“Fucking freaks.” Briggs eyes flashed again and Sydney knew the look all too well. The rage was building up in the man. He would probably spend an hour on the punching bags tonight.
“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t think it’s any of these groups. We would have heard some sort of chatter about it. We’ve infiltrated most of these groups and the ones we haven’t we have Internet, phone, and radio traces going round the clock. Hell, half of them have agents following them and telling me if they pass gas.”
Sydney couldn’t help but snort. “Must be nice to have that kind of funding.”
“Priorities Sydney. The headlines are more on terrorist cells not two bit thugs pretending to be mobsters.” Todd looked up at her, moving his eyes off the paper and gave her an apologetic shrug.
He could eat that shrug.
I don’t need his fake sympathy.
She knew the moment she turned her back she would likely suffer the fate of Peter Askearn. Thirty years in, undone by an ambitious cocksucker with a patience problem.
Another boy with the white FBI tattooed across the back of his jacket ran up to Agent Simmons and said, “Sir, the video is ready.”
“Thank you.” He started walking down the hall towards the doors they had entered through earlier. Sydney kept pace with him while the others fell behind. Dr. Tolbert was still scooping samples of debris and ash into her kit and Sydney knew to leave her to it.
Todd Simmons lowered his voice as they walked. “You know I almost choked on my coffee when they said you were in route. I mean, it makes perfect sense, I just didn’t think about it.”
“Well it wasn’t the best of situations when last we spoke.” Sydney bit her lip to keep from saying the other words that hung on the edge of her tongue.
“I know. I know. But the only thing that concerns me today is catching these assholes.” She could feel him looking at the side of her face as they exited the mall. Night had crept over the whole of the world and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles split the darkness with twirling streaks of red, blue white, and yellow.
“Agreed Todd. Agreed. Let’s just do our jobs.” Sydney brushed a tangle of hair away from her face as they neared the van with monitors playing various bits of video from the mall’s surveillance cameras.
Several agents were seated in front of the monitors, headphones on for acute audio from the microphones built into the cameras. “Can’t hear much. Too much echo, too many voices, and the background noise is intense.”
“Was worth a shot,” said a female agent next to him.
“What do you see?” Agent Simmons stood between them and Sydney came up on his left.
The female audiophile spoke again. “Most of the surveillance is nothing to note. Normal day in a normal mall. But a few minutes before the blast we have a scene between a child and some guy by the fountain. What is also interesting is that at about this time the shoe store computer systems show an unscheduled merchandise delivery.”
“Did we ask who did the delivery?” Agent Simmons was staring intently at the screen in front of him.
“Well, no sir. Unfortunately all three employees on duty are deceased.” The male spoke into his keyboard and flashed the keys a grimace.
“Very well. Play the video.” Simmons waved at the female who hit a button and the scene came to life before them.
The two seemed to be having a normal if stiff conversation when suddenly the girl got up. The man’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist with lightning speed and held her in place while they continued speaking. The girl looked agitated and tried to pull away again, only this time the man stood up and forcefully pulled her into his arms. Shoppers started to look, but they seemed hesitant. The man forced her to look at something. Whatever it was made her thrash wildly and then the cameras went into a black and white haze.
“It continues like this for about ten minutes. It didn’t destroy the camera system but it gave it enough of a jolt that it had to be manually reset. There is one store that has access to the surveillance corridor for this part of the mall.” The male techie hammered on his keys as he spoke.
“Let me guess,” Simmons said. “The shoe store.”
“Correct sir.” He scrolled the scene backwards again and Briggs walked up next to Sydney. He seemed to glance at the video and was about to say something when he did a double take.
“What the…” He squinted which made his widening eyes all the more dramatic. “Hey can you zoom in on that guy? The one holding the girl. Actually his right hand, the one cupping her chin.” He ran over to the male techie who clicked a few buttons and brought the screen into a zoom of the man’s hand. A tattoo digitalized and came into focus.
The spider had eight legs and red diamonds on its body.
