“Yeah, you’d be walking home,” Josh answered.
Yelena pulled two gas masks from the pack and handed one to Joe, who fitted it over his face. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going in.”
With the crowbar, he chipped at the paint layered where the windowpanes joined, then forced it in the crevice, and using his foot, levered the skylight open. They both stood back, instinctively, to avoid the invisible rush of poisoned air from within. Then, while Joe aimed his gun into the now-empty store, Yelena clamped a winch over the opening. Sitting on the edge of the skylight, she put a foot into the loop at the end of the cord and lowered herself in.
She checked quickly to be sure it was indeed empty, then slid the loop over the leg of the table and signaled to Joe. He slid down.
They were in the back room of the shop. Around them refrigerated cases held tins of caviar and sealed sturgeon as well as cartons of blinis, vodka, and other trimmings. The equipment for the legit front business was on a work bench, while the central table was covered with the bagging supplies. A door led to the front of the shop, where, in the daytime, customers were served from behind a counter.
Joe shut that door, keeping it open a crack to watch, while Yelena quickly checked around. One of the fridges held a large black plastic trash bag, which she untied.
“Here’s the stash,” she said, handing it to Joe, who hefted it.
“Must be at least a dozen keys here.” He took hold of the cord and put a foot in the loop. “Let’s go,” he said, and then, over the mic: “We’re coming back out.”
Yelena joined him, sliding her foot in on top of his and wrapping her arms around him. Then she yanked the cord to start the winch, and they rose. As they moved past the table, she flipped it over, spilling the rest of the dope onto the floor. Now the plan was simply to go out as they’d come, exit through the neighboring building, and hop into the car with Cash and Juno. When the dope crew summoned the courage to venture back in, they’d find their stash mysteriously vanished. But as soon as Joe and Yelena’s heads cleared the window, someone took a shot at them. The bullet ricocheted off of the skylight’s metal frame.
They ducked, heads down, and hung there.
“Josh?” Joe asked over the mic. “Any news?”
“Shit, sorry, Joe,” he said. “I missed it. They must have a sniper in the building across the street.” He was out of his car now and scanning the street. “I’m going to have to move to get a shot.”
But now gunfire raked the roof above them, shattering the open skylight. Glass rained down and they swung together on the cord.
“Going down,” Joe said, as they yanked it to restart, and it lowered. Yelena jumped off first and ran to the back door, while Joe knelt behind the toppled table.
“It’s locked,” she yelled. “Give me a minute.”
Now the guard came back, hanky around his face, and opened the door, gun drawn. Joe sent a bullet whizzing past his ear and he fled.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he called back to Yelena.
“Done,” she yelled, pushing it open, and he joined her as they went out the back into the alley. This time the door saved them. It was reinforced steel, designed to protect the stash house, and so even fired at close range from a high-powered rifle, the bullet got stuck halfway through its thickness. Joe and Yelena dropped to the ground.
“The truck,” he shouted as they crawled around the far side and then climbed in the driver’s door, ditching their gas masks. The guard he’d knocked out was just coming around, mumbling and shifting on the floor. In the side-view, Joe saw two men in body armor, heavily armed and set up behind a portable shield, blocking the mouth of the alley.
“Now what?” Yelena asked.
“Let’s drive,” Joe suggested. He took a folding camp knife from his pocket, busted open the ignition housing with the screwdriver and used the pliers to strip the wires. “This truck is refrigerated. All that metal should stop a bullet.”
The engine sputtered to life. Meanwhile, the guard on the floor, stirred by the commotion, was climbing to his feet. But before Yelena could do anything about it, like shoot him, someone else beat her to it. An armor-piercing projectile came through the back of the van, burning through the layers of metal like they were paper and punching a hole right through the guard before exiting out the other side of the truck.
“Next idea?” Yelena asked as she threw herself to the floor, firing back as best as she could through the hole that shot had made.
Joe called over the mic. “We’re taking fire back here.”
“Damn it,” Cash said. “We’re on the wrong side of you.” He was parked with Juno on the street, waiting to pick them up when they came out next door. Liam and Josh were pinned down by the sniper. “We can try to drive around and ram them,” he suggested.
