White Russian

by Steven Henry

  “The rest you know,” she said. “You shoot Alexei. There are others waiting, with rifles. You grab me, throw me down. Then other police come, shoot at Pyotr's men. Now we are here.”

  Vic nodded. “Yeah. And you're safe. Listen, Anna, you're gonna have to stay here, in the police station. They'll lock you up, but that's to keep you safe, okay?”

  “You stay with me?”

  “I can't,” Vic said, standing up.

  “Why not?” Tatiana asked, fear shooting into her face again.

  Vic's eyes were hard as blue ice. “We're going after Pyotr and his asshole friends,” he said. “And we're taking them the hell down.”

  Chapter 16

  Vic stalked out of the interrogation room. The other detectives met him in the hallway outside. Erin stepped toward him. There were a lot of things she wanted to say.

  “Vic—” she began.

  “Not now,” he cut her off. Then, to Webb, “You got the warrants?”

  “Yeah,” Webb said. “We're gonna call in ESU to deal with this.”

  “Good idea,” Vic said. “I know some of the guys from the Brooklyn team. We can ride along with them.”

  “Hold on, Neshenko,” Webb said. “They're going in to serve the warrants. We're going to wait outside.”

  “The hell we are.”

  “No way!” Erin said simultaneously.

  Webb sighed. “Vic, you got shot earlier this evening. You've killed one man, maybe two. Erin, Kira, you've been in a gunfight. One of you probably took out that other gunman. Technically, you were on modified assignment as of the moment the Patrol Commander took over the shooting site. You're not even supposed to be carrying weapons until the incident's closed.”

  “Bullshit,” Vic snapped. “This is our case. We've gotta see it through.”

  “You're not going in there,” Webb said.

  “Stop me.”

  The two men were eyeball to eyeball. Vic was three inches taller than Webb and outweighed him by at least twenty pounds in spite of the Lieutenant's middle-age spread. But the older man didn't back down. His face was just as hard and firm as Vic's.

  “Look,” Webb said. “Vlasov's goons have military training, some of them. They've got army-issue weapons. These are dangerous guys. ESU's going to knock down their doors. If you go in there, already wounded, you're going to put the rest of the team in danger. I know you don't want to do that. This isn't about finishing what you started, or being tough enough. I know damn well you're plenty tough. But sometimes the other guy's got to go through the door first. We'll ride along to the scene and observe. But that's all we can do.”

  For a second, Erin thought Vic was going to slug his commanding officer. Instead, he slammed his fist into the wall. There was a muffled crunch, and when he pulled his hand back there was plaster dust on it and a dent in the wall.

  “You know what they did to her,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Webb nodded. “We'll get them,” he promised.

  The ESU tactical team assembled at the 60th Precinct parking lot. The tactical guys geared up with full body armor and helmets, bulletproof shields, breaching shotguns, submachine-guns, and assault rifles. Sniper teams, battering rams, a bomb-squad guy with a remote-control robot, the whole works. When everyone was prepped, they saddled up and drove to a staging point, a parking garage two blocks east of Matrushka's. Erin rode along with Vic, Rolf in the back seat. Jones and Webb rode in the ESU's command van.

  “You want to talk about it?” Erin asked.

  “Not really,” Vic said.

  “Still pissed at me?”

  “Not really,” he said again.

  “I think they'll let Tatiana go,” Erin said.

  Vic grunted.

  “Maybe we can figure a way to get her a green card,” she said. “There might be some strings we can pull.”

  “Later, Erin,” Vic said. “We got a job to do.”

  They parked next to the command van. Even though they wouldn't be going in, the detectives wore their vests. Getting caught without them once was plenty. Webb and the ESU commander, a gray-haired lieutenant named Sanders, were scanning blueprints of the restaurant.

  They had two nightclubs to hit in addition to Matrushka's. That meant three strike teams, plus backup units to surround the buildings and provide cover. This was a major tactical operation, laid down on very short notice, and Erin could feel the tension in the van. But these guys were professionals. They made their plans quickly and calmly.