“I’ve seen that tat today Sydney. On the video from the Salvatore Hotel. Either spider tattoos just got more popular or our man from the hotel is the same man from the mall.” He was animated now. She could see the adrenaline pushing through his veins.
His excitement spread to her as if it were contagious. Finally there was a lead they could pursue. She put her hand on Briggs’ shoulder. “Excellent pick up, Briggs.” He smiled and for a moment she remembered how that smile disarmed her in the past.
“Someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on,” the tight voice of Agent Simmons hissed behind her.
But Sydney didn’t hear him. She didn’t hear anything. Over Briggs’ shoulder she saw the press of families trying to get information. A face leapt out at her; the long brown hair, the eyes, the scar across his brow.
“Todd, let me see the list of dead and wounded.”
“What? No, someone tell me what is…”
Sydney’s voice came out in a tremble and much louder than she anticipated. “Todd. The casualty list.”
He must have noticed the unmistakable ‘don’t fuck with me’ tone because he handed over his file.
The man in the crowd locked eyes with her.
She tore away from him and looked at the list. Name after name she passed over. When she got to the name second from the last her breath caught in her throat. Her heart did a dive and her knees felt weak as she walked towards the man.
His face tightened as if he knew the name her thumb rested on.
She stopped halfway to him and looked at the list again to make sure. She hoped her eyes were playing with her.
She glanced back down. There was no mistaking it.
Critical. Charlotte Vaughn. 28. Next of kin: Alexander Vaughn.
Chapter 8
His fist striking the cracked skin again sent a shiver up his elbow and along his shoulder blade. The dull throb in his knuckles reminded him that this was becoming routine. Ivan closed his eyes, absorbing the jolt through his arm and then slowly opened them again.
Jimmy and Tom reclined against the hood of the car, chatting in low tones. Still the car lights didn’t blink. The night swallowed the two men whole except for the twin beams of light that sliced along the dust filled air. Ivan looked around but didn’t expect to see anyone else. The security on night duty had been paid an extra twenty bucks to not come back tonight.
The man Jimmy named “Sputnik” was on all fours, a string of red spit caught the light in a shimmer as it clung to his lip and fell in a silent trail into the dirt between his hands.
His name is Pavel.
Pavel leaned back on his haunches, his arms hanging loose at his sides. His head lolled about on his neck. “остановить,“ he whispered.
Ivan turned and faced the man. He stood a few paces beyond. Ivan’s follow through carried him further than he anticipated. In swift strides he stood in front of the man who brought his trembling hands in front of his face. His eye was swollen shut and the tear in his cheek showed a mass of tissue and a bit of bone beneath. The word came out clumsy and thick on his tongue but Ivan understood it all the same.
Sometimes the language doesn’t matter.
He crouched in front of the man a
nd balanced on the balls of his feet. The maneuver put him and Pavel eye to eye. He couldn’t help but crinkle his eyes at the smashed remnants of the man. Blood and mucus covered him without discrimination of their origins.
“In English.” Ivan spoke soft and lifted Pavel’s chin so that their eyes met. “English.”
“Stop. Please stop.” His eyes wandered off in opposite directions from the roll of his head. The last syllable came out in a spray, his lips crushed beyond containing fluid.
“I will. I promise. But first you must tell me.” Ivan snapped his fingers, drawing the man’s eyes back into focus. “First you must tell me who spoke of this angel of death.”
Pavel closed what was left of his eyelids and his body began to quake. His voice trembled. “I tell the truth. It was Russian, these men.”
He stared at the man for a long while then brought his hands up and cracked his swollen knuckles, releasing the pressure that built up. “I believe you Pavel. But I need a name. We are both Russians, so I choose to believe you. But I need a name.”
Pavel brought his hands up to his face and waved them with what little strength remained in his limbs. “No. This is not possible. I don’t know the names.”
He grabbed one of Pavel’s shaking hands in his own. “You do. And it is. And you must.”
