Judge & Jury - James Patterson [3]
I squeezed the trigger of my gun—twice. The second bullet slammed into his thigh.
The godfather reached for his leg and buckled. But he kept going, dragging the leg, like some desperate animal that wouldn’t quit. I heard a thwack, thwack, thwack—and saw the Coast Guard Apache coming into sight.
“That’s it,” I yelled ahead, aiming my Glock again. “You’re done! The next shot goes through your head.”
Cavello pulled himself to an exhausted stop. He put his hands in the air and slowly turned.
He had no gun. I didn’t know where he’d thrown it, maybe into the sea. He’d been close enough. A grin was etched on his face despite the bullets in his thigh and shoulder.
“Nicky Smiles,” he said, “if I knew you wanted to be at my niece’s wedding, all you had to do was ask. I woulda sent you an invitation. Engraved.”
My head felt like it was going to explode. I’d lost two men, maybe three, over this filth. I walked up to Cavello, my Glock pointed at his chest. He met my eyes with a mocking smile. “You know, that’s the problem with Italian weddings, Pellisante, everybody’s got a gun.”
I slugged him, and Cavello fell to one knee. For a second I thought he was going to fight me, but he just stood up, shook his head, and laughed.
So I hit Cavello again, with everything I had left in me.
This time, he stayed down.
Part One
THE FIRST TRIAL
Chapter 1
IN HIS HOUSE on Yehuda Street in Haifa, high above the sky-blue Mediterranean, Richard Nordeshenko tried the King’s Indian Defense. The pawn break, Kasparov’s famous attack. From there Kasparov had dismantled Tukmakov in the Russian Championship in 1981.
Across from Nordeshenko a young boy countered by matching the pawn. His father nodded, pleased with the move. “And why does the pawn create such an advantage?” Nordeshenko asked.
“Because it blocks freeing up of your queenside rook,” the boy answered quickly. “And the advance of your pawn to a queen. Correct?”
“Correct.” Nordeshenko beamed at his son. “And when did the queen first acquire the powers that it holds today?”
“Around fifteen hundred,” his son answered. “In Europe. Up until then it merely moved two spaces, up and down. But . . .”
“Bravo, Pavel!”
Affectionately, he mussed his son’s blond hair. For an eleven-year-old, Pavel was learning quickly.
The boy glanced silently over the board, then moved his rook. Nordeshenko saw what his son was up to. He had once been in the third tier of Glasskov’s chess academy in Kiev. Still, he pretended to ignore it and pushed forward his attack on the opposite side, exposing a pawn.
“You’re letting me win, Father,” the boy declared, refusing to take it. “Besides, you said just one game. Then you would teach me . . .”
“Teach you?” Nordeshenko teased him, knowing precisely what he meant. “You can teach me.”
“Not chess, Father.” The boy looked up. “Poker.”
“Ah, poker?” Nordeshenko feigned surprise. “To play poker, Pavel, you must have something to bet.”
“I have something,” the boy insisted. “I have six dollars in coins. I’ve been saving up. And over a hundred soccer cards. Perfect condition.”
Nordeshenko smiled. He understood what the boy was feeling. He had studied how to seize the advantage his whole life. Chess was hard. Solitary. Like playing an instrument. Scales, drills, practice. Until every eventuality became absorbed, memorized. Until you didn’t have to think.
A little like learning to kill a man with your bare hands.
But poker, poker was liberating. Alive. Unlike in chess, you never played the same way twice. You broke the rules. It required an unusual combination: discipline and risk.
Suddenly, the chime of Nordeshenko’s mobile phone cut in. He was expecting the call. “We’ll pick it up in a moment,” Nordeshenko said to Pavel.
“But, Father,” the boy whined, disappointed.
“In a moment,” Nordeshenko said again, picking up his son by the armpits, spanking him lightly on his way. “I have to take this call. Not another word.”
“Okay.”
Nordeshenko walked out to the terrace overlooking the sea and flipped open the phone. Only a handful of people