Now the two men in body armor were moving and, to close the trap, the club’s alley door opened too, and another armored man stepped out. “Thanks but we got a ride,” Joe said, and stomped the accelerator. He ducked his head as the man in the door fired, just one shot, before Joe ran him over, sending him flying and taking the door off its hinges. Joe braked hard, banging into the wall.
“This way,” he told Yelena. Crouching low, they abandoned their equipment pack and darted out the driver’s side door, into the open, or rather missing, door of the club. They were now in a dim loading area. A dumpster full of trash bags sat to one side, ready to be picked up. Music thumped through the walls. Joe dropped the bag with the stash into the dumpster. Then they tucked away their guns as they pushed through another door into a bustling kitchen and a young busboy, apron around his shirt, stared at them in surprise.
“Excuse me, but where is the dance floor?” Joe asked.
Confused, the busboy pointed toward the kitchen doors, from which the music came roaring every time a waiter hurried through.
“Thanks,” Joe said, grabbling Yelena’s hand. “Come on, honey, let’s dance.”
Toomey was getting annoyed. Till now, all his plans had gone off like clockwork. As predicted, these street gangs had been nothing compared to his highly-trained, disciplined, and battle-hardened team. It was thugs versus soldiers and the soldiers had wiped the streets with them, giving them a taste of real urban warfare. Then word had come down that this Brody might be making a move against them. And perhaps, Toomey admitted, he’d been a touch too confident, after the string of easy victories. He’d posted his own man as a sniper in addition to the usual guards, local talent from Brighton Beach. Then, as soon as his point man had spotted Brody’s people moving in, he’d sent in the hitters, armed, and armored, to the teeth, while he directed it all on camera. But then the cameras went down. And now he was told that, despite his overwhelming firepower and tactical surprise, Joe and Yelena had fled into the club. He couldn’t exactly send storm troopers in to sweep the place with bullets, as much as he’d like to. Like a fly that you missed with the first swat of a magazine, and that zips out of reach, this minor annoyance had become a major hassle.
“Does anyone have eyes on them?” he asked Sergey, the beefy, tattooed Russian who ran this place as well as this end of the operation. That was the division of labor: Sergey peddled the product, handled the stash house and the street crews. Toomey handled security and ran the pipeline, bringing the product in. Victoria was the head case. Every covert network needed one, and Toomey was cool with it: let her chop people’s fingers off and electrocute balls, she enjoyed it. Jensen kept Richards’s ass well-licked. And Richards and Nikolai played the big shots, overseeing finance, connections, and long-term geopolitical strategy. Or so they thought. Toomey had ideas of his own that would make them look like the spoiled brats they were, playing kiddie games. But for that he needed time, and that was what the large supply of heroin he’d brought in and stockpiled in the caviar shop meant to him: time. Now this Brody had snatched it.
Sergey was on the walkie with his people, the Russian knuckleheads who threw drunks out of the club and guarded the
dope on runs to resupply the dealers. “They are downstairs,” he told Toomey. He shrugged. “I think they are dancing.”
“Just make sure you seal all the exits. As long we have them trapped, we take our time cornering them. And get back our goddamn dope.”
“Right,” Sergey said, rushing out to deal with it, which mollified him a little. They’d boxed themselves in, and even if Toomey couldn’t kill them right here, they would surely run them down and retrieve the product, maybe even take them prisoner. Endless seconds crawled by while he stared at blank monitors, fists clenched. Then he heard more squawking over the radios and Russian cursing, which he didn’t understand, except for one word: musar, which in the dictionary means garbage but which everyone on the street, and in this club, knew meant police.
Joe and Yelena were in the cavernous main room of the club. Colored lights streamed and strobed as a mass of bodies gyrated on the large dance floor. The columns that held the warehouse roof up had been lined in mirrors that multiplied the chaos, and tables, chairs, couches, and banquets covered in red plush filled in the sides, with a long bar along one wall and more mirrors above, old fashioned ones edged in gilt. A DJ ran the deafening techno and waiters rushed champagne and vodka back and forth. The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, cologne, and perfume. As Joe pulled Yelena into the center of the dance floor, he picked out the guards: more big men in black suits or tight T-shirts, looking grim.
