‘Saying stuff like that in the van. Do you know what would happen if the director heard what you just said?’
Koontz shrugged. ‘He’d probably agree with me.’
‘No, he wouldn’t,’ Callahan assured him. ‘He’d probably suspend you. You know damn well we can’t make racist comments during an operation. Your comments could be used against us in court. It makes our observations seem biased.’
Koontz shook his head. His partner was such a boy scout. ‘You think I’m bad? You should hear some of the stories I’ve heard from the Narco units that cover the streetwalkers downtown. They say this one Czech chick can fit a—’
‘Jason!’ Callahan interrupted. ‘Do you ever listen to yourself? Just about everything you say is racist!’
‘Racist? How can I be a racist? I’m eating Chink food with chopsticks. A real racist wouldn’t do that.’
‘Oh … my … God,’ he mumbled in disbelief. ‘I’m stuck in a van with a total idiot. Why do I even bother?’
‘Because I’m your only friend.’
‘Shut up.’
Koontz laughed to himself. He loved getting on his partner’s nerves, especially on long stakeouts like this one where nothing major was expected to occur. The two agents were there to take pictures of Kozlov’s minions, fresh-off-the-boat recruits who were smuggled to America with promises of power and money but were actually brought here to do the dirty work that Kozlov’s top earners couldn’t risk doing. These thugs were recycled so quickly that the Bureau had to maintain constant surveillance to keep track of them. Conveniently, most of them lived in the houses that bordered Kozlov’s property. In many ways, they were like a community watch program in reverse.
They warned Kozlov when the cops were around.
Lately, that had been twenty-four hours a day.
As part of a cooperative arrangement with the NYPD’s 60th Precinct, the FBI maintained an ongoing presence in Brighton Beach at the behest of community leaders who were trying to combat the notorious reputation of Little Odessa. This was particularly true in the summer months when tourists flocked to the local beaches with pockets full of cash and plenty of entertainment options. With Coney Island to the west and Manhattan Beach to the east, the businesses of Brighton Beach had to work extra hard to attract visitors. That meant convincing locals and tourists alike that foreign gangsters wouldn’t rob them before they had a chance to spend their hard-earned money on beers, souvenirs, and cotton candy.
But unlike the 60th Precinct, which was tasked with patrolling the streets and walking the beat, the Bureau took advantage of this special opportunity by parking one of its state-of-the-art surveillance vans fifty feet from Kozlov’s house in an attempt to spook him. Initially, his high-powered attorney had tried to argue harassment - after all, Kozlov was a businessman to be ‘respected’, not a criminal to be ‘persecuted’ - but a federal judge dismissed the motion after the Bureau’s attorneys argued that they were watching the house, not the man. It was a technicality that stood on weak legal legs, but the judge agreed with the distinction.
That was why the van never moved.
And why Koontz was bored silly.
Sensing a chance for some privacy, he did everything he could to agitate his partner. ‘Seriously, what did I say that was so wrong?’
‘Everything!’ Callahan explained. ‘First of all, half of his men aren’t Russian. They’re Ukrainian. And Chechen. And Georgian. Furthermore, how can they be less Asian than the Triads when most of Russia is in Asia?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Don’t “whatever” me! I get enough of that from my kids and my ex-wives. I don’t need it from you, too.’
Koontz rolled his eyes, agitating his partner even more. ‘Fine, but you’re like a broken record. I know Kozlov’s men aren’t all Russians, but calling them “multi-ethnic motherfuckers” doesn’t have the same zing to it. Of course, you’re probably quite familiar with ethnic insults. You’re Irish.’
‘That’s it! The final straw!’ Callahan took off his headset, which had been wrapped around his neck, and threw open the back door. ‘I need some fresh air.’
Koontz smiled in victory. ‘Fresh air, my ass! It won’t be too fresh with a cigarette in your mouth!’
Callahan slammed the door in frustration. He knew damn well his partner was trying to piss him off, but it didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
If anything, it made it worse.
If Koontz needed a few minutes to himself, why didn’t he ask for it? Why did he have to resort to childish games to get what he wanted?
Irritated beyond belief, Callahan decided to take a walk.
He hoped a long stroll would calm his nerves.
Instead, it put his life in danger.
2
The intruder floated effortlessly above the buildings, indistinguishable from the nighttime sky. Tethered by a line that had been anchored more than three hundred feet away, the kite-like contraption hovered over its target. The offshore breezes kept the slack taut while the intruder completed her graceful descent to the rooftop below.
She landed without making a sound.
With the flick of her wrist, she unhooked the kite from her harness and then tossed the assembly into the air, as if she were freeing a giant bird. No longer burdened by her bodyweight, it immediately took flight. She watched as the line and the device shot out of sight. It had served its purpose well: delivering its cargo undetected.
Unfortunately, this was only her first obstacle.
There would be many more to come.
She would have preferred to land on top of Kozlov’s oceanside house, but the sharp peak of his roof had prevented it. Instead, she was forced to make do with the flat roof of a neighboring property - a three-story townhouse that served as a bunkhouse for his guards and his newest recruits. On a mission like this, the guardhouse was less than ideal, but what choice did she have? Had she approached the house on foot, she would have been spotted by Kozlov’s men and by the Feds in the surveillance van.
