Rasputin's Shadow

by Raymond Khoury

  “Hey,” Jonny called to him, tapping his helmet.

  Bon turned, his face twisted in a ferocious look of aggression that startled Jonny, so much so that it pushed aside his empire-building fantasies. It also made him fail to notice the incessant vibrating and pulsing blue-white light of his Samsung smart phone as it sat on the cabin floor by his feet and rang away.

  ***

  “HE’S NOT PICKING UP,” Ae-Cha told Koschey, fear raising her voice to a higher pitch.

  “Try him again,” he rasped, his eyes resonating with deadly intent.

  Ae-Cha nodded tensely, and hit the Call button a second time.

  ***

  AN ONSLAUGHT OF QUESTIONS battered me as I surveyed the chaotic aftermath of the shoot-out at the Green Dragon.

  A team of paramedics was already here and tending to Jaffee, who was going to be all right. Gaines, on the other hand, was probably dead before he hit the ground. The waiter, too. Some patrons had been injured in the mad scramble to get out of the place, but none seriously. And, of course, Ae-Cha was gone, which had caused her aunt and several of her relatives who worked there to freak out with worry.

  I tried to block out the cacophony and focus on what had just happened and why it had happened. I hadn’t expected our shooter to show up. He had Sokolov. Why had he come here? Why this late, this urgently? What the hell else did he want?

  He had to be here for Jonny. But Jonny wasn’t part of this. He’d only helped Sokolov. He wasn’t a threat to him, in the sense that he couldn’t ID him. I didn’t think Ivan was petty enough to come out here for revenge, either. And he took Ae-Cha. Only reason for that would be leverage over Jonny.

  Had Sokolov given Jonny something to hang on to for safekeeping? Something Ivan was after?

  Then it hit me.

  The van.

  Jonny had lied about where he’d dumped it. Then he’d gone out soon after we’d questioned him about it. And now this.

  It had to be the van. Sokolov had hidden something in it.

  I grabbed my phone and called Kanigher.

  “That APB on the van. Send it out again, priority one, tristate. That’s what our shooter’s after. We have to find that goddamn van before he does.”

  ***

  THE SOUND OF AUTOMATIC weapon fire punched through Jonny’s ear protectors, forcing his mind away from Bon’s sneering face and back to the side street off Brighton Beach Avenue.

  There were now at least a couple dozen people out on the sidewalk, all involved in one, large, messy, lethal fight—either one-on-one or locked in a Grand Theft Auto version of a bar brawl. Inside the bar was no different.

  Jonny was enjoying the spectacle, the sensation amplified by the cocaine lighting up his neurons, but Bon was getting too agitated. Jonny knew it was only a matter of time before the cops arrived and that the wise move was for them to leave before that happened, but he was finding it hard to tear himself away from the show.

  He scanned the street ahead and checked the van’s mirrors, scrutinizing the night for any telltale sign of spinning lights, when the blue light inside the van caught the corner of his eye.

  His phone was glowing.

  The display said: AE-CHA.

  Jonny stared at it, uncertain about whether or not to take it. This was really going to mess up his high and kill the moment. He felt a chill as he imagined what she was probably calling about, this late at night: Jachin. Maybe she knew. Maybe she’d heard. And if so, he could just imagine the state she might be in, given how she felt for his now-dead friend.

  He hesitated, then decided not to take the call.

  He stared at it with a heavy heart as it droned on in silence, its blue light coming on and off hauntingly inside the dark cabin of the van, its ringtone muted by the big ear protectors on his head—then Bon lashed out, twisting around and slamming his big fists into the partition wall behind his seat like a caged animal on a rampage.

  Jonny flinched and shouted to Shin, “Kill it!”

  Shin punched in the first preset, the one that hadn’t had a discernible effect, just as Jonny grabbed the phone. And at that same moment, a police cruiser came around the corner, lights spinning.

  “Get us out of here,” Jonny barked at Bon.

  The big man looked at him with a dazed expression.

  “Pulgarasi, we need to move.”

  Bon stared at him for a second, then sat back down, threw the van into gear and floored the pedal.

