by Blake Banner
“Close door, Special Ops. Get drink. Sit here beside me.”
I went to the tray and poured myself a ten-year-old single malt, then sat in the chair opposite the tall guy in the suit, with Rusanov on my right. He was still talking in his staccato, article-free bursts.
“Igor has contract for you. You sign. Make you manager of club. We can this way explain big increase in income, huh?” He laughed like he’d said something real funny. “Also bonus sometimes, yuh? Now you sign contract and I tell you nice job. You make fat money.”
Igor reached down for an attaché case he had beside his seat, opened it on the coffee table and pulled out a three-page contract. I took it and read it carefully. I was surprised to see it was a standard contract of employment. I signed it with a signature that wasn’t mine and handed it to Rusanov. He initialed it and gave it to Igor who witnessed it, rose and left. It was a bizarre, law-abiding ritual that allowed me to commit crimes on Rusanov’s behalf.
“Now, we talk business. I am Russian, Special Ops. You know this. I have good friends in Russia, powerful people. Good friends, bad enemies.” He leered and made one of his tectonic rumbles. “Here, in Bronx, we can make much money. Much money. With drugs, with prostitutes, with protection.” He shook his head like a grizzly bear who has become aware for the first time of the beauty of the Rocky Mountains. “So much money here. But money is like shit. It attract many bugs. Flies all coming to shit. Here we have Mexican flies and Albanian flies.”
He made an elaborate shrug with his big shoulders and pulled down the corners of his mouth.
“Mexicans no such big problem. Some are useful friends. Mexicans only want sell: sell coke, sell heroin, sell new shit that is killing everybody, driving crazy...”
He made a crazy face and laughed real loud.
“We can work with Mexicans. They make product, we sell product. Good deal.” He sighed a sigh that was heavy and loud. “But Albanians, Rudaj Gang, the Albanian Boys, big problem. Good organized, tight!” He clenched his fist to indicate what he meant by tight, and repeated, “Very tight. Family, clan, Albanian government very close with Mafia. Big problem.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Not like the Russian Mafia, then...”
He looked about as amused as a polar bear with a zit on its ass. Then suddenly grinned and rumbled a laugh.
“Albanian flies motherfuckers and must die. Rudaj Organization receiving big shipment from Mexico. Coming in big RV from Arizona. We gonna take shipment, fifty kilo heroin, fifty kilo cocaine. Same time we gonna kill Aleksio Marku, new head of Rudaj Organization. We hit so hard, they never gonna get up again.”
I nodded once, letting him know I was not impressed. “That’s the plan, what’s the strategy?”
He grinned and nodded.
“That plan, what strategy? I like. I like this. Yes. That plan...” He shrugged, nodded, spread his hands. “But what strategy? How we gonna make it happen? Good...”
He was quiet for a while, studying his glass of cognac. When he finally spoke, it was to the glass. He had become sour, like the glass had let him down badly.
“Lunchtime, corner of Waterbury Avenue and Commerce Avenue, by Hutchinson River. There is big parking lot. Two men bring RV and park there. Four men from Rudaj go in Mercedes SL 550. They parking beside. In trunk is about three and half million bucks. Maybe little more. Plan is, Marku’s boys, from Rudaj Organization, take RV and boys from Arizona take Mercedes. Simple.”
“Where do Marku’s men take the RV? It’s not an easy thing to hide.”
He shrugged again. “Simple. Other side of river, East Tremont Avenue, Marku’s Used Car Mart. Put RV at back of lot for sale. That night take out the stash and distribute, one kilo here, two kilo there, thirty, forty distributors.”
I nodded. “You want me to kill three of Marku’s men after the guys from Arizona have left. I keep one alive and find out where Marku is. Your boys take the RV and I go and visit Marku.”
He leered. “Is good.”
“Yeah, is good, but to be really good you need to hit all his operations at the same time. You need to send boys to every operation he has.”
He shook his big head. “He has twelve operations around Bronx. Maybe fifty men. I cannot...”
