by G. K. Parks
The door was shut, but there were enough people inside for the casual observer to believe the restaurant might be opened. First, I tried to push it open, but after Sarskov’s men entered, they locked the door. Then I knocked and made a pretense of looking inside. No one had any visible contraband. The two enforcers were sitting at a table in the back corner. Sarskov was standing in the middle of the room, talking to his brother, Sergei, and the other man was whispering to Spilano in the opposite corner of the room. The original third man was nowhere to be seen.
At the sound of my intrusion, all eyes turned to me. I spotted Spilano and smiled, offering a slight wave. There was a short command uttered, and then he came to the door, cracking it open but not letting me inside.
“Alex, we’re closed,” he apologized, trying to force me away.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. I just finished for the day and thought we could work on the menu for my rehearsal dinner. I hoped to get it started and surprise Michael. He should be along in a few minutes.”
“Another time.” Spilano stared into my eyes, and I saw fear and panic on his pasty and sweaty visage. He tried to pull the door closed.
“Are you okay?”
He tossed a nervous glance toward the men at the table. The other man, someone I recognized who worked at Specialty Vineyard, came to the door behind him.
“He’s fine. Why don’t you stop by tomorrow afternoon, Ms. Riley, and we’ll take care of you.”
“Okay,” I tried to offer a friendly smile, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Heading down the street the way I came, I hoped Carver had been instructed on proper procedure in this situation. Leaving Spilano inside left a bad taste in my mouth. Regardless of who he was or what he had done, he was terrified. The lack of imminent danger would make a tactical breach premature and sacrifice our entire operation, but not reacting might lead to sacrificing our prime suspect. Surely, I wasn’t supposed to worry about an arms dealer who could be plotting to kill potentially hundreds of people or selling to groups or individuals intent on mayhem, death, and destruction. My moral compass was so skewed that I had no idea which way was up.
Rendezvousing with Carver, he wrapped his arms around me and whispered in my ear, “Boyle’s putting a tactical unit on standby. The surveillance team assigned to Spilano isn’t here because they’ve been covering his house, expecting him to make a run. Somehow, he eluded them because, until I called, they thought he was home. Jablonsky’s on his way to determine the veracity of our claims and take point."
I told Carver everything I witnessed. He went rigid and swallowed.
“We’re on our own until then.” I slipped out of his grip. “Let’s split up and try to maintain eyes inside.”
Eleven
Carver was positioned near the alleyway. There was an alcove for a storefront close by, and he leaned against the far wall. I was at the bus stop, monitoring the movement inside the restaurant. Since we weren’t prepared for this sort of operation, our only method for communicating was via cell phone.
“Do you want to talk dirty?” Carver asked, letting out a nervous laugh.
“Sorry, but this isn’t a nine hundred number, and you wouldn’t be able to afford it if it was.” Maintaining radio silence was SOP, but we didn’t have radios. Also, despite his bravado, he was nervous. Hell, I was nervous. Rhetoric was one way to pretend we weren’t unraveling at the seams. Even if I’d never admit it, I was happy to have the light banter cutting through the tension. “How long do you think it’ll take Jablonsky to get here?”
“It’s only been a few minutes. I’d say, depending on traffic, at least twenty.”
“Traffic’s a bitch.”
Carver chuckled at my comment, and we went silent as the men moved around. After my brief interruption, Spilano was forced to take a seat at the bar, and he hadn’t moved since. The two enforcers sat at the table, keeping tabs as the Sarskov brothers did something out of my field of vision. The other man, the one who worked at Specialty Vineyard, was seated a few stools away from Spilano, and although his back was to me, it looked like he was in the midst of a conversation with Victor.
“You got eyes on Tweedledee and Tweedledum?” My affectionate names for the enforcers.
“Negative.”
The waiting was torture. Carver’s harsh exhales would cut the silence every now and again, but other than that, we were focused on the objective. Ivan emerged and barked something to the two goons at the table. One of them got up, grabbed Spilano by the collar, and shoved him toward the back. The other goon grabbed Spilano’s co-worker and dragged him out of view.
