Hard Hit

by J. B. Turner

  “Hunts Point Avenue.”

  “Copy that. He’s speeding up.”

  “Hunts Point, for your information, Jon—low-income, high-crime area.”

  Reznick rode past graffitied buildings and farther and farther into the heart of Hunts Point. Past industrial warehouses and repair shops. Then down sketchy side streets. “Where the hell am I?”

  “Whittier Street.”

  “Thought we were headed to a scrapyard.”

  Meyerstein said, “It’s all very fluid . . . Hold on. Jon, I’ve just been informed by Detective Acosta that this particular area is used by prostitutes. And their johns.”

  “What a fucking dump.”

  “Jon, just be eyes and ears in the vicinity.”

  “Negative. We can’t just wait. I need to be closer in case this goes south.”

  A beat. “Jon, that’s an order. You need to hang back. Only for emergencies.”

  “I don’t work for the Feds anymore, remember.”

  “Jon, let’s not have this discussion now. You know as well as I do that going in by yourself is suicide.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. Let Acosta and the NYPD know.”

  “Brutka and his men will kill you.”

  “Not if I kill them first.”

  Fifty-Four

  The Bentley SUV disappeared from sight through an iron gate into what looked like an industrial warehouse. Reznick continued down the street, surveying the scene. Barbed wire on the slate roofs and broken glass embedded in brick. He turned a corner and rode down the parallel street, Drake Street. It was filled with the same collection of industrial units and run-down auto shops and bottling plants.

  Reznick dumped the motorcycle behind a truck, knowing it would almost certainly be stolen if he left it unattended. But that wasn’t his concern. At least not now. His concern was Zuki. And the other girls.

  Reznick walked down Drake.

  A trucker wound down his window. “Be careful around here, man. They’ll fucking kill you soon as look at you.”

  “Appreciate the advice.”

  “Take care, bro.”

  Reznick walked around the corner and down Whittier Street. Cameras surveilling the area around the warehouse. He crossed the street.

  Out of the shadows a black woman wearing a tight dress appeared, smoking a joint. “Hey, honey, you want some fun?”

  Reznick shook his head. “Just walking around.”

  “Like hell you are. Walking around . . . shit. You want some action? You want to do some business? Don’t be afraid. I don’t bite. Much.” She gave a guttural laugh. “You need some weed? Crack? Speed? I know some really cool guys around here, trust me.”

  The voice crackled in his earpiece. “NYPD cars in position. We’re waiting until they come out, and then we’re going to head them off.”

  Reznick kept walking away from the sad, debauched woman in front of him.

  The woman followed him. “I ain’t cheap. But I’m good. You know what I’m saying? You look like you got the cash, man.”

  “Do you mind . . . Might be safer for you to make yourself scarce.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Do I look like a cop?”

  “Yeah. Actually, you do look like a cop.”

  The woman made a hand signal.

  “What was that you just did?”

  The woman dragged on her joint and shrugged. “I ain’t do nothing, honey.”

  Reznick saw a black guy farther down the street walking toward him and the woman, a switchblade in hand.

  “Yo, white boy, what the fuck are you doing wasting my girl’s time?” he said. “You bothering her?” The guy walked up to Reznick, knife aloft. “I don’t like people wasting her time. Time is money.”

  Reznick stood his ground.

  “Are you deaf, motherfucker?”

  Reznick stared at him, wanting the guy to get in his face.

  The guy was waving the knife around, agitated. “You crazy, white boy? They let you out of Bellevue, that it?”

  Reznick stood and stared.

  The guy lunged forward and Reznick feinted. Grabbed the guy’s arm. Knocked the knife to the ground. Then he head-butted the guy. The pimp crumpled in a heap. Reznick kicked him once, hard in the head. Blood spilled out of the guy’s nose onto the street. A few moans. Then the guy passed out.

  Reznick pointed at the woman. “You! Out of here! Now!”

  The woman just nodded and ran back down the street, high heels clacking on the asphalt.