“Bullshit. We select which operations to hit on the day. The night before we place bombs in the others, synchronized to go off at the same time. You run protection in the building trade?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can get dynamite. We can rig them to be detonated by a simple phone call. I’ll carry a burner. As soon as I kill Marku, I make the calls and we blow the guts out of the Albanian Mafia. After that you order your men to make any remaining hits.”
His eyes were wide, his mouth slack. He gurgled with pleasure and said, “Yes, oh yes. That is good.”
“When is the delivery due?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“How many men have you got that are well trained and you can rely on?”
“Twenty, maybe twenty.”
I thought for a moment. “OK, I need to meet with them, five at a time. We’ll annihilate the Albanians from the Bronx. The Bronx will belong to us.”
He liked that.
I spent the rest of that evening, and the rest of the night until two AM, in Rusanov’s office, talking to his men in small groups and discussing the plans for the following days.
The next day I returned to the club at noon. I had selected a couple of guys to work with me. I didn’t want a squad who could become a problem. I just wanted two guys who were used to taking orders and who I could deal with. They were Fjodor and Dima, both Russian Special Forces and both with experience of active service. Fjodor was an easygoing lunk with a big mustache and an easy laugh, who had seen action in Chechnya and somehow survived. According to Dima it was because he was too stupid to know when he’d been shot. I thought maybe that was true.
Dima was tall, lean and a wiseass. He had also seen action in Chechnya and had survived by either murdering or raping everyone he came across who wasn’t in Russian uniform. Sometimes he had done both and thought it was funny when he said, “But not necessary in that order, right?”
He smoked Russian cigarettes and drank prodigious amounts of vodka, like he thought being a stereotypical asshole was a smart thing to do. The two of them suited me just fine.
I taught them how to make detonators from a bunch of burner cells I’d told them to buy, and we rigged five bombs, concealed in kids’ rucksacks. Finally, at one thirty AM I gave them their final briefing and loaded four of the rucksacks into the trunk of my VW.
It took me three hours to distribute them and place them in places where I was satisfied they could not harm civilians, but would cause maximum damage to the Albanian gang’s infrastructure and personnel. After that I allowed myself four hours’ sleep and rose at nine thirty AM. I had a pot of strong, black coffee but passed on breakfast, and made my way to Commerce Avenue. I spent the morning reconning the area, including the used car mart which was just a mile away, on the other side of the river.
By ten minutes to noon I was in my old Golf at the corner of Waterbury and Commerce, wrapping Scotch tape around my fingertips and watching the entrance to the large parking lot. I knew Fjodor was parked just outside the gate in his Audi, ready to block the exit, and Dima was inside, in his all too predictable black BMW, prepared to move in close when the RV arrived. That was what they thought the plan was.
As things turned out luck was on my side, and at twelve thirty a black Mercedes SL 550 sped past and pulled into the lot, ahead of the arrival of the RV. I had planned on the RV arriving first, but adjusted my plans fast and followed the Mercedes in. It had parked, with its trunk backed up to the wall, on the far left of the lot, where there was plenty of space on either side for the camper to move in next to it. They had the tinted windows raised and they hadn’t emerged from the car. I pulled up a few spaces away from them and climbed out, then walked over to the Merc and rapped
on the glass.
After a second it slid down and an ugly face looked out at me the way Cain might have looked at Abel when he suggested they could resolve things with a meaningful dialogue. I smiled sweetly and said:
“I have a message for Mr. Marku.”
His expression didn’t change. “Go fuck.”
“No, I am serious. You came for the RV, right?”
I saw his hand reach inside his jacket and had the confirmation I needed that these were the guys. I didn’t want to go killing a guy just because he parked his Mercedes in the wrong place.
It’s hard to pull a gun fast from a shoulder holster in the confines of a car. So I gave him a moment, and when he had it out from under his arm I seized the barrel with my left hand and levered down. Simultaneously I rammed my Swiss Army knife through his carotid artery and his jugular vein, in the side of his neck. I left the blade in so most of the bleeding was internal. His pal on the far side of the car was still goggling when I levered the gun back and pulled the trigger. I hit him square in the head. He must have had a thick skull, because there was no exit wound.