She couldn’t risk either.
For her to escape, she needed to avoid both.
Thanks to the crescent moon above, she was virtually invisible as she scampered across the guards’ roof. Her matte-black bodysuit absorbed light, leaving no trace of reflection. To complete her outfit, she wore black shoes, black gloves, and a blank mask. Not just black, it was actually blank. No eyes, no nose, and no mouth. Not even ears. They were all tucked behind an elastic, cutting-edge hood that allowed her to breathe, hear, and see, but prevented her features from being detected.
The effect was beyond creepy.
Slowing to a stop near the edge of the roof, she studied the structure that she intended to breach. Styled like a Colonial home, its walls were made of the highest quality bricks, which had been expertly laid in both curved and straight swaths. She noticed the limestone accents and the two-tone stucco before she rested her gaze on the rear balcony. The place was handsome, but not ostentatious. It was cleverly designed to seem commonplace, but full of elegant architectural touches for anyone in the know.
And she was definitely in the know.
Her reconnaissance had been thorough.
Before crossing the gap between the homes, she reached into her pocket and pulled out several blobs. They looked like sticky toys - the kind that kids threw at walls. They had been colored the same shade as the house’s bricks. When thrown, they stayed wherever they hit, like spitballs on a chalkboard. Inside each was a powerful transmitter that would pick up sounds, even through a brick wall.
They were the latest gizmos in her bag of tricks.
Aided by the breeze, she tossed the rubbery splotches across the narrow stretch of grass between the homes. They splatted softly against the side of Kozlov’s house. The sound of their impact was so quiet that it was drowned out by the pounding surf. Before long, the outside wall was lined with devices. They were nearly undetectable.
Within seconds, data streamed from the
bugs to her earpiece. She listened to their chirps and interpreted their sounds as her eyes scanned the darkness below. She wouldn’t begin until she was sure the coast was clear. Anything less would lead to certain death, and she enjoyed life too much to risk it.
A full minute passed. Then another.
Midway through a third, she had heard enough.
It was time to commence the breach.
She reached inside her cargo pocket and pulled out a small baton. It was painted matte black. She pulled on either side of the device to extend it. It grew longer than any layman would expect. Two feet, then five, and finally ten. She repositioned her hands in the middle of the baton while swinging it in tight little circles. Telescoping sections continued to grow from both ends. It lengthened while getting impossibly thin - as well as impossibly straight - until it was twenty feet long.
It was the exact length she needed.
Wasting no time, she extended the baton between the two homes. To her, it looked like a long, black sliver of air, as if a demon had sliced open the night. Even if someone from the house had been looking, they would have been hard pressed to see it.
Next, she angled the far end of the baton toward a balcony in the rear corner of Kozlov’s house. She positioned the far tip between two banisters and made sure it wouldn’t shift. Then she laid her end of the baton on the edge of the roof and quietly tapped a long, arched nail into the wood. Once it was secure, she slid her end of the baton into the hook - just enough to hold it in place, but shallow enough that she could pull the baton free once she had reached the other side.
Kozlov’s balcony was lower than her position by about twenty degrees. That angle was nearly perfect. She took a deep breath, checked the chasm for eyewitnesses, and then climbed over the lip of the roof. Without pause, she grabbed the baton with both hands and slid across the narrow gap like water down a string.
In less than five seconds, she had glided from one house to the other like a cloud across the moon. She pulled herself over the railing and onto the scenic balcony. She stuffed the baton inside itself, then shoved the device into her pocket.
A moment later, her hands were on the curtained French doors that led to the rear of the house. Her gloved fingers moved quickly and quietly, as if assuring the door that everything would be fine. She kept at it until she heard a click.
A wide smile spread across her face.
Her blank mask revealed nothing.
With a twist of her wrist and a turn of her body, she stepped inside the most expensive and most heavily guarded house in Brooklyn.
3
She entered the house and immediately froze in place.
Her surprise had nothing to do with alarms or warnings. It had to do with the striking difference between the exterior of the house and its lavish interior. From the outside, the house appeared to be an extra-large Colonial on a nice street in Brooklyn. Inside, the place was more like the Taj Mahal, the Winter Palace, or Versailles.
It reeked of wealth and opulence.
The master bedroom yawned around her, like the treasure cave of the forty thieves. The sheer scope of the white walls and the wooden floor was incredible. Kozlov and his guards could have played basketball in there - it was that high and wide. The cathedral ceiling had sloping sides with multiple skylights. Each had a motorized shade. A king-size bed with a hand-carved mahogany frame sat along one wall. Magnificent bureaus and dressers lined another. Elaborate panel molding adorned them all.
As she was admiring it, a warning chirped in her ear.
Someone was approaching.
She went from still observation to quick, silent movement in the blink of an eye, racing across the floor to the master bath just as the bedroom door opened. With steady nerves, she crouched next to the elevated soaking tub and hid in the shadows. From there, she was able to use the large bathroom mirror to her advantage.