“Two by the front door,” he spoke into Yelena’s ear. “And one by the kitchen.”
“And more by the restrooms,” she said, nodding toward the two men who stood glaring at them by the other hallway. A roped-off staircase led to a balcony above, and there was Sneakers, the Russian from the Benz, leaning over the railing, eyes on them, jabbering into a walkie, no doubt directing his troops.
Yelena looked Joe in the eye. “Well Joe, looks like you have no choice. It’s a matter of life and death.” She put her arm on his waist and began to sway her hips to the music. “You will have to dance with me.”
“That sounds like an emergency all right.” He pulled out the phone he took off the guard and dialed 911, switching to a frantic voice. “Help! Please!” he shouted into the phone. “I’m at Zena II, the club on Brighton Beach Avenue. The bouncer just pulled out a gun and threatened to kill a customer. He’s a big guy in a black suit. Out front! Hurry!” He hung up and then dialed again. “Help! Fire!” he said this time. “I’m at the club Zena II, there’s smoke and flames in the kitchen. Oh my God it’s spreading please help. The sprinklers don’t work.” He disconnected the call. “Help’s on the way,” he told Yelena.
“So is trouble,” she said, nodding as she swayed to the rhythm. The guards, having decided not to wait any longer, were converging, making their way through the dense crowd.
“Let’s get a drink while we wait,” Joe said and took her hand. As the guards drew closer, they pushed toward the edge of the crowd, where the most luxurious banquettes lined the dance floor. The old man they’d seen outside sat in the center of one, with his young female companions on either side, and two personal bodyguards on the ends. Joe reached over and dropped the Russian’s phone into one of the girl’s cocktails. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry. I slipped.”
She stared at him blankly, batting her fake eyelashes. The old man yelled and waved him off. His bodyguards stood up and stepped toward Joe. By now the club guards had made it across the floor and were getting closer.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Joe asked the old man, reaching for his expensive bottle of champagne. He pulled it from the ice bucket. “My girlfriend is thirsty.” He handed the bottle to Yelena.
“Za zdorovie,” she said, and took a gulp, just as one of the bodyguards, barking in Russian, pushed Joe. Joe sidestepped him, quickly pivoting like a bullfighter and tripped him, sending him reeling into the club guard, who got knocked to the ground. Angry and embarrassed, the club guard jumped up and punched the bodyguard in the gut.
Meanwhile, another club guard was reaching for Yelena and she spun, stomping his instep and grabbing his arm, then twisted it behind him, kicking his other tendon from behind. He stumbled into the table, dumping champagne and vodka onto the girls’ dresses, and then falling into their laps. They screamed in anger and the other bodyguard leaned in to yank him off. He came up swinging blindly, hitting the guard.
The old man bellowed in Russian and the fight grew, as bystanders stepped in to defend him or the women and were confronted by club security, who had rushed over to pacify the bodyguards. Then Yelena noticed two firemen coming in the door, in full gear.
“Our bodyguards are here.”
“About time,” Joe said as they began to push through the crowd milling like angry bees around the growing brawl. “Fire!” Joe yelled now. “Fire!”
The firemen looked their way.
“I think there’s smoke coming from the kitchen,” he told them, as more people noticed and began to move toward the exit. Joe pulled his own phone out now and called Juno.
“Hey we’re coming out the front now,” he said. “How about that lift?”
“Um . . .” Juno said. He and Cash were observing the mayhem from the car. A fire engine was parked out front and cops were scrambling from their cars. “You do realize that there’s a whole bunch of city employees out here?”
“Don’t worry,” Joe told him. “That’s our free pass tonight.”
They flowed with the evacuating crowd, out the doors and into the street, where firemen ran by three cops who were wrestling the largest bouncer to the ground, his wraparound shades getting crushed underfoot. The door guy was up against the car, getting frisked by other cops. Joe nodded as they walked by. Cash picked them up at the corner.