“Carver, they’re heading your way. The muscle has Spilano and his co-worker.”
“They just exited into the alley.” Casting a quick glance at Carver, I saw him edge slightly closer. “What’s happening inside?”
The original man, who had been assisting Ivan Sarskov, opened the front door and continued walking down the street. Without manpower or resources, I had no choice but to let him go. Hopefully, we’d be able to identify him later from the photographs taken. Ivan and Sergei were the only two remaining inside Specialty Vineyard. “I don’t know. Someone just left, but the Russians are still inside.”
The streets were emptying. With the restaurant closed and the nearby shops having locked their doors a half hour ago, there was a severe lack of pedestrians. The dim light and the angle also made it impossible for me to see into the alley, but I heard the scuffle. It occurred almost simultaneously with Sergei exiting the front door. He got into the SUV and drove away, leaving the two meatheads behind. Ivan strode through the restaurant and out the other side door and away from the impending fracas. The party was now completely in the alley.
“Michael?” I asked. He hadn’t said a word since I heard the noise in the alley. A cry of pain carried across the street, and fearing the worst, I reached for my gun and dashed into oncoming traffic. “Michael?” I hissed into the receiver.
“We need to move in before someone gets killed.” He dropped the call, leaving me hanging.
I sprinted across the street and glanced both ways to make sure no one was coming back. Michael was several feet from the alley and entered without waiting. I was half a block away when I heard the authoritarian announcement, “Federal agent, don’t move.”
Rushing to get to him, I slowed before hitting the opening. Leaning my back against the wall and wishing we had worn vests on this outing, I looked around the corner. One of the enforcers had Spilano pinned against a wall, clearly in the middle of knocking the shit out of him. The other brandished a gun and was in a standoff with Carver. The Specialty Vineyard employee was curled into the fetal position on the ground.
“I said drop it,” Carver commanded. His badge was held in his left, and he placed his right on top, trying to steady his hands and his shot.
The assailant with the gun snorted and smiled. “Do you believe this?” he asked his pal, who had yet to release Spilano.
“Sir, drop the weapon,” Carver insisted.
I took a step into the alley, using the brick wall as partial cover. The two thugs looked at us.
“Put the gun on the ground and put your hands in the air,” I ordered.
The man with the gun smiled, tilting his head down and lowering his arm ever so slightly. Carver took half a step forward, and the goon brought his gun up to fire. It all happened in an instant, but Carver flinched, and I pulled the trigger. The gunshot reverberated in the enclosed space, and the man dropped the gun, clutching his chest as he sunk to the ground. His partner released Spilano and took off running.
“You got him?” I shouted to Carver, who was finally moving again. The temporary paralysis had worn off, and he kicked the gun out of the wounded man’s reach, pulling a pair of cuffs from his back pocket.
“Go,” he yelled, but I was already in pursuit.
Running as fast as my legs could carry me, I was gaining quickly on the fleeing unsub. The adrenaline created a
complete haze, and I was numb and functioning solely on instinct. Turning a corner, I continued chasing after the man who was slowing down. In another block, after shoving my way through a crowd of pedestrians and shouting “federal agent” on the way, I had him cornered.
“I surrender,” he said, turning with his hands in the air. He trapped himself on a dead end street.
“On the ground, hands behind your head,” I commanded. “Lace your fingers together.” It was disconcerting having to approach and physically cuff a man who only minutes earlier had been assaulting Spilano. Thankfully, he didn’t try anything.
“You killed Boris,” he said, resigned to his own fate. His words hit hard, and I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat. “Don’t shoot.” His accent was thick, but I understood why he surrendered.
“Don’t give me a reason,” I bluffed, hauling him to his feet. We made it half a block when the government-issued vehicles, complete with sirens and flashing lights, pulled up.