I took a moment to pull the weapon from the driver’s dead hand and examined it. It was a Walther PPK, .38. I never did believe that Bond would use a girl’s gun like that. I shrugged and slipped it into my waistband behind my back, under my jacket. Then I signaled Dima to come over. He pulled up beside me and stared through his open window like I was out of my mind.
“Back her up and pop the trunk,” I said, indicating the maneuver with my finger.
He did as I said and brought his trunk up to the driver’s door of the Merc.
“Get out, give me a hand with this guy.”
He climbed out and came and stood by me, staring with narrowed eyes at the dead driver with my Swiss Army knife still protruding from his neck. “You crazy fuck,” he said.
“Yeah, save your opinion for when you write your essay at school tomorrow. Now grab his legs and help me dump him in the trunk before anyone sees us.”
The Albanian was big and heavy, and we struggled to fold him into the confined space. When we were done I recovered my knife and had Dima back in on the other side. We dragged the other guy out too, and crammed him in beside the driver while Dima muttered about the blood and the mess.
“All over my fuckin’ trunk, man.”
I had a quick look around. There was no sign of the RV yet so I pointed to the far side of the lot and snapped, “Go park over there. Stay put unless I call you. Just stay in the car. Don’t get out!”
He shook his head. “I cannot see Fjodor from there.”
“Just do as you’re told, Dima. Do it now. The RV must not see you here.”
He sighed, “You crazy, Special Ops. I hope you know what you’re doing. My car a fuckin’ mess.”
“I know what I’m doing. Quit griping. Now get the hell out of here.”
He drove away and parked at the far end. I called Fjodor on his cell.
“Yuh.”
“Fjodor, get your ass over here to the Mercedes. Leave your car there. Fast!”
I saw him climb out of the Audi and come over at a trundling run. As he approached I jerked my head at the Merc and said, “Get in.”
He climbed in the passenger side and slammed the door. I got in the driver side and beckoned him close, like I was going to whisper in his ear. I said, “Listen, this is what we’re going to do...”
And I did to him what I’d done to the driver of the Mercedes SL 550. I severed his carotid and his jugular with my Swiss Army knife, through the side of his neck. He looked astonished, but only for a couple of seconds. He soon bled out internally and I eased him back into a normal sitting position in his seat. Then, with that taken care of, I settled down to wait for the RV.
Chapter Five
The RV rolled in half an hour later. It paused a moment at the gate. The glare of the sun on the windows made it impossible to see the driver, but after a moment it turned toward where I was sitting in the Merc, executed a slow and cumbersome maneuver, and reversed in beside me. I popped the trunk, climbed out and walked around the hood. Through the windshield of the camper I could now get the measure of the guys inside. I knew I was going to have to kill them, and I wanted some idea of how hard that was going to be.
They were rednecks. Big, tough and amiable. They smiled easy and swung down from the cab, a six-two blond who looked like he’d been raised on mom’s apple pie while riding rodeos, and a smaller guy who looked half Mexican. I returned the easy smile and held out my hand.
“No names,” I said. “You had a good drive?”
The blond answered. “Easy as pie. All in the back. You wanna have a look?”
“Yeah. Let’s get out of sight. Any police attention?”
He pulled open the side door and I followed him and the Mexican inside. The Mexican was shaking his head.
“No, we was invisible, man. People see an RV and they see an all-American family on vacation.”
The blond got on his knees and started easing out the panels on the side of the couch.
“We kept our eyes peeled. Don’t do to be overconfident. But we wasn’t followed. There it is.”
He stood and revealed a wall of black plastic bags bound up in duct tape. “Fifty K of premium quality coke and fifty of H. You wanna test it?”
I shook my head. “No.”
Then I pulled the PPK and plugged each one of them in the chest. When they were down I confirmed the kills with a shot to the head. Because it don’t do to be overconfident.