“Man,” Juno said, as they got in. “Are we happy to see you. Uncuffed and bullet-free.”
“I feel bad, dudes,” Cash said, as he steered them away from the club and into ordinary, backed-up traffic. “I wish there was something I could do to make it up.”
“There is, actually,” Joe said, sitting back and finally breathing easy as they pulled onto Coney Island Boulevard. “You can pick us up a garbage truck.”
24
AFTER DROPPING JUNO AT home, and Joe and Yelena at Gladys’s, Cash, Liam, and Josh ditched one car and drove the other into the city, to a depot on the Hudson River where mountains of salt and sand sat, awaiting the roads of winter. It was controlled by a union official who was also a distant relative of Gio’s. A call was made and a garbage truck borrowed. Then in the early hours, Cash drove it by the now peacefully closed Club Zena II, which had put out its trash for the night. Liam and Josh rolled the dumpster down the alley and tipped it into the truck, then retrieved the one bag with the dope, and ditched the rest in a construction bin before returning the truck and hiding away the stash. As dawn broke, the three shared breakfast in a Westside diner, then went home to shower and sleep. By then, of course, Joe and Yelena were already tucked in bed, and even Joe was resting peacefully for once, too far under to be stirred by nightmares and wake Yelena, so that, after jetlagged days and dream-scarred nights, they were both finally catching up on their sleep when at 7 A.M. there came a pounding on the door.
Joe stumbled into the living room, towel wrapped around his waist, while Gladys, in her bathrobe, peeked through the peephole. The pounding got louder.
“Open up! Police!” a voice came booming.
Gladys turned to Joe. “It’s the cops. And your friend Donna’s with them.”
“Better open up then, before they bust it down,” Joe said.
Gladys put the chain on and opened the door a few inches. “Hi Donna,” she said.
“Good morning, Mrs. Brody,” she said, strictly business. She was in a suit and she had Janet and Andy with her, as well as Fusco and Parks representing the NYPD. She held up her warrant. “We’ve got a warrant to search these premises ma’am.”
Gladys opened up, stepping back to watch them troop in. “It’s kind of early,” Gladys tol
d her. “Why don’t you come back in a couple of hours for breakfast? I was up late playing cards with your mom.”
This got an eyebrow raise from Andy. Fusco wondered if it was some kind of obscure insult. To him, this whole thing was an embarrassment and he was afraid of repercussions from Gio, but he himself had been woken only an hour before and told to mount up. Donna had wanted to let him sleep, considering the suspiciously convenient dropped cable. But Tom had made it clear: this was still an NYPD operation and no way would she be allowed to execute a warrant without them. So here they were, the whole gang, facing Joe, who gave them a shy wave, holding his towel up with his other hand.
“Good morning Agent Zamora,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not raising my hands.”
“Mr. Brody,” she said, with a curt nod. He looked tired, obviously, but otherwise fit, without the pallor and without any signs of drug use, no longer the shambling, wrecked junkie of the night before. Clearly that had just been a ruse. She was both relieved and infuriated, to see him smiling and apparently without rancor now. “You can go get dressed,” she told him, “while Agent Newton accompanies you.”
“After you, sir,” Joe told Andy, and gestured toward the hall. Meanwhile, Gladys settled in to watch the search.
“Any change you find you can keep,” she told Fusco as he dug in the cushions of her recliner. Sliding on her glasses, she read aloud from the warrant: “. . . conduct a search of said premises for evidence to wit . . . to wit! What’s that mean? To wit heroin and paraphernalia related to the sale and use of heroin. What?” She laughed. “Good luck,” she told Donna, who was leading Janet into the kitchen. And to Parks, as he bent to peer under the couch: “You ain’t going to find any heroin down there, but see if you can find my missing slipper, Detective. Now that’s a real mystery.”
“I’ll try ma’am,” he told her. He wasn’t sure what he was even doing here, how this Brody character tied into the investigation. He pulled a remote control out from under the couch and brushed the dust off it. “Have you been looking for this?” he asked Gladys.
Against the Law Page 16