“Agent Parker,” Jablonsky said, taking custody of my suspect, “where’s Carver? He called for back-up.”
Another agent shoved the handcuffed man into the back of a car as Mark ran after me. More sirens were on the way, and I spotted an ambulance. He was on the radio giving our location as we continued to the alley next to Specialty Vineyard.
“Michael,” I gasped down some breath, completely winded from the entire experience, “you okay?”
He nodded, and Jablonsky shoved him away from the bleeding man. A second later, EMTs were on scene and enough federal agents to make it look like they were casting extras for a new Men in Black movie were piling into the alley.
“Who fired?” Jablonsky asked as the EMTs put the guy on a stretcher and hauled him into the back of the ambulance; a couple of agents climbed in back with him.
“I did.”
Mark confiscated my gun, sniffing it for the telltale scent of cordite. Carver was staring at me, and only when he grasped my arm did I realize I was trembling.
“Are you both okay?” Jablonsky asked.
“Yes, sir,” Michael responded, and Mark looked at me uncertainly.
“Are you all right to drive back to the OIO building?” he inquired, and Michael nodded. “Take Parker with you. We’re going to have a shit ton of paperwork to fill out, incident reports, an internal investigation, psychological evaluations, lots of fun stuff.” I wasn’t sure if his tone was berating or simply matter-of-fact. “Get going. I’ll see you at the office.” Michael led me out of the alley, but before we made it across the street, Mark called to us, “Make sure you’re prepared to tell us exactly what happened tonight.” It was a suggestion, and I realized that under normal conditions, they would have separated me from Michael immediately. Apparently Jablonsky believed in bending the rules sometimes.
We got into the car. The only thing I could concentrate on was the man bleeding on the ground. Boris. Did I kill a man named Boris tonight? Did he have a family? A real job besides beating people up? How did he end up in that alley, believing he could shoot his way out of the situation?
“Alex,” Michael interrupted my thoughts, “thanks for having my back.”
“You hesitated.” My words came out a whisper. “You can’t hesitate.” I shut my eyes and curled up on the seat, facing the window. “It isn’t fair.” There were a dozen accusations I wanted to throw at him. I wanted to blame him, but I held back. “What’s going to happen now?”
“It’ll be okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” The unspoken implication hung in the air, but it didn’t need to be said. As far as I was concerned, it never had to be said. Assigning blame wasn't going to change anything.
Twelve
Michael touched my back, and I jumped, scrambling to get as far away as possible. It made no sense how it happened, but somewhere between Specialty Vineyard and the OIO building, I had fallen asleep. Passed out might have been a more accurate term. Fighting to get the seatbelt off while pretending I didn’t just react like a wounded animal was nearly impossible. Before I even realized it, Mark was on the other side, opening my car door.
“Adrenaline crash, it happens to all of us,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s a shock to your system to go from one extreme to another. Get a cup of coffee. It’ll help level you out. We have a long night ahead of us.”
“Yes, sir.” I was on auto-pilot. A couple agents escorted Carver away as Jablonsky watched me pull myself together.
“Most agents never have to pull their piece,” he began, “and an even smaller percentage actually have to fire on another human being. You have some shit ass luck, Parker.” He led me toward the elevator. “I’m sorry I have to welcome you to the club.”
“Hate to be here,” I mumbled. Swallowing carefully, I felt nauseous. The possibility of stomaching coffee seemed almost impossible. “Did I kill him?”
Jablonsky hit the elevator stop button and turned to me. “First, you never ask a question like that. We are not in the business of murder, so words like kill are negatively charged. Second,” I wondered if I was turning green because he softened, “he’s at the hospital. When they brought him in, he was still alive. No reason to assume otherwise.” He hit the button for the elevator to resume. “And your file indicates you’re an expert marksman. Obviously, you need more practice.” He winked and offered a genuine smile for the first time in days.