She watched the reflection of two muscled men in severe dark suits as they entered the bedroom. They flipped on the light and walked across the room toward the balcony window where she had been a moment before. Neither man had seen her.
‘Is the art ready for auction?’ one asked in Russian.
The other unlocked a writing desk near the window. ‘Da.’
‘All of it?’ the first responded.
He nodded as he grabbed a key from the drawer.
The two men hustled back toward the bedroom door, as if taking their time would have been unwise. They turned off the light, then closed the door behind them.
She breathed a sigh of relief as the muttering in the corridor diminished. She hoped they had ventured far enough away from the bedroom for her to use the hallway. Otherwise, she would be forced to exit the balcony and find another way to reenter the house. Moving carefully, she returned to the bedroom and listened intently at the door.
Nothing but silence.
She smiled and opened the door just a crack.
The view was remarkable.
It looked like the main gallery of an art museum. A circular mezzanine surrounded an indoor courtyard, framed by an ornate, jade-colored railing. It sat beneath a diamond-shaped skylight. Hanging from the center was an extravagant, hand-etched crystal chandelier. Thankfully, the upstairs hallway wasn’t spotlighted. Instead, it was bathed in soft-white light that seemed to emerge from the walls themselves instead of the well-hidden, recessed fixtures.
She continued to listen closely but heard nothing once the guards had disappeared: no idle chatter or detectable noises like the blare of a radio or the squawk of a television. In some ways, the silence made her life easier. She could easily tell if someone was approaching. In other ways, it made her mission harder. Any noise she made would stand out in the silent house.
Moving like a shadow, she stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her before she dashed the length of the corridor. She stopped in front of the locked door of the next room, but only long enough to pick it open. Ten seconds later, she was standing inside the library and admiring the hand-carved shelves and mahogany floors. It was so beautiful, so opulent, she almost felt guilty for what she was forced to do.
She silently and efficiently tore the room apart.
Every page of every book. Every shelf and every drawer. Every map, every picture, every chair, and every inch of every table. She checked the slats of the herringbone floor and checked every inch of the walls for secret panels and safes. She even climbed the shelves and furniture to check the ceiling and the recessed light fixtures.
But she found nothing. The library was clean.
Undeterred, she exited the room and headed toward the stairs. The walls were so white that her sheer black outfit stood out like a neon sign. Her trip wouldn’t take long, but she knew she would be totally exposed until she reached the ground floor.
She moved with silent assurance.
Never pausing. Never doubting.
Never taking a moment to consider the risk.
She had spent years in the field in her former career where the stakes had been even higher. Back then, she had worked her magic for the stars and stripes. Now, she was working for herself. She liked this a whole lot more.
She reached the bottom of the stairs without incident. She looked left, then right, making sure she was alone. With no one in sight, she hustled straight ahead.
The entry was lined with marble floors. It was flanked by a huge living space on one side and an equally large dining area on the other. The spaces were separated by a barrel ceiling, supported by elegant columns and accented by traditional wainscoting. A crystal chandelier, matching the large one in the mezzanine, dangled in the center of each room. Neither was turned on, but they sparkled like diamonds in the faint light.
Who said crime didn’t pay?
She scanned both areas for any signs of a recessed safe or a hidden door, but came up empty. Just as well. Anyone could have spotted her in there, whether they were hired to protect Kozlov or just waxed the floors on weekends.
She continued forward, finding the kitchen beyond. Not surprisingly, it was massive and had two of everything - stoves, sinks, dishwashers, and refrigerators - as if Noah had ordered the appliances. In reality, she knew the real reason for all the duplicates: Kozlov was feeding an army.
For some reason, Russian mobsters took care of their men like doting mothers. They housed them. They fed them. They gave them gifts. In return, they expected unwavering loyalty and utmost respect. All it took was a whiff of betrayal for heads to roll. The betrayer’s head. His family’s heads. His pet’s head as well. In one memorable case, they even hunted down his ‘friends’ on Facebook and killed them, too.
The Russian bratva didn’t mess around.
She forced those thoughts out of her mind as she opened the lone door in the kitchen. It led to a concrete staircase that disappeared in the darkness below. Weighing her options, she closed the door behind her and tested her sight.
She saw nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She cursed to herself.
Although her mask had built-in night vision, it only worked when there was ambient light. In the basement, there would be none. If she wanted to see, she knew she had to take a giant risk. Reluctantly, she pulled out a small flashlight from her pocket. She turned it on and followed its beam down the stairs.
The basement came as another surprise. Not only because Kozlov had built one so close to the water’s edge, but because of its simplicity.
It was the opposite of everything she had seen above.
The red floor was nothing but painted cement. The walls and ceiling were lined with plastic and insulation, probably to absorb sound more than heat. It looked like the ‘boiler room’ of a telemarketing firm that went bust. Ironically, she got the sense that more business was done down here than anywhere else in the house. The kind of business that involved a pair of pliers, a baseball bat, and a screaming victim.
She focused her attention on the gray metal door in the center of the far wall. It sat next to an elaborate cooling system that clanked in the corner. Blueprints and work orders had led her to believe that there would be a room in the rear of the basement.
The Hunters Page 2