The man shook his head slowly. But Ivan moved fast. He slipped one hand around Pavel’s wrist and with the other he grabbed his index finger, twisted it and yanked it down. It broke with a pop that reminded Ivan of someone chewing chicken gristle. Immediately a slow wail ratcheted its way along Pavel’s abdomen. It threatened to reach a scream but a swift and sure backhand from Ivan sent Pavel back to the ground in a heap of whimpers. He let him lie there for a moment, let the pain sink in. Then he reached into the dirt and lifted Pavel’s hand again, this time reaching for his middle finger.
“Нет! Нет! Нет!” He didn’t look up, the side of his face was flush with the dirt and the spit continued to trail from his mouth.
Ivan sighed. “In English.”
“No. No. Please, no.” Somehow tears escaped the man’s blood caked tear ducts. They trailed along his face in a brown trail.
“A name.” Pavel hesitated and Ivan clenched his grip around Pavel’s finger.
The words came out in as close to a scream as the man could muster. “черная вдова!”
Ivan narrowed his eyes. His heart stopped and pulled on his tongue. He forced it back down with a swallow. He looked into the darkness and yanked down on Pavel’s finger.
Again the crack. Again the anguished gurgle. Again the backhand.
“In English.”
The loan shark coughed, sending a bit of blood onto the dirt and a small cloud of dust wafted upward and settled on lips that wobbled with the irregular breath of pain. “The Black Widow!”
Ivan felt his skin tighten. He glanced down at the man’s cracked face and the eye that peered up at him. He said it again. “The Black Widow.”
He stood up and stepped over and behind the man. Stooping downward he grabbed the back of the man’s shirt like the scruff of a kitten and yanked him up and onto his knees. The man whimpered but his body was too weak to do anything but comply. Ivan lifted the man upward by his neck. One hand cupped Pavel’s chin and the other came across his forehead, his forearm holding him there while his other hand gripped Pavel’s head in vice-like grip. Ivan’s nose rested next to Pavel’s ear. He could smell the blood and sweat dripping off of the man like his soiled pants.
He hugged Pavel to his chest and looked over his shoulder into the blackness beyond the lights of the automobile. His mouth was so close to Pavel’s ear, he scarce had to whisper and he knew the man heard his every word.
“Can you see it Pavel? Out there?”
Pavel whimpered. “I see nothing.”
“Nothing. Sweet beautiful nothing.” Ivan swallowed and reached inside of himself.
He always said, “You must remember. Remember what you are.”
“I beg you. I have money. I have so much money. I’m holding money for him. I have his money!” His voice ratcheted up again and made Ivan grimace.
Remember.
“I’m sorry Pavel. But we must remember.”
“Remember what? What must I remember?” his legs gave out on him completely, the only thing holding him aloft were Ivan’s corded muscles.
“We are soldiers.”
The panic rolled of his tongue now, the words running together in a garble. “No. No. My brother, Dmitri, is a priest at the Moscow Temple. He will tell you! He has the money. Money! I have money. Please. I’m a husband. I have a wife. I have a daughter!”
Ivan whispered to himself as much as to Pavel. “I do, too.”
Then he pulled his arms apart in one quick motion while keeping his grip firm on opposite sides of Pavel’s head. A series of loud pops echoed across the man’s shattered vertebrae, sending his feet twitching in tiny kicks beneath Ivan’s arms. Ivan closed his eyes and lowered the man to the ground where he placed him gently on the dirt on his back. Lifeless eyes gazed up and past him into the heavens beyond. Ivan stood next to him and followed the gaze into the cluster of stars that twinkled in the evening sky. Jimmy and Tom walked up behind him. The two of them followed Ivan’s eyes into the pinpoints of fiery light.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” A small smile held steady on the capo’s face.
Tom looked over at him but said nothing. Then he cleared his throat. “Let’s take care of this. I’m fucking tired.”
Ivan nodded his head, turned around and grabbed Pavel’s feet. When he gripped the ankles and pulled the feet upwards he noticed the four-pointed star pattern on the sole of the shoe. The Christians used that star. He found it ironic, here on Pavel’s foot.
