by Jared Paul
On Friday morning, just after sunrise, Jordan set out for the Kiev Sport and Social Club with twin glocks, a .22, a .38 and his handy green beret Yarborough knife. Seventh Avenue was sparse, only an early jogger here and there, and a car driving through every other minute or so.
He set up behind a United States post office box and watched the entrance. As was his custom, the bartender arrived at 6:30 AM to open the place. Once he was inside Jordan got up and began marching towards the entrance. He was in the middle of the street when he heard his burner ringing.
Growling, Jordan answered.
“Kind of in the middle of something. What is it?”
Detective Bollier was frantic.
“Jordan! Where are you? Please don’t tell me you’re down on seventh.”
“So what if I am?”
“You can’t go in there! Jordan. Listen to me. You can’t go in.”
“I don’t take orders from you, detective. I have a pretty good feeling that they’ve got my sister in there and I’m going in.”
“CORPORAL! Even if she is in there you won’t come out alive. Just stop and listen for a second. The guy that I told you about who gave us the information about this place, his name is Viktor Demidov. He was supposed to stay in custody until his trial but I just found out through Kyle that he was released last night. They got him out on some technicality. Jordan. They wouldn’t have done that if he was really an informant. They wanted him to tell us about this place. They’re setting you up to go in there.”
Jordan was paused in the middle of the street. His eyes were fixed on the Kiev’s window. The anemic face of the bartender was watching him right back.
“Are you sure they sprung him? Maybe it was a coincidence.”
“Jordan there are no more coincidences. We’ve been… hold on… YES! I’m telling him… hold on. Jordan. Agent Clemons wants to speak with you.”
“That’s nice. I’ll have to take a message.”
“For the love of God if you’ve ever trusted me just talk to him for a minute.”
Jordan hated straddling the fence like this, left out in the open. He felt like he should either charge in shooting or make a hasty retreat back to his vehicle, which was parked around the corner two blocks away.
“Fine. One minute.”
The federal agent’s voice came in over the line. He sounded both contrite and terrified.
“Mister Ross?”
“Agent Clemons.”
“I know we’ve had our differences but I hope that you can put that aside for just a moment. Listen, you were right. You were right about the bureau. You were right about everything. There’s a leak. There’s several leaks. There’s leaks all over the place. All of our information… ALL of it is no good. We cannot trust anything that’s come in.”
“And this is a breaking news bulletin how?”
“I’m sorry. I’M SORRY! I’ll kiss your ass. I’ll get down on my knees and say whatever you want me to say, just please don’t go into that club. You won’t come out alive. We want to meet up with you. We’re going to all get out of town for a while, it’s not safe anymore. Can you meet us at the diner on West End?”
Jordan did not answer. He was too preoccupied with his staring contest with the Russian’s bartender. Agent Clemons’ voice kept calling his name.
“Mister Ross? Can you hear me? Mister Ross?!”
The bartender’s face disappeared all of the sudden. Jordan yelled into the phone.
“Can’t talk right now. Got to run!”
Jordan began running west on Seventh Avenue away from the club. He did not see but he could hear the clamor of voices shouting in French behind him. At the intersection Jordan ran across a white Toyota Tercel idling at the red light. Inside the car a middle-aged man with a stubble beard was tapping out the radio’s rhythm on his steering wheel.
Running up at full speed, Jordan un-holstered both of his glock nine millimeters and pointed them at the windshield. The driver froze and held his hands up. As he rounded over to the driver’s side door, Jordan barked instructions.
“I’m sorry about this but I need your car. Get over to the other side. Now! Now!”
The man had barely gotten his seatbelt off when Jordan shoved him over into the other side of the car’s cockpit. A bullet glanced off of the top of the car’s roof a fraction of a second after Jordan ducked in. Another bullet followed and another.
Jordan kicked the accelerator and yanked the Tercel’s wheel as hard as he could to the left. The rear window shattered.
“What is going ON?” The poor driver screamed over the din of gunshots.