  Jonny looked back, watched as the police car pulled in outside the restaurant, then breathed out and answered his call. “Ae-Cha.”

  It wasn’t Ae-Cha.

  It was a voice he’d heard before, out on the docks that night, with Sokolov.

  “Where are you, Jonny?”

  44

  Officers Kaluta and Talaoc pulled in across the street from Lolita and scrambled out of their squad car. Kaluta froze in place as his mind registered the sheer horror of the scene outside the restaurant.

  It was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed before.

  People were trading blows or facing off with one another with knives and broken bottles in their hands, but they were outnumbered by those who either lay dead or dying on the sidewalk. Men and women who’d clearly dressed up for a night on the town were on the ground, writhing pathetically or limping away, their clothes ripped to shreds, their faces locked in expressions of confusion and silent terror. Blood was everywhere and on everyone, a tableau from a zombie movie come to life.

  “What do we do?” Kaluta asked his partner as he drew his gun.

  Talaoc didn’t answer immediately. Something else had caught his eye, just as they were rushing up to the restaurant. A van had just stormed away and was turning off onto another street. A white panel van, with a refrigeration unit on its roof. Same kind of van that was on the priority APB that had just flashed up on the squad car’s computer screen.

  Talaoc hit the Call button on his radio just as two other squad cars swarmed in.

  “YOU HURT ONE HAIR OF—”

  “Shut the fuck up and listen,” the Russian hissed. “I don’t care about her. You’ll get her back in one piece. I just want the van.”

  Jonny’s mouth dried up.

  The Russian didn’t leave him time to even think about how to handle it. “I know you have it. Don’t lie if you want her to live. I can make things very long and painful for her. Then I’ll come for you.”

  The Russian’s words, the coke, the emotions of the whole damn night—Jonny’s mind was frazzled. He could barely think straight. Yes, of course, his first instinct was a desperate urge to hang on to the van, at any cost. But this was Ae-Cha the bastard was talking about. Ae-Cha, his aunt’s only daughter. His Ae-Cha.

  He couldn’t lie.

  “I’ve got the fucking van here.”

  “Where are you?

  “Brooklyn.”

  The Russian went silent for a moment, then said, “Drive to Prospect Park. You know where that is?”

  “Yeah, I know where it is, motherfucker.”

  “Good. When you get there, go in from the Ocean Avenue side. Take the drive down to the ice rink. I’ll meet you there, in the lot.”

  Then the line went dead.

  Jonny cursed, shut his eyes to try to let some clarity seep back into his brain, then ordered Bon to change direction.

  ***

  I WAS ALREADY MOVING for the exit, with Aparo hot on my heels.

  “Put me through to the cruiser,” I blurted as I hit the sidewalk. “We need eyes on that van. Don’t let them lose it.”

  Within seconds, we were pulling away from the mess outside the Green Dragon when the dispatcher put me through to the squad car.

  “Who’s this?” I asked, switching the phone to speaker.

  “Officer Mike Talaoc, Sixtieth Precinct. I’m riding with Officer Kaluta. You?”

  “Reilly and Aparo, FBI. You got the van?”

  “We’re about two blocks back from it,” Talaoc told him. “It just tur
ned right on Neptune.”

  Aparo hit the gas harder now that he had a clear idea of where we were heading.

  “Okay, stay back but don’t lose them,” I told Talaoc. “Just tail them and don’t let them spot you. I’m gonna call in some backup. Our shooter’s coming after the van, and I want to be there when he does.”

  ***

  THE SLEDGEHAMMER WAS SAVORING a tumbler of limited-edition Iordanov Vodka when his prepaid cell phone rang.

  “Chyort voz’mi,” he cursed to no one in particular before he grabbed it and took the call.

  Mirminsky hated to be interrupted while enjoying the rewards of his efforts. He felt he’d earned the glass of five-thousand-dollar-a-bottle vodka, what with all the bullshit he’d had to suffer from the SVR enforcer—Afanasyev, or whatever the hell he’d called himself—as well as the accompanying increased heat from the feds. If he were entirely honest with himself, he couldn’t taste the difference between what he was drinking and a glass of Russian Standard, but appearances counted for almost everything in his world and if he was unable to savor the taste, then he could at least savor the price.