  It took a while to get everyone in position. The detectives watched on monitors in the van, leaning over the communications guy's shoulders. It was almost three in the morning when all the pieces were set. There were squad cars setting roadblocks on either end of all three blocks, snipers on opposite rooftops, and breaching teams standing ready. Erin realized she was holding her breath and told herself to breathe normally.

  “All units, execute,” Sanders said.

  The tactical teams exploded into action. They rammed the doors open and poured into all three buildings in unison. They hurled flashbangs around corners. Bright, white light burst on the monitors as the nonlethal grenades detonated. The radio waves were full of officers shouting. People in the nightclubs were screaming.

  But there was no gunfire. Erin felt relieved at first. Then, as the seconds passed, she started to wonder. Everything was going too smoothly. The assault teams had secured the main rooms of the nightclubs and the dining area of the restaurant, but there was no sign of Vlasov or his guys.

  She glanced at Vic and saw the same look in his face. She felt a sinking feeling in her gut.

  “They're already gone,” she said.

  Vic nodded. “They must've booked it as soon as the ambush went sideways. Christ, they've had hours to get out.”

  Webb grabbed the van's radio. He put out a BOLO on Vlasov. Inside half an hour there'd be a massive, citywide manhunt underway. The NYPD didn't screw around when one of their own got bushwhacked. But it was all going to be too late.

  “What can we do?” Jones asked.

  Erin had one idea. It was slim, but it was the best shot she had. She stepped out of the van and brought up her smartphone. She looked up a number and dialed it.

  “Barley Corner,” said a perky young woman with a charming Irish brogue. “This is Caitlin. What can I do for you?”

  “I need to talk to Mr. Carlyle,” Erin said. “Right away.”

  “What is your name, ma'am?”

  “Erin O'Reilly. Tell him it's important.”

  “Just a moment, ma'am,” Caitlin said, putting her on hold. Erin kept walking, putting some distance between her and the ESU van. She didn't want Carlyle's name getting dragged into this if she could help it.

  More time passed. It wasn't very long, less than a minute, but it seemed longer.

  “Erin!” Carlyle said. “I'm delighted to hear your voice. I've been a mite worried about you, darling.”

  “I'm in a hurry, Cars,” she said. “I need to know more about the Russians.”

  His voice sharpened. “I told you these were dangerous lads. I saw what happened on the telly. Are you wounded?”

  “No, but some other guys are,” she said. “Listen, they're making a run for it. I need to know where they're going.”

  “Russia, of course. You hardly need me to tell you that.”

  She closed her eyes and willed herself to be patient. “Yes, I know that. But how are they getting out of New York?”

  “Private charter flight,” he said, no hesitation.

  “You sure?”

  “It's what I'd do, were I in a delicate situation with law enforcement. They've likely got a flight crew on standby. How much of a lead do they have on you?”

  “A couple hours.”

  “Then it'll be tight,” Carlyle said. “You'll want to hurry, and perhaps phone ahead to your colleagues at the airport.”

  “La Guardia or JFK?” she demanded. The two airports were almost equidistant from Brighton Beach.


  “Kennedy.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Erin, you haven't the time to go into how I know what I know,” Carlyle said. “Will you trust me on this?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Any idea where they'll land along the way? Small charters won't go all the way to Russia nonstop.”

  “Let me talk to a lad,” Carlyle said. “Have you a number where I can reach you?”

  She gave him her cell. “We're on our way to JFK,” she said. “Call me the second you have anything.”

  “Will do, darling. Drive safely.” Carlyle hung up.

  “What's up, Erin?” Jones called from the door of the command van.

  “We've gotta go,” Erin said. “JFK, right now.”

  “Hold it,” Webb said, appearing behind Jones. “You're not going anywhere without my say-so.”

  “Vlasov's doing a rabbit,” Erin said. “Private charter flight, according to my guy. We might still be able to stop him, but we have to get to the airport this second.”

  “ESU's not done with their sweep yet,” Webb said.

  “So leave them here! They don't need us.”

  Webb thought it over, then nodded. “Okay. I'm coming, too. Neshenko, you got room in your car for all of us?”

