by L. T. Ryan
The cop that looked to be Jack’s age was looking in Jack’s direction. His eyes inched along. He turned his body slightly. He reached the ticketing counter and those ever moving eyes stopped. He looked at Jack, but beyond him at the same time. He lingered longer than normal, though, and that gave Jack cause for worry.
Jack held his breath. Five seconds felt like thirty. He wondered if his picture hung in a room below or above. A room that few people ever saw. Only cops had the privilege, and suspected criminals the displeasure, of setting foot in there.
Finally, the officer moved on. Looked elsewhere. Jack exhaled and turned to face Gracie again.
“Here’s your credit card, Mr. Martin.” Gracie slid the card across the narrow counter. “I’ll be done with your license in a sec.” A few minutes later she placed the fake driver’s license on the counter. “Any bags, Mr. Martin?”
“No bags. Just me.”
Gracie handed Jack his ticket and said, “Now you only got about thirty minutes. When you pass through that little hallway over there,” she reached out and pointed over his shoulder, “turn to the left. Go to the North security checkpoint, not the main checkpoint. Got it? You’ll wait three times as long at the main checkpoint. Use the expert traveler lane, since you don’t have any carry-ons. Then follow the signs to the train and get off at Concourse C. Then it’s just a short walk to your gate.”
Jack took the ticket and smiled. “Thanks, ma’am.”
2
Two days past full, the moon lit up the sidewalk and the street and buildings. Bear looked over the heads of Larsen and Pierre, over the rooftops. He focused on the moon and thought about Mandy. There’d been plenty of time for guilt since the abduction. Bear had managed to push the thoughts aside, though. But at that moment, so close to the time when they’d be reunited, he fought with his feelings. He struggled with the thought that he had let her down. He hoped it wouldn’t show on his face, and at the same time, he hoped that it would.
Bear stood a few feet from the other two men. He listened as Larsen went over the plan for the third time.
Pierre was to pose as a waiter at Boris’s event. They assumed that the staff would be searched, so Pierre’s weapon would be hidden outside the building. Taped to the inside of the dumpster. During an early smoke break he’d retrieve the weapon. Before he did that, though, he had to locate Mandy and Clarissa. Bear held out hope that both would be in attendance. It would make the job easier.
Larsen popped the trunk of his car and ducked under the lid. He pulled out a red garment bag. Pierre stuck his cigarette between his lips and reached out for the bag.
Larsen said, “That’s your uniform.”
Pierre unzipped the bag and made a face at the outfit. Said, “It’s what the others will be wearing?”
Larsen nodded. “Yeah, I got a friend in the catering company. Try it on.”
Pierre changed next to the car, not bothering to hide himself from view.
“Skin and bones,” Bear said. “How’d you manage to last twenty years in the field?”
Pierre laughed and said nothing in response. He slipped the white collared button-up shirt over his undershirt. Then he slowly buttoned the shirt to the neck. Afterward, he tucked the shirt into the waistband of his black pants.
“How do I look?”
“Like a French waiter,” Bear said.
Larsen smiled and said, “You look the part. Can you speak with an American accent?”
“Ya’ll want I should talk like this?” Pierre said, mocking the question.
“Not quite like that,” Larsen said. “Just normal, even tone.”
Pierre nodded. “I’ve done it before,” he said in as neutral an American accent he could muster. He took one last drag from his cigarette and dropped it on the street. A cloud of red ash burst into the air, fading out instantly.
Bear walked over and crushed the cigarette out with his heel. “What’s the next step?”
Larsen said, “OK, we’re a few blocks away from the hall where this thing is taking place. It’s an art gallery.”
“Russian owned?” Bear asked.
Larsen shook his head. “That section of town, all the buildings are two stories high with tall first floors. They all have basements. Wouldn’t expect too much going on down there. Likely used for storage. We’ll encounter security teams on the rooftops.” Larsen looked up at the buildings surrounding them. “Expect security on top of the gallery, the buildings in front and behind, and probably a block away in each direction. Bear,” Larsen pointed in Bear’s direction, “You and I will scout that.”
Bear nodded. Said nothing.
Larsen continued, “It’s imperative that you let us know before you are ready to leave with the girl. Got that Pierre? We need to create a distraction.”
“What’d you have in mind?” Bear asked.
Larsen lifted a finger and shook his head. “You’ll see. I don’t want to reveal that just yet.”
Bear’s curiosity got the better of him and he tried to imagine what Larsen would consider a distraction. He didn’t come up with anything interesting.
“Bear?” Larsen said. “You got that?”
Bear shook his head. “Sorry?”
“You’ll need to be ready for the transfer, Bear. I’ll be about a mile away. Pierre will do a little recon to see if he’s been missed at the event, then we’ll all meet back at the house.”
“Got it,” Bear said.
Larsen leaned into the trunk again and pulled out a bag. He retrieved two radios and an earpiece. He handed Bear a radio and the earpiece to Pierre. Kept the other radio for himself. “These are all tuned to a specific frequency so we can communicate. Pierre, this will be invisible in your ear. It works both ways all the time. Talk when you want to talk. You’ll hear us when we talk.”