  Reznick kneeled down and checked the pimp’s pockets. He took out the cell phone and a penknife and a Glock from his waistband. He called in support. “Need a vehicle to quickly get this fucker out of the way!”

  The earpiece crackled into life. “Copy that, Jon.”

  Thirty seconds later, a Ford Suburban pulled up and two burly plainclothes cops got out.

  “You OK, bro?” one said.

  “I’m fine. Get him out of here. And pick up the hooker too. Get them both out of the way.”

  The pimp was thrown in the back of the Suburban, and the cops were gone in a matter of seconds.

  The voice of Meyerstein echoed in his earpiece. “Jon, you need to stand down on this. We don’t know who’s in there.”

  “Zuki for starters. Brutka. And other girls. We can’t let this go. I need to get in. We need proof. We need to prove he’s there and get a second audio feed too if we can.”

  There was silence for a few moments before she spoke. “Jon, be careful. This guy’s crazy. We don’t want to lose you in there.”

  Fifty-Five

  Brutka gazed at the line of young women standing in front of him, their hands tied, eyes downcast. He walked down the line as he began his inspection of the girls. He looked at their cheekbones. Checked their teeth. Then he began to smell them. Their scent: a mixture of stale sweat and soap. He glanced around. His bodyguards were grinning, as if enjoying the show. Eyes crawling all over the young flesh in front of them.

  Brutka winked at them and turned to face the girls. “You need to know one thing about your new life,” he said. “You must listen very carefully.”

  The girls nodded. Zuki, his most beautiful girlfriend, wearing sunglasses, smiled reassuringly at the girls and translated his words into Ukrainian.

  “Very good. I like good listeners. You now work for me and my associates. You step out of line, and you will be taken back to Ukraine. To your families. What is left of your families. And your country. Don’t think Russia won’t be contemplating another land grab like Crimea. You will be slaves to Moscow. And you will likely starve like dogs. Am I making myself clear?”

  The girls nodded, a handful giving respectful bows of subservience.

  “You are all very beautiful. That is why you have been picked. You are very lucky that you have been blessed in this way, and that has opened up opportunities for you.”

  Zuki translated.

  “But with opportunity comes responsibility. You will be able to make money. A lot of money. And that of course can go back to your families. But do not take my charity as weakness. Quite the contrary. I can be harsh. And I can be cruel. But if you obey my each and every word, then we will get along just fine. You see, I want to help you.

  “Your families want you to be here. And that is why they are now in my debt. That can only be paid back by hard work. I have spoken personally to each of your fathers, and they are very grateful for this opportunity. When I stressed the importance of hard work, duty as you entertain clients and friends of mine, they understood exactly what my intentions were. I’m a good Ukrainian. I love Ukraine. And we must not let this opportunity pass us by, yes?”

  Zuki translated. The girls nodded.

  “When the Russians came to take the eastern part of our beautiful country, we resisted. But it came at a price. An economic price. I can’t imagine the horrors your parents went through. I know many lost businesses, families became homeless, and people got desperate. Your fathers, every on
e of them, have decided that the cash sums—substantial sums—I have sent to them will allow them to try and rebuild their lives.”

  Zuki cleared her throat and translated, hands on hips. The girls again nodded.

  “And in return you will work for me. Be at my beck and call. Do as I say. And as my associates say. Why? That is the legal agreement which is your duty as the fine daughters of Ukraine to uphold.”

  The translation prompted a few tight smiles.

  “I will provide all food, accommodation, and a good salary for each of you each and every month.”

  The translation followed. The girls smiled, looking happier at the prospect of making money.

  Brutka’s gaze lingered on the girls. He estimated their average age was eighteen. “So here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to get you all photographed, prints and DNA taken in the adjacent room. You will each have a medical exam. And this will make sure you are not carrying any diseases.”

  Zuki translated and the girls nodded.

  “Do not worry. The doctor is a lady doctor, a Ukrainian working in New York City, so don’t be afraid. It’s just so that we have up-to-date information on your physical health. Then we can let you see what the city is all about.”

