Inga

It had taken several hours for the Chicago PD along with a couple of members of the Organized Crime division to question Molenski. Finally, they conceded that the Russian seemed to have been the victim in this particular circumstance. From all appearances, his enemies had devised a particularly sophisticated assassination attempt by a robot.

The Russian had cooperated fully with the man in charge, Commander Burlinson, who was actually on Molenski’s payroll, but it was clear that the case would be referred to the FBI as the AI factor moved it into the federal jurisdiction.

When he had told them about the murderous robot, you’d be forgiven for thinking he had shoved a wasp’s nest up their ass with a long stick. A breach of the robotics laws was rare, especially a murder attempt, so what they had initially thought of as a standard mob hit turned into something with far wider ramifications.

Molenski was careful to implicate Ivan. By the time he left, Burlinson was under no illusion that the bodyguard had been in on the whole thing and that Molenski wanted him apprehended before the FBI got their hands on him.

Of course, the Russian didn’t really think that Ivan was involved in the plot. The assassination attempt was the work of the Columbians, of that he had no doubt. No one else had the resources or the motivation, and he would deal with them in his own time.

Ivan, though, had let him down badly. Had betrayed him in his moment of need, despite everything that Molenski had done for him.

No. Besides not being killed, the only good that had come of the whole thing had been the fact that Ivan had prevented him finishing Inga with another gunshot or two. Now that he wasn’t swept up in the emotion of his near-death experience, he saw how much sweeter it would be to deal with the beautiful Inga lookalike in his own sweet time. And he would make Ivan watch.

Molenski was sure he would find the odd couple, but putting Ivan into the cops would be a backstop should he escape the mobster’s reach. If he was apprehended anywhere within the city limits, it would be easy enough to use his connections and grease a few palms to give him and the bitch the welcome home they so richly deserved.

After the cops had quit the estate, the hunt for Ivan and Inga began in earnest. Molenski’s tech experts got busy hacking into the phone company’s systems and searching for the stolen Dodge.

While he was waiting, Molenski watched the surveillance footage of the Dodge speeding up the ramp of the underground carpark over and over, peering intently at the black and white footage of the two absconders.

After twenty minutes, Molenski was informed that Ivan’s cell phone had last been detected a few suburbs away and hadn’t moved for hours.

“Don’t bother sending anyone; he’s not an idiot. It’s been dumped. What about the car?”

“Better. Courtesy of the vehicle tracking you paid for, we have an exact location…”

“Is it still moving?”

“No sir.”

“How long has it been stationary?”

“Three hours or so Mr. Molenski, at a wrecking yard on Kedzie Avenue.”

“He’s gone,” said Molenski. “But let us go and find out who has my car and what he might know of our friend and his passenger. Hand me your phone…”

Molenski quickly dialed a number.

“Andre, it’s me. I need you; something has come up. Be ready in 20 minutes.”

Molenski took three men, and they picked up Andre on the way. Now that Ivan had departed the scene, Molenski wouldn’t have admitted it, but he felt a little naked. Andre had been with him since not long after he arrived and was his head of security; he would adequately fill the shoes of the traitor.

Dimitri Molenski was quiet and thoughtful during the drive to Kedzie Avenue. That didn’t make the four men in the car with him relax. If anything it made them ill at ease, even the seasoned Andre.

An angry Molenski in full flight was much more predictable than his quiet alter ego.