  “It'll be tight,” Vic said. “Four of us plus a dog. Get cozy.” He moved as fast as his wounded leg would allow, sliding into the driver's seat. Webb took shotgun, as the second-biggest person in the car, and Erin and Jones squeezed into the back with Rolf between them. They didn't even have their doors shut when Vic peeled out of the parking space. He laid rubber and made for JFK along Belt Parkway, siren howling.

  Webb was on the phone, first with Brooklyn and Queens police, then with airport security. Jones, meanwhile, was working her borrowed laptop, checking flight info.

  “You sure they're flying out this way?” Jones asked. “Most charters need forty-eight hours' advance notice.”

  “These guys make their own rules,” Erin said. “How many charter flights are going out tonight?”

  “Hard to say,” Jones said, typing away. “You know there's, like, two hundred international charters every year out of JFK.”

  “That's nice,” Vic said over his shoulder. “Any other trivia you want to pass on?”

  “They're not subject to the same baggage restrictions as commercial flights,” Jones said, missing the sarcasm.

  “So they'll have guns in their carry-on,” Erin said. “Fantastic.”

  “They still need passports and ID,” Jones said. “Won't the airport catch them that way?”

  “They'll have 'em under fake names,” Erin said.

  They were already close to the airport when Erin's phone buzzed in her pocket. She snatched it out.

  “O'Reilly,” she said.

  “I've made inquiries,” Carlyle said. “There's a charter to Iceland, Flight RKV36, that was booked by someone my lad describes as a very unsavory fellow with an accent from Eastern Europe.”

  “Kira,” Erin hissed. “RKV36. Look it up!”

  “He also says you'll be wanting to hurry,” Carlyle said conversationally. “Since it's on the runway as we speak.”

  “Thanks,” she said, hanging up. “Vic! Step on it! They're on the runway!”

  “Keep your shirt on,” he muttered, swinging onto the airport exit. “Hey, Boss, you want to tell the TSA what's going on?”

  “Better try air-traffic control,” Jones said. “Make sure they don't clear 'em for takeoff.”

  “Get us onto the runway,” Erin suggested.

  “Christ! One at a time!” Webb snapped. He tuned the car's police radio to the JFK air-traffic control frequency. “Better get out there, Neshenko. But be careful.”

  “It's illegal to drive on a runway without ATC approval,” Jones pointed out.

  “You shoulda been a lawyer,” Vic said as he pulled up to the security entrance, braking so hard the tires squealed. “All that legal bullshit, wasted on a cop.”

  A couple of airport police trained flashlights into the car. Vic showed them his shield.

  “NYPD Major Crimes,” he said. “We've got a warrant for a fugitive who's flying out right now.”

  The cop checked his shield number, just to be on the safe side, then opened the gate and waved them through. The airport was well-lit with enormous floodlights, but they had no idea which runway to make for.

  Webb had finally gotten through to air-traffic control. Their response came over the car's radio for everyone to hear.

  “Flight RKV36 has just cleared for takeoff on Runway 2,” the controller said.

  “Revoke their goddamn clearance!” Vic snapped.

  “Stand by,” the controller said with that maddeningly calm tone they always used.

  “Straight ahead, a little left,” Jones said. She had an airport map on her computer screen.

  “NYPD vehicle,” the controller said. “We are unable to raise RKV36 on radio. They are proceeding with takeoff.”

  “We're going onto the runway,” Webb said. “We're a black Taurus. You see us?”

  “Affirmative, NYPD,” the controller said. “We are halting all taxi traffic on the runways in front of you. Continue on bearing three-five-zero.”

  “There they are!” Webb snapped, pointing. A small jet was almost straight ahead. It was pointed down the runway, about to start its takeoff run.

  “Got it,” Vic said, accelerating. “Let's play chicken.”

  Vic swung the Taurus across an access road onto the runway just behind the jet. His flashers painted the fuselage red and blue as he pulled forward, flooring the pedal. The jet was revving to take off. As the car passed the plane, Erin heard the roar of the aircraft's engines over the siren.