The star of Bethlehem.
The Jews used the six-pointed star of David; the Christians the four pointed star that was emblematic of the cross. Prison afforded time for reading all sorts of useless shit.
Tom grabbed his hands and the two of them carried him about twenty yards away to a metal contraption that had a steel maw hanging open, its large metal press plate glowing yellow amidst the darkness. As they walked towards the device, Tom was running his mouth.
“With your bare fucking hands? I don’t know how your type does it. The two of you are some scary motherfuckers. Muro was, too.” He had a scowl drooping over his brow.
“You never did for someone?” Ivan was bothered by Tom’s tone for the second time in as many conversations. He looked back up at the stars as they walked, trusting Tom to guide them through the debris.
“Well of course I have. Too many. But I do it civilized. I put a hole or six in them. I don’t throttle them and snap their neck after taking pieces of them just for fun.” Tom spit to the side, barely missing Jimmy Jacks who followed them parallel towards the rectangular silhouette ahead.
“He always told me everything you use besides your hands is evidence. He’s the best. I do it his way.”
Tom snorted but Jimmy solemnly nodded his head.
They reached the metal structure and laid the body underneath the yellow rectangle that hovered above the steel slab. Tom and Ivan slid the body back into the dark maw about two feet from the edge of the steel mouth.
“No one ever told me. How was it you two met, anyway?” Tom glanced over as he straightened the feet out. Jimmy came over with various scraps of metal and piled them into the crevice and on top of Pavel’s unmoving form.
“He found me. My father died when I was eight. He wasn’t a good man, but he was a good father. Good enough that I knew what an asshole my foster father was. I remember I was walking with him after catching a minor league ball game. It was a happy time I thought. But as usual he drank too much and I said something he didn’t like on the way home.” Ivan grabbed a handful of metal from Jimmy and threw it onto the growing pile that covered the dead man.
“Anyway, he pulls me into the alley and he’s slapping me around. He
smoked these cigarettes, black. Black like his fucking lungs, heart, black like that night. He decided my arm is a good ashtray and he starts to put them out on my arm while he curses me. ‘It’s for your own good,’ he said. And I’m crying. I’m eight. Maybe nine. My old man would sometimes give me the back of his hand but nothing like this.”
Jimmy walked up holding a square green box with a red and green button on its face. It connected to the metal structure by a long wire encased in rubber tubing.
“Meanwhile, this asshole relights his cigarette just so he can put it back out on my arm. People are walking by, but no one does anything. Until this one guy, he couldn’t have been more than twenty something. He stands in the alleyway mid stride just as my foster father is pushing that lit cigarette into my skin. I can smell my own flesh. Smell it so strong I can taste it.”
“Jesus.” Jimmy looked like he might retch.
“Yeah, it isn’t a good time. Anyway, this man with a fedora, he just stops mid step. His head slowly turns and looks into the alley and he can see what’s going on. The cigarette is out on my arm. Smoke is filling my nostrils. And this guy says, ‘Do that again. I dare you.’”
“Damn right.” Jimmy nodded his head in approval.
Ivan looked into the maw in front of him. “Well, this asshole, he looks right at the man and lights the cigarette again. I swear I could see the flame reflect in his eyes. He sets himself with that ‘fuck you’ look people get when they’re gonna do whatever they want. And he pulls my arm up and I close my eyes waiting for the burn again. Only it never comes. I never saw him move. Never heard him, but there he was, his knife at the man’s throat. The cigarette still hung in his mouth. And this man asks me, so quiet I can barely hear him, ‘Is this your father?’ I shake my head no, but my eyes are all tears from the pain. He says quietly, ‘Do you know this man?’ I shook my head no.” Ivan trailed off. The memory seemed to be happening right there like a silent film in the dark abyss in front of him.
Buffalo Soldiers (An Upstate New York Mafia Tale Book 2) Page 10