“Keep your head down!” Jordan yelled back. To make sure that he obeyed, Jordan reached across and pushed the man’s face down out of the firing path.
In the rearview mirror Jordan saw five Russians standing in the middle of the street, each one of them unloading AK-47s in his direction. Jordan had stood toe to toe with the Russians in at least a half dozen firefights. He had survived, he knew, in large part thanks to his extensive military training, but an even larger part was that most of the men he fought couldn’t hit an idle tank with a giant red target painted on it.
These men were different. For the trap at the social club they’d called out the heavy hitters; men who clearly had combat training or were shooting range rats. This was the all-star team of Shirokov’s shooters. The sheer volume of rounds that hit the Tercel was astounding. In short order both side mirrors were blasted off and every window was shattered. Jordan knew he had to get out of their line of fire or a bullet would very quickly find its way into the back of his skull.
Jordan saw a street approaching ahead and he let his foot off the accelerator just a bit so that he could make an easier turn. He was about to roll the wheel when a .762 round struck the rear left wheel, exploding the tire instantly and sending the Tercel into a tailspin. Jordan clutched the wheel with a vice grip and tried to will the car to stop its wild revolutions. It finally stopped when the Tercel slammed into a blue Chevy Malibu. The engine died, pierced by a reverberated round.
Jordan took a second to check on the man whose car he’d jacked. He had a few cuts from the glass, but he was alive, and would continue to live. That was good enough for Jordan and all he had time for. Jordan pushed the door open and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. In the distance he heard an occasional rattle and pop. He sprinted to the next street and turned right, and then left on the next, and then right again, not having any plan as to where to go until he spotted the 2 Av subway station. Without thinking he flew down the stairs and entered the station.
After he paid and cleared the turnstile Jordan rushed to the lower level and paced the platform. Waiting for the next F train to come turned out to be the longest six minutes of his life. Jordan hid behind a pillar, hand on his gun, ready to shoot anyone who came running into the station. When the F finally arrived Jordan jumped in and sat down, relieved beyond measure, but he didn’t catch his breath until he got off at Columbus Circle.
…
The diner on West End was open 24 hours and was renowned either for nothing at all on its menu, or the grilled cheese sandwiches. A surly cook in a dirty apron had been flipping burgers, omelets and onions on the same dirty grill for thirty six years. The patrons of the diner were elderly, there to pass the time drinking black coffee and complaining about current events.
Agent Clemons and Detective Bollier took a booth near the back end of the diner and sat opposite each other so he had a clear view of the front door and she could watch the back. A television was mounted on the wall above them. The volume was turned low but when a breaking news bulletin came on about a shooting in the East Village the cook turned it up.
Tens of police cars had cordoned off a section of Seventh Avenue. The army of flashing blue lights was practically festive. A perturbed woman news anchor’s voice spoke over a live feed of the area.
“We’re getting reports that there are five shooters still at large in the area.
The NYPD is asking people to stay indoors until the manhunt is concluded. When asked about the number of fatalities, a department spokesman said that he could not confirm whether or not anyone had been injured or killed at this time…”
Agent Clemons sat rigid, moving only to stir the cream in his coffee.
“Do you think he got away?”
“If he didn’t we’re wasting precious seconds sitting here.”
“How long?”
Bollier had passed on the coffee and was trying to make due with ice water to no avail. She hadn’t had a drink in five days but swiftly felt a powerful thirst when the news came on.
“How long what?”
“At the risk of sounding insensitive, how long do we give Jordan to show up? We should be getting out of dodge.”
She wanted to spit in his face. But that wouldn’t have changed the fact that he was right.
“Fifteen minutes.”
The look on Agent Clemons’ face said that fifteen minutes sounded not only absurd and arbitrary but also an eternity given the circumstances. Bollier did not disagree that it was an extraordinarily long time with so many people gunning for them, she insisted that she couldn’t live with herself for not at least giving Jordan that much time. Agent Clemons only wanted to give him ten. They spent five minutes arguing about it until he gave in. Bollier settled it with her fierce face.