  The charter jet was too low to the ground for them to slip under the wing. Vic swerved around the wingtip and back in front of the plane. Then he went into a fast skid. The car slid sideways, coming to a stop square in the middle of the runway. The plane was bearing down on them, the nose angled at them like an incoming missile.

  “You did not just do that,” Jones whispered.

  “Out!” Erin shouted. They piled out of the car from every available door, Rolf scrambling after Erin. Vic grabbed his rifle from its place between the front seats. His leg buckled under him and he went to one knee. He rolled to the side and came up, aiming the gun at the plane. Erin reached for her Glock.

  It wasn't there, of course. It was in an evidence locker.

  “Shit.” She didn't have a gun. Neither did Jones. Webb had his .38 Special in his hands, but one handgun and one rifle was hardly going to be enough.

  At least they'd stopped the plane. It slowed, then came to a standstill, engines still idling. They were too low under the nose to see into the pilot's compartment, but Erin could guess how the pilot must be feeling.

  “NYPD! Stop your engines!” Webb shouted, but there was no way anyone on the plane could hear him.

  “Sir!” Erin screamed, practically in his ear. “I don't have a weapon!”

  Vic was moving along the nose of the plane toward the door. He shouted something she couldn't hear and waved her over to him.

  She ran up behind him. “I'm unarmed!” she informed him.

  “Right ankle,” he said.

  She crouched and pulled up his pant leg. Vic had a backup gun in an ankle holster, a Sig-Sauer P232 nine-millimeter. She drew the gun and chambered a round. The little pocket pistol felt like a toy in her hands, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing.

  The door of the plane swung open. Vic and Erin aimed at the opening.

  A teenage girl stood there, hands raised.

  “We got hostages!” Erin called to Webb, who was standing a few yards behind them and couldn't see into the aircraft's interior.

  “Jump down!” Vic shouted at the girl, then repeated it in Russian. She either didn't hear him or was frozen in place. She was crying, her cheap eye makeup running down her cheeks.

  A guy leaned around her, an arm ar
ound her neck. His other hand was holding a MAC-10.

  “Gun!” Erin and Vic screamed in perfect unison. Erin drew a bead on what she could see of the man's head, but in the dim light, with the unfamiliar gun, she didn't trust a shot not to hit the girl.

  The thug pulled the trigger. The submachine-gun fired so fast she didn't hear the individual shots. The range was extremely close, but the gunman was firing one-handed, without having the weapon properly braced. Bullets spattered the tarmac between Erin and Vic.

  Vic ignored the incoming rounds. Carefully, sighting down the barrel of his M4 carbine, he squeezed the trigger once.

  The man's head snapped back as if he'd been creamed with a baseball bat. The MAC-10 fired another short burst as his finger reflexively contracted. Then he toppled backward out of view. The girl stayed where she was. She put her hands over her mouth and shrieked.

  Erin jumped for the bottom of the doorframe and pulled herself up. “Out of the way!” she snapped at the girl, but the hostage was in no condition to obey orders. At their feet was the body of the man Vic had shot.

  The interior of the plane was dark, lit only by the running lights down the aisle. Erin took a quick glance between the seats and saw movement. Acting on reflex, she dove down and forward, taking cover behind the front row of seats.

  An assault rifle opened up full-auto. The muzzle flashes were enormously bright, leaving purple after-images on Erin's eyes. Chunks of upholstery flew. Erin reached back without thinking, grabbed the elbow of the girl behind her, and yanked her to the floor. She didn't think the girl had been hit, but she wasn't sure.

  “Erin! Get out of there!” Vic was yelling at her. With his injuries, he couldn't easily climb up after her.

  Falling back wasn't a bad idea, but Erin wasn't immediately clear on how to manage a retreat. She kept her head down and shifted to the side, just in time. Another burst of automatic-rifle fire chewed through her cover right where she’d been.

  She figured the gunman had a pretty good idea where she was, but the flash of his gun was probably wrecking his vision as much as hers, so he was firing basically blind. It was a shitty thing to bet her life on, but she didn't see much choice. He'd get her by dumb luck sooner or later if she stayed put. Gripping the Sig-Sauer in both hands, she leaned out into the aisle, sighting down the barrel.