, toilet, towels, and vinyl floor, a woman, dressed in a body-hugging multicolored top and tight black shorts reaching mid-thigh, stood before a mirror. Her hands, encased in leather fingerless gloves, rested on her hips. She shifted her weight to her left leg, making that hip jut out to the side. Her blond hair lay disheveled on her shoulders. Ringlets of curls at her temples and neck were wet and tight. Her tanned arms and legs glistened with perspiration. A single droplet of perspiration hung from the tip of her small nose. The woman reached out her