Exiting onto the main level, I turned the diamond over as evidence, along with my phone. Everything else would rely heavily on my statement and Carver’s. Mark insisted I get cleaned up and changed. After flushing my stomach contents, changing into regulation attire, and rinsing my mouth in the sink, I pinned my hair into a tight bun and went to be debriefed by my fellow agents and write out my report.
* * *
Another all-nighter spent in the OIO building. This time, I actually was exhausted. The only thing I wanted was to climb into bed, curl up under the covers, and vanish into thin air. Signing my report, I got up and took it into Mark’s office. He was sitting on the couch, staring bleary-eyed at the mountain of paperwork before him.
“You’re out for the next seventy-two hours while the shooting is put into perspective. I’ll call with a verdict, but from what I’ve read so far, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Okay.”
“Spilano’s in custody. His employee, Henry Rubin, is also staying with us for questioning. Tech’s running the diamond you found in the alley, and we issued BOLOs for Ivan and Sergei Sarskov. Whenever we determine who the other man is, we’ll add him to the list. Dmitri Porchankov, the man you arrested, is being questioned as we speak.”
“Sounds good.”
“Are you gonna be okay?”
Melting down in front of my supervisor was not professional and never a good idea. “Sure, why not?”
“Carver said you saved his life tonight,” he added. “Around here, that counts for a hell of a lot. Sometimes, it’s everything.” Remaining silent, I waited to be dismissed. It was about time I played by the rules. “You’re a good agent, Parker. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
I continued to silently stare at him until he finally dismissed me, and I went into the hallway. The morning shift just arrived and was getting read in on what happened over the course of the night.
“Alex,” Kate bounded up and hugged me, “I just heard what happened. Are you okay?”
“Fine.” I pulled out of her grasp. “I just want to go home.” She looked at her watch. Her purse was still on her shoulder.
“Come on, I’ll take you.”
* * *
The next seventy-two hours was utter agony. The first twenty-four I spent in bed, barely moving unless absolutely necessary. But by Wednesday morning, the total stillness was replaced with the dire need to do something. Anything. The remaining forty-eight hours of exile were spent unpacking all of my boxes, organizing my apartment into a livable domicile, and running over a dozen miles on the treadmill. Regardless of what I did, I couldn’t escape the sound
of the gunshot, the blood spreading across Boris’ chest, or his friend telling me I killed him. For all I knew, he was alive, and if he wasn’t, I didn’t want to know.
Granted, in a situation where it was him or me, there was only one obvious conclusion. Similarly, the situation was him or Carver, and still, there was just one clear-cut choice. It wasn’t even a choice; it was a fact. The one thing I didn’t understand was how Michael could hesitate. How could he not pull the trigger to save his own life? Some people signed up for this job with the misguided belief they were going to save people. I had never been one of those idealists, but ironically enough, it could be argued I saved Michael Carver. If only I believed it, maybe the shooting would have been that much easier to stomach.
“Knock, knock,” Jablonsky called from outside my apartment door. It was noon on Friday, and even though I was conflicted, I still wanted to get back to work. Obviously, there must be some loose wiring in my brain. Opening the door, he smiled. “Looks like you weathered the storm rather well.”
“It’s all about survival, right?”
“That’s my girl. Now go get dressed, this isn’t a vacation.”
“You could have called,” I remarked as I quickly got ready. “Why does everyone keep insisting on picking me up?”
“The way you drive is frightening,” he deadpanned, “but more importantly, after work, you have an appointment that you’d try to shirk if it weren’t for your fearless leader showing you the way.”
“What?”
“It’s a surprise. Mandatory, but still a surprise.”
Not bothering to ask anything else, I let him drive to the OIO building. The fun was just beginning.
Upon arrival, I was sent directly to Director Kendall’s office. Boyle and Carver were already inside, and Mark grabbed an extra chair from the hallway before shutting the door. The four of us sat in a semi-circle around Kendall’s desk. He had yet to speak, and I knew we were moments away from an all-out barrage.