Pierre grabbed the device and slid it inside his ear canal. “I’m familiar with how they work.”
“Bear,” Larsen said. “You got the car. I’m on foot and will walk Pierre to the event.”
Bear shook hands with both men and wished them luck. He held Pierre’s hand a few extra seconds and stared him in the eye. “Do it right, Pierre.”
Pierre nodded, and then he and Larsen turned and walked away.
Bear leaned against the car and watched them round a corner and disappear from sight. It was cold and he hadn’t brought a jacket. He thought about going back to the house to get one, but knew that would be foolish. Instead, he sat inside the car. Turned on the heat. Dropped the shifter into drive and drove around. He stuck to right turns only, following a four block perimeter.
He resisted the temptation to deviate from his path and drive by the art gallery. It wasn’t worth the risk of being spotted by someone who might know him, or by the security team who might take note of him.
His radio clicked and hissed and Pierre’s voice came through the speaker. “I’m inside. Made it through with no problems. There is security inside. They patted me down, but found nothing. I don’t know that I’ll be able to get to the dumpster without being seen. At least not now. Maybe when the party picks up. It’s pretty empty in here at the moment.”
Larsen spoke next. “Great, Pierre. Stay out of trouble and let us know when you see the girl.”
Bear said nothing. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and breathed in and out. Slow and steady. It felt good to be back in action.
3
Boris scanned the crowd inside art gallery. Young and old. Black and white. Rich and poor. He didn’t recognize eighty percent of the people in the room. Freeloaders, he thought. They’d come to eat the food and drink the alcohol that he had paid for. The remaining people in the room, the ones he did know, were a mix of cops, local politicians and his own men. In short, people who were there because of money. They were on his side because they were on his payroll. Or afraid of him. Or both. Either was enough to buy a little loyalty. For now.
He hated hosting these events. But such was the way things were done. Boris under
stood that running a criminal organization in the U.S. required extra effort. He knew that parties and charitable events would help endear him within the community.
He invited those cops who he knew went out of their way to look the other way when his name came up.
He let the politicians in and made sure that when they left, their pockets were fatter. That way, when he needed a favor, they’d be ready to step up to bat for him.
As for the bad stuff, it was all rumors. Low level crime. A few break-ins. His guys had roughed up a few people. The farm-folk, as he liked to call them, had no idea what he really had planned.
“Mr. Melikov, I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Boris turned and found himself face to face with Michael Hiller, the Mayor of Knoxville.
“Mayor Hiller,” Boris said. “How are you?”
Instead of saying fine or okay and making small talk, Mayor Hiller launched into a campaign speech. He spoke of his upcoming election race and the need for funding and the challenge his competitor posed. Not just for him, but for the entire city of Knoxville. Boris did his best to appear to be paying attention. He nodded his head. He smiled when he thought it appropriate. But in the end, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Soon he’d send Anastasiya to Portland, Oregon. Everyone would be in place. They could begin planning and preparing and practicing for the attack. The thought of the chaos and destruction that he was going to be responsible for set a shiver down his spine. It was a good feeling. He reveled in it.
“Now, will I be able to count on you, Mr. Melikov?”
Boris lifted his eyebrows and searched for the last thing he heard Hiller say. “Of course you can, sir. Anything you need.”
Hiller laughed and clapped his hands together. He rubbed them and said, “Well, I’ll take a donation check right now then!”
Boris smiled and said, “Of course. I’ll see to that…” He felt his phone buzz and reached inside his jacket. He looked at the caller ID and held out his hand to the Mayor. “Sir, if you’ll excuse me, this is an emergency line. I have to take this.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Melikov.”
Boris said, “Hang on,” when he answered the phone. He pushed his way through the crowd, smiling and nodding at everyone he passed. He had been standing closer to the front than the back, so he left through the gallery’s entrance. He stepped into the cool night air, which provided a welcome respite from the warmth and stuffiness inside. Streetlights cast pools of pale light on the wide sidewalk. He found a dark spot close to the building and stopped.
“Lazar,” Boris said. “What is going on?”
“We’re in Iowa,” Lazar Chernov said.
“Say again?”
Chernov didn’t respond.
“Did you say you are in Iowa?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“We were compromised.”
“How so?”
“My man here, Kenneth, somehow the feds got to him.”
“Do they have him now?”
Chernov hesitated. “No, he’s with me now. The feds had him and were questioning him. We rescued him. Killed two of the agents.”
“Did they get any information from him?”
“Yes, but we cleaned the scene.”
“How?”
“Blew up the house.”
Boris hesitated a moment, then said, “Who were they? CIA? FBI?”
“I don’t know. What I can tell you is that there were at least two more. We took one of them out and have the other with us.”
“Who is he?”
“She, sir. And we don’t know yet. She won’t talk.”