  Fifty-Six

  When he was satisfied the area fringed by industrial units was quiet—no hookers, pimps, or clients lurking in the shadows—Reznick headed back onto Drake Street. He climbed up a wall and pulled himself up and onto the roof of a nearby building.

  He stayed low as he crawled across the tiles of the one-story building. He saw the black Bentley SUV parked in a dingy courtyard. Sulfurous yellow lights bathed the area. He peered down.

  Reznick whispered into the pinhole microphone on his jacket, relaying the information.

  The earpiece crackled back into life. “Jon, copy that.” It was Meyerstein. “We have all units in place. We’ll have them covered when they leave.”

  “The warehouse extends over three separate units, as far as I can see. It’s far larger than we thought. So it’s not just the front. I’m concerned that there are other ways to get out of there without being observed.”

  Meyerstein went quiet for a few moments.

  “Whittier Street, behind the buildings,” Reznick said. “Have we got a unit there?”

  There was a pause as Meyerstein checked with the team, but Reznick couldn’t wait any longer. “I’m just going to go check out Whittier Street to scope out the scene.”

  “Copy that, John.”

  “Radio silence, people.”

  The radio went quiet.

  Reznick held his breath. He looked down on the courtyard. He was spread-eagle on the roof about twenty yards to the rear of the Bentley, out of sight of the rearview mirror. He waited for a few moments. Suddenly, the shaven-headed driver wound down his window, elbow out, smoking a cigarette. He saw his chance.

  He crawled a yard to the edge of the building and peered over. The guy was looking away from him.

  Reznick got on his side and slid a few inches to the edge, gripped the tiled roof, and lowered himself down softly. He crouched down and then crawled underneath the car.

  His heart was beating. The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with gasoline fumes.

  Reznick rolled out and emerged, gun pointing at the driver’s head. “Nice and easy, step out,” he said, one finger to his lips. “Hands up.”

  The driver reached down inside and cracked open the door.

  Reznick grabbed him by the throat and hauled him through the window, kicking away his legs.

  The guy whined in pain as he collapsed to his knees.

  Reznick pressed the gun hard into the man’s neck. “Where’s your boss?”

  The guy just shrugged.

  “Dumb move, asshole.”

  Reznick bent down and punched the man hard in the side of the neck, knocking him out. He reached into the guy’s jacket pocket. Took the guy’s cell phone, car keys, and wallet, put them in his own jacket pocket.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Reznick saw a rifle butt. Suddenly it smashed down hard against his face. Then he was swallowed up in darkness.

  Fifty-Seven

  Meyerstein felt a sense of dread as she watched the real-time footage from Reznick’s pinhole camera. Glimpses of two stocky men of Slavic appearance briefly appeared in the shot, kneeling down to check on him. Then speaking in what sounded like Ukrainian.

  There was no movement from Reznick. Had he been knocked unconscious?

  She picked up the radio and spoke to Acosta.

  “Detective Acosta, you watching what we’re watching?” Meyerstein asked.

  “Tracking the whole thing. I’m tempted to go in now. This whole thing is messed up.”

  Meyerstein sighed. “I think we should wait.”

  “Why?”

  “What we have won’t nail Brutka.”

  “I don’t know if I agree with that.”

  “Ideally, we want footage of him. We have audio. But footage showing him in there would be a clincher.”

  Acosta went quiet for a few moments.

  “It’s a tough call, I know, Acosta. But I say we hang tight for the moment.”

  Acosta sighed. “Ma’am, Reznick’s life is in jeopardy. And I’m worried Brutka and his goons might kill one or all of the girls.”

  “It’s a possibility. But here’s the problem: we don’t have Brutka beyond a reasonable doubt so far. Audio is good, but that could be disputed as dubbed or fake. Trust me, I’ve come up against bastards with great lawyers before.”

  Acosta cleared her throat. “So you’re saying we watch and wait?”

  “That would be my call. Wouldn’t it be best to have video footage of Brutka with the girls in the room?”

  “That’s what we want.”

  “Agreed. Something so incriminating but also, crucially, not something that can be passed off as official diplomatic business.”