  Appearances also meant that he didn’t enjoy being seen as someone’s lackey, especially in the eyes of the cops and the FBI.

  “You need to hear this, boss.”

  “Put it through,” he groused.

  After a couple of clicks, the incoming call was connected to Mirminsky’s cell, which he knew was clean because it had been removed from its packaging less than three hours ago.

  “Ditko here. We’ve got trouble.”

  Mirminsky’s mood went from dark to pitch-black. Ditko was with the vice squad at the Sixtieth Precinct, out in Brooklyn. He’d been on the Sledgehammer’s payroll for seven years now, helping keep Lolita and Mirminsky’s crew out of trouble.

  “The lines are going crazy here. Some major bust-up at Lolita. It’s bad. We’ve got some dead, Yuri. I’m on my way there now.”

  Mirminsky’s veins flared, then settled back. There had been brawls at the place before. Even a death or two. Lolita had navigated through the turmoil before, and it would do so again. Mirminsky’s lawyers would see to that.

  “Is that it?” he grumbled.

  “You’re not listening, Yuri. This is really bad. You need to get down there and see it. And that’s not all. The feds are involved.”

  That made Mirminsky sit up. “Why the feds?”

  “I’m not sure. We got a report of a white van at the scene. Some kind of meat wagon. The feds have a priority APB out on it.” The line went quiet for a moment as Ditko tapped a few keys on his computer. “Wasn’t there a refrigerated van in the shoot-out at Owl’s Head Park? When your guys were gunned down?”

  The Sledgehammer’s blood was boiling now. “And I lost two more at Red Hook. All because of the same súka blyad.”

  Mirminksy knew most of what had happened at the docks. He had sources on his payroll at other police precincts throughout the city. This sounded like a definite lead on the bastard who had cost him six men and set the feds breathing down his neck.

  He wondered why no one at the bar had called him. It wasn’t a good sign.

  “Where’s the van now?” he asked.

  “I can find out. We’ve got a squad car tailing it, but the fed in charge told them not to intercept.”

  Mirminsky was already in full tactical planning mode. “I want to know where the van is. Call me direct with updates. Petr will give you the number.”

  He hung up and knocked back the rest of the Iordanov, then he opened a drawer in his desk and took out a Desert Eagle .50 Action Express. On each side of the customized handle, a sledgehammer had been embossed in gold.

  He’d had enough of being told what to do. Of assholes destroying his property and treating his foot soldiers like they came off a production line.

  Why Lolita?

  The bar was close to his heart. It was his very first place. It was where his business grew from. His niece’s fiancé ran it.

  What if he were among the dead?

  He tried Stefan’s cell. It immediately went to voice mail.

  He tried the bar. It rang out.

  That sealed it.

  This is America, not Russia.

  The sluzhba vneshney razvedk—the SVR—didn’t run the show here.

  Enough was enough.

  He was kuvalda. He was the Sledgehammer.

  And it was high time he showed those ebanatyi pidaraz why they called him that.

  45

  The van fishtailed as it turned left out of Brightwater onto Coney Island Avenue and headed north. Bon ran a stop sign, then jumped two sets of lights, but the traffic was so sparse at this time of night that it barely made a difference.

  Next to him, Jonny had his head stuck out the open window, his eyes focused behind them, trying to see if they were being followed.

  “Jen jang,” he cursed. Dammit. He pulled back into the van. “There’s a cop car tailing us. Can’t this piece of shit go any faster?” His pupils were the size of quarters, his blood hosting an escalating concentration of adrenaline and endorphins.

  The van lurched forward as Bon floored the gas and ran another set of lights. This time they made it over the intersection a split second before a short line of cars filled the cross street.

  Bon turned right onto a side street, then immediately took a left.

  Jonny peered out the window. He waited until they’d done a few more turns before facing forward and taking a deep breath.

