Vujnovich shook his head as he accelerated once again. He couldn’t believe how dense his partner could be. “Josef, did your mother drop you on your head when you were a baby? We have been in and out of that farmhouse for a week now. That Goldman woman knows where it is located. There is a body lying on the kitchen floor and a kidnapped, drugged corporate executive tied up in the front room.” He flipped on the right turn signal and turned down a narrow lane. “Do you think the local police might find that a little suspicious?”

They pulled to a halt in front of the farmhouse. The pair climbed out of the car and stepped up on the porch. They pulled out their pistols and entered the front door. Nothing had changed since they left two hours before. Mikhail Gikoytski’s lifeless body lay on the kitchen floor, his blood long since dried into a congealed, sticky mess. Alan Smythe snored loudly in the front room, still sleeping off the effects of the last massive dose of heroin.

“What now?” Bogatinoff asked.

Vujnovich looked around the room. He rubbed his dark beard as he thought for a few moments. The problem was a difficult one. They didn’t have time to clean everything up and dispose of Mikhail’s body. Besides, what would they do with Smythe? Two bodies were worse than one.

Vujnovich snapped his fingers. It was just too easy. “Josef, give me Mikhail’s gun and get another dose ready for our sleeping friend.”

He dragged the doped-up OptiMarx CEO into the kitchen and draped him in a chair. Smythe fell forward, slumped half onto the table. Vujnovich took the pistol the woman had used, and wiped it clean. He wrapped Smythe’s hand around the grip and trigger. Without warning, he squeezed off a shot that crashed into the far wall.

Bogatinoff jumped in surprise and dropped the hypodermic onto the floor. It shattered and splattered its contents on the tile. “Hey! What the hell! You scared the life out of me. What are you doing?”

“I had to get powder residue on the murderer’s hand. He shot poor Mikhail in a drug deal gone bad. Give him another dose and we will get out of here.”

Bogatinoff grabbed another needle and started to mix up some more dope. “Should I make it enough to overdose him?”

“Try to do something subtly for once. Make it look as if he did it himself. He would not OD on purpose. Make it borderline. That way, if he dies, toxicology will say it was accidental. If he lives, no police are going to believe a word he says. He will be trying to kick a major habit cold turkey in the slammer.”