  Acosta went quiet for a few moments. “The last thing I want is for this fucker to get off on a technicality. ‘Yeah, that was me talking, but I was just fooling around with friends.’ I see what you’re saying.”

  “You need to call it.”

  “I feel uncomfortable letting this go on. My concern is Reznick’s life is on the line now.”

  “I know Jon. And I know what he can do,” Meyerstein said. “He wants to nail this bastard.”

  “Even if he’s injured doing it?”

  “Jon is brave. A warrior. And I know he will take it to the wire, do whatever is needed. He’s that kind of guy. But this is your call, Acosta. We go in now, we’ve got them all. But for the best evidence, we need to wait.”

  “Damn. Damn . . . Fuck. Does Reznick always take the hardest route to get to a destination?”

  “Almost always.”

  A beat. “I say we watch and wait,” Acosta said.

  Fifty-Eight

  Reznick was drifting in darkness. He tasted blood. Heard voices. Eastern European. Shouting. He tried to open his eyes, but his vision was blurred. He felt his hair being grabbed and a gun to his forehead. Then a hard slap to the jaw.

  He felt himself coming to.

  “Who are you? Are you police?”

  Reznick managed to finally open his left eye; his right seemed to be heavily swollen. A Mohawk buzz-cut thug wearing a dark suit pressed a gun to his head.

  The guy again slapped him hard on the jaw. “Answer me.”

  Reznick played submissive, as he had been trained to do. “No, sir. No, I’m not.”

  The guy hauled Reznick up. Frog-marched him through a dimly lit repair shop. He was pushed and prodded into a windowless room. The Ukrainian girls were lined up as if for a slave auction. Standing in front of them was Brutka, Zuki standing beside him. Two heavies leered at Reznick.

  The shaven-headed guy pushed Reznick forward and kicked away his feet.

  Reznick slumped to his knees.

  “Hands on head!” the thug shouted.

  Reznick complied, tas
ting blood again. He squinted in the harsh light as Brutka walked slowly toward him.

  Mohawk said, “Look what I found outside.”

  Brutka was wearing a navy suit, pale-blue shirt and maroon tie, black loafers. He screwed up his eyes as he stared down at Reznick. “I thought we’d seen the last of you, Mr. Reznick.”

  “You guessed wrong, Brutka, you fucking scumbag. What’s this you’ve got going on? Do these girls know they’re going to be working as prostitutes? As drug mules?”

  The Mohawk guy smashed a monkey wrench down onto Reznick’s forehead. Pain erupted as blood gushed down the front of his face.

  A piercing scream came from one of the girls.

  Reznick wiped the blood away with the sleeve of his leather jacket as he stared at the girls. “Meet your new boss, girls.”

  Brutka stared down at Reznick. “You’re becoming tiresome, Mr. Reznick.” He turned to face the girls, a couple of whom were now sobbing. “This gentleman has been suffering from delusions and is trying to stop opportunities for girls from Ukraine. And he has tried to harm me. Make no mistake, he is not a good man.”

  Reznick spat blood onto the floor. “He’s going to be your pimp.”

  Brutka laughed and looked down at Reznick. “They don’t understand a word you’re saying.” He looked at Zuki, who still wore her dark glasses. He cocked his head at his bodyguard. “Check my friend.”

  A bodyguard grabbed Zuki and patted her down. He took out the cell phone from her pocket.

  “Is this how they found us?” Brutka asked.

  She began to cry. “Honey, you gave me that to call you.”

  Brutka approached her and whispered in her ear. “Did you speak to the police?”

  “No, sweetie.” She looked at Reznick. “I don’t know that man.”

  Brutka smiled and turned to face the other girls. “Rule number one,” he said as Zuki began to translate into Ukrainian. “You learn the meaning of respect. And the meaning of fear. Otherwise . . .” He turned and nodded at the bodyguard.

  The heavy pressed the gun to Zuki’s head and shot her stone dead. Blood sprayed onto the walls. Her body dropped to the floor. The screaming from the other girls echoed around the old stone walls. Blood pooled around Zuki’s head on the floor. Some of the girls began to shake as shock set in.