  “I think we’ve lost them,” he told Bon. He slapped him on the arm three times. “Good job, Pulgasari.”

  He stared ahead. It was past two in the morning, and the roads were empty. He tried to keep a lid on his emotions and concentrate on reaching the ice rink, but he knew he’d gone too far this time. He knew there was no deceit or manipulation or charm that could extricate him from the spiraling violence in which he found himself trapped.

  Ae-Cha had never wanted to be part of his world, but once she’d fallen for Jachin—it was Jonny who had introduced them—it was only a matter of time before she was dragged into their wake.

  Jonny felt a surge of fury that was coupled with a parallel burst of sadness, and for the first time, he began to wonder if his brother and Shin had perhaps made the right decision after all.

  ***

  KOSCHEY WAS ALREADY OVER the Manhattan Bridge and heading down Flatbush Avenue toward Prospect Park.

  Major cities were easy for him. In between assignments, he often spent weeks in solitary lockdown, most recently in a rented villa just outside the tiny village of Mougins on the French Riviera, usually with no more than an encrypted satellite Internet connection for company. He used that time wisely, to prepare, to explore, to compile useful lists—including lists of discreet locations to stay at, or to meet in. Even though the entire apparatus of the Russian intelligence service was at his disposal, he preferred to work alone, and for no one—not even his direct superior—to know anything more than what they told him. It was safer that way, both for him and for them.

  He’d previously identified the lot next to the ice rink in Prospect Park as one of a handful of suitable locations for a meeting away from prying eyes, something that wasn’t especially easy in a place as crowded as New York City. While most of the city was increasingly covered by CCTV, the park itself had minimal coverage, and he knew where the cameras were and where they pointed.

  A pained grunt came from the seat next to him. Ae-Cha was struggling against the plastic strip that bound her wrists together, but had only succeeded in gouging a layer of skin from one wrist. A trickle of blood had stained the seat beneath it.

  It didn’t matter. The car wasn’t long for this world.

  Neither was its passenger.

  ***

  CHEWING GUM VIGOROUSLY LIKE a coach watching a final, the Sledgehammer sat in the cushy backseat of the Mercedes GL450 and checked his Desert Eagle as the black SUV pulled away into the night.

  His l
ieutenant Petr—a thin man with a tailored suit, cowboy boots, and a mop of blond hair that failed to conceal a vivid scar running horizontally across one cheek—was behind the wheel. Two indistinguishable thugs in leather jackets were riding with them. None of the heavies sported the usual tattoos of the lower-rung bratki. They were Mirminsky’s personal entourage, all ex–Russian Army Spetsnaz, specifically veterans of some of the most brutal Special Forces incursions into Chechnya. All three of them now earned more from him in a week, and with much better perks, than they’d received from the Russian state in a year.

  Mirminsky’s cell rang.

  It was Ditko.

  “Prospect Park,” the cop informed him. “The lot by the skating rink.”

  The Sledgehammer grunted. “Keep me posted.” Then he clicked off.

  He’d make sure the cop got something extra for his trouble. Mirminsky always rewarded those who helped him. It was one of the reasons he had risen so quickly. He believed in the old saying: knut i pryanik—“the whip and the gingerbread.” Only, his whip had barbs.

  He directed Petr where to go, then ran his fingers over his Desert Eagle, a savage impatience rising through him.

  ***

  APARO HUNG A LEFT as I grabbed the radio handset and squawked for comms.

  “Do you still have them?”

  After a moment, Talaoc’s crackly voice replied. “We do. We lost them for a few blocks, but we’ve caught up with them again. We’re on Ocean, still heading north.”

  I glanced at Aparo and pictured a map of the city in my mind’s eye.

  He asked, “Where are they going?”

  “Ivan must have told them to head someplace where they can do the trade. Ae-Cha for the van. Somewhere quiet. But at this hour—could be anywhere.”

  I lifted the handset back to my mouth. “All right, just hang back, but don’t lose them again. We’re about ten minutes out. Backup’s on the way too. Be advised the van might be hooking up with our shooter. Might be a hostage-exchange situation. This guy is armed and extremely dangerous.”