I swung down from the side door of the van, slammed it shut and went to lean on the near window of the Merc, like I was talking to dead Fjodor. After that I walked at a calm, steady pace over to where Dima was waiting in his black BMW. I stepped up to the passenger side and knocked on the window. The door latch clunked and I opened the door to get in. He looked at me with ill-concealed contempt.
“You finish being crazy yet?”
I smiled like he was funny and we were pals and said, “Nearly.” Then I shot him once in the head. He also had a thick skull—the .38 stayed inside what brain he had.
Finally I removed the sports bag from the back of the Merc and had a quick look inside. It made me smile. I had never seen three and a half million bucks all together like that before. I slung it in the back of my old VW. I was nearly done. I just had a couple of things to see to before I was all finished.
I took Fjodor’s keys from his pocket and drove my car to St. Peter’s Episcopal Church on Westchester Avenue. It wasn’t far, only a quarter of a mile or so. It took me five minutes to walk back. Then I climbed into Fjodor’s Audi and took another two minutes to relax my heart and steady my breathing.
So far everything had gone better than planned. But I was aware I was on a knife edge and things could turn really bad at any time. I pressed the ignition and the big engine hummed into life.
I drove at a slow, steady pace up Commerce Avenue, right onto Westchester and right again onto East Tremont. From there it was a half mile drive to Marku’s Used Car Mart. I pulled onto the forecourt, killed the engine and climbed out into the bright afternoon sun.
I took some time to look at a few cars, then made my way into the three-story office building. It was a lot of office for a used car mart, but I guess few people questioned that. There were two guys there in suits, one sitting behind a desk, the other leaning with his back against the wall. Neither of them smiled.
“I’m looking for Aleksio Marku,” I said. “You guys know where he is? It’s important.”
The guy behind the desk had greased hair and a five-o’clock shadow at two in the afternoon. I decided I didn’t like him. He said, “Important to who?”
I showed him my teeth and said, “To him, and also to you. See, I have a hundred K of his dope and three and a half million bucks of his money. So, I think it’s important for him to talk to me. And, on the other hand, if you fail to take me to him, I wouldn’t like to be your balls in the next twenty-four hour
s.”
He reached for the phone on his desk and I smashed my fist into the middle of his forehead. He collapsed and as his pal came at me off the wall, I slipped my left arm inside his arcing right and grabbed the back of his head. The heel of my right hand smashed into his jaw and I felt the joint snap and crunch under his ear. His eyes rolled up and I stepped behind him, hooked my elbow under his chin as he went down, gave a firm squeeze, pull and a twist, and felt his vertebrae snap.
I dropped him behind the filing cabinet and flipped the closed sign on the door. Then I returned to the desk and slapped the guy in the chair till he woke up. As he opened his eyes I yanked his head around to look at his dead pal. Then I pressed the muzzle of the PPK against his right knee.
“Listen very carefully, because I will not repeat myself. Every time you lie or hesitate I am going to blow one of your joints off. That means you only have to hesitate four times to be totally incapacitated for the rest of your life. Three times and you will only have the use of one arm. Am I getting through to you?”
He nodded feverishly at his knee, with bulging eyes, like it was his knee asking him the question.
“Where is Aleksio Marku?”
His jaw worked, tears sprang into his eyes, he licked his lips. I pulled the trigger.
The explosion was loud in the confined space. The slug punched through his knee joint and ripped a grapefruit-sized hole in the back of his leg. He screamed. I took a handful of tissues from a box on his desk and stuffed them in his mouth until he’d stopped.
Then I said, “Pay attention. You will bleed out and die in about five minutes. Get a doctor and you can go the rest of your life with one prosthetic limb. Keep stalling and you’ll be lucky if you live the rest of your life with no arms and no legs. Am I getting through to you?” He nodded through his whimpering. I repeated, “Where is Aleksio Marku?”
He pointed up at the ceiling. I took the tissues out of his mouth. He said, “Third floor.” Then he pointed to a fire-door in the wall behind him. I broke his neck too and pushed through the door in the wall into a narrow stairwell with an elevator at the far end. I ignored the elevator and sprinted up the stairs three at a time.