Boris scanned the area around him and across the street. He lowered his voice. “Here is what you are going to do. You take her to my place. You will wait in the main living area. The woman and your man Kenneth will be taken downstairs. You will all wait for me to return. I’m going to talk to you first and then to the other two. Now, is there anyone else with you I should know about?”
Chernov cleared his throat. Boris pictured him looking around, scared and nervous. “No, I sent my other men away.”
Boris felt that Chernov was lying, but decided not to push him on it. “Very well. You three head to the compound and I’ll notify security that you are on the way.” He hung up the phone and stuffed it in his pocket. Anger built up and he kicked the wall with the sole of his shoe. Atlanta had been compromised. Now he had to determine a new location and recruit new men.
How much information had Kenneth given the feds? How much did the man know? The entire operation could be shot. They blew up a house. Big deal. If Kenneth had talked, they could have relayed the information digitally.
Chernov had been handpicked and had earned the trust of Boris. That trust is why Boris allowed the man to recruit his own team. If Kenneth had betrayed Boris, then it would not only be his head on the line, but Chernov’s as well.
The best way to instill fear is to lop off the head of one of your captains.
Sound advice.
Advice Boris might act upon.
4
“I want to leave,” Mandy whispered.
Clarissa placed a reassuring hand on the little girl’s shoulder and squeezed. “I know, sweetie.”
“I just want to run for the door and disappear.”
The words were so close to her own thoughts after the plane crash.
Clarissa glanced left and right and behind her. She didn’t recognize anyone nearby. “Come with me.” She led Mandy out of the exhibit area and into a small hall. They pressed against the wall as a line of waiters passed by with trays of champagne and finger foods. She gave Pierre an imperceptible nod as he passed. The hall fell silent after the waiters vacated the area. They continued on and she cringed at the echo created by her heels against the tile floor. She backed into the door to the lady’s room and pulled Mandy inside.
“What’s going on?” Mandy asked.
“We are getting you out of here.”
“How? Who’s we?”
“There is a man here, he’s a friend of Bear’s. Was a good friend of Mr. Jack’s, too.”
Mandy stared at her with huge eyes and didn’t say anything.
“He’s going to sneak you out shortly. What I need you to do is to hang back, out of sight of Boris for a while, so that I can talk to the man who is going to get you out. Can you do that?”
“What’s his name?”
“I can’t tell you yet.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Of course you’ll see me again.”
“I mean tonight. Here.”
“After I talk to him, I’m going to come and find you and get you in position. This has to be done just right.” She tapped the end of the girl’s nose with her index finger.
Mandy stared at Clarissa. Her face twisted, scared and flushed.
“Trust me, Mandy,” Clarissa said.
Mandy nodded. Grabbed Clarissa’s hand and pulled her to the door. “Let’s go.”
Clarissa walked Mandy to the back of the gallery, where tables with food were set up.
She scanned the room. Found Pierre. Took a direct line to him and upon passing him said, “Meet me out back.” She continued toward the front of the gallery and then turned around. The place was full. Old people, young people, short people, bald people. She assessed every potential threat in the room, and there were plenty. She figured that fifteen percent of those in attendance could pose a problem. Not a good sign. Then again, only a few of them would have the same training and skills as her and Pierre.
She stepped into the same hall she had escorted Mandy through a few minutes earlier. This time she passed by the restrooms and pushed through a swinging door that led into the kitchen. The staff largely ignored her. Cooks continued to cook. The wait staff continued to tray food and alcohol. She saw a man open a screen door leading outside and followed him.
She took two steps and stopped on the concrete patio. An orange bulb cast
a dim pool of light on the area. Pierre turned as the wood framed screen door slammed shut behind her. He held a lit cigarette in one hand. Lifted it to his lips. Took a deep drag. He held a gun in his other hand. The gun pointed toward the ground.
Clarissa looked left. Looked right. Over Pierre’s head. She took a step back and reached behind her back, feeling for the door handle.
“Relax,” Pierre said. “It’s for you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Not the bullet. The gun.”
Clarissa dropped her hands to her side. Took two steps and stopped at the edge of the concrete patio. She stepped down onto the first of six wooden steps that were anchored to the concrete. She took her time, stepping slowly and cautiously. The entire time, she scanned the back lot and adjacent lots and buildings. She knew that a man like Boris would have security everywhere. Where were they?
“There’s security all around,” Pierre said. “On some of the buildings. A roving unit, too.”
She glanced up. Saw nothing. Said nothing.
“He’s on the other side right now.”
Clarissa held her hand out. Pierre spun the gun on his palm and handed it to her, handle facing her, barrel facing him. She hiked up her blouse and tucked the gun inside her waistband.
“Do you have a specific use for that tonight?”
She shook her head. “I still have a mission to fulfill. Taking him out negates that and puts us back at square one. Or close to it at least.”
“You should kill him.”
She ignored his suggestion. Said, “What happened, Pierre? In Russia?”
Pierre pulled an unlit cigarette from the pack and placed it in his mouth. He lit it with the smoke in his other hand and then discarded the old one by flicking it into the dumpster. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His face hardened. He looked in her direction, but his eyes focused elsewhere.