“We owe him that much. He’s going to make it.”
Bollier did not speak to Agent Clemons again until Jordan Ross appeared twelve minutes later. He looked like hell. Bollier actually reached out and hugged him when he sat down in the booth next to her.
“Thank God you’re alright. It’s all over the news. You’re not hurt?”
“Nope. Not a scratch. Thanks to you. Not even a hair out of place.”
“Jordan there’s glass in your hair.”
She brushed it out for him and Jordan ventured a cold glance across the table. Agent Clemons cleared his throat and addressed him.
“Glad to see you’re still in one piece, Mister Ross. No hard feelings I hope?”
“Would be a little silly to hold a grudge considering you saved my ass today. Everyone gets to be wrong once in a while. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
Agent Clemons laughed and they shook hands. A vacuous looking waiter came over and stood there like a mute, waiting for the new customer to order something. Jordan obliged him by ordering virtually every single item on the breakfast menu.
“I don’t know if there’s time for that…” Detective Bollier commented.
“We were kind of hoping to get on the road soon…” Agent Clemons added.
Jordan Ross ignored both of them.
“Nothing like a near death experience to make you crave a big meal.”
When they tried to press him on the need to get going Jordan would hear none of it.
“The Russians are going to be a little preoccupied. Every uniform in the city is down there now looking for the shooters. We can spare enough time for a proper meal.”
Neither Clemons nor Bollier pressed the point any further. The food arrived soon after and as Jordan ate his fill of pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit, and bagels his partners in crime filled him in on the new plan. When they were through explaining, Jordan looked sideways at Bollier.
“You sure about this? I mean. It’s your life, I’m just asking.”
“Trust me she deserves it. And we need a place to stay. Are we all agreed then?”
There were no objections. When the three of them left the diner Jordan got into a company car with Agent Clemons and headed due north. Bollier got in her car to cut down on the background noise and she dialed the number for Doctor Walsh’s office.
...
Three more Russians arrived at Sing Sing that week.
Boris was almost as strong as Leonid and had twice the brains of Anton.
Yakov and Ruslan were slimmer and not as physically gifted as the others, but more than made up for it in insanity. They’d put Yakov in the same cell as one of the Aryans, and within four minutes he’d bitten the man’s nose off and broken all of his fingers. Every square centimeter of Ruslan’s face was covered by an elaborate mural of prison tattoos. His eyes were mismatched, one hazel and the other sharp blue, giving him the haggard, canny appearance of a husky crossed with a gray wolf. Nobody even challenged Ruslan to find out just how crazy he was.
Shirokov regarded their presence as a mixed blessing. These new inmates protected him from the Neo Nazis and had brought funds to pay off some of the guards, it was all officially good news. And yet he did not feel he could trust them. Who had re-directed these Russians to Sing Sing, and toward what end? He could not say with any certainty.
The pangs in his stomach continued and worsened. Most of the time he spent in the cell Shirokov sat on the toilet, reading or talking with Winston as they shared the Pruno, which was not as vile as Shirokov had imagined it would be. Winston was an idyllic roommate. He made no demands and asked for no favors. He didn’t even seem to mind that Shirokov hogged the commode for most of their waking hours. As they were sharing the wine one evening Shirokov told him not to be shy about it.
“I feel bad for this. Just tell me if you need. Is no problem.”
“Nah man. I’m alight. I’ll let you know.”
“Please. Please do.”
“So you expecting a boy or a girl?”
For a split second Winston was terrified that he had tested the Russian too far, but Shirokov just laughed.
“Heh. I suppose we will find out soon. I am hoping for strong boy.”
“Strong enough to spring all these new dudes outta here?”
Shirokov shrugged.
“Maybe. We must hope. If not, and we die, then. Well, we were not free anyway. Better to die on feet than live on knees.”
“I dunno man that shit remains to be seen you ask me. Guess I’ll let you know when I’m dead.”
Shirokov nodded and drank from his mug of warm pruno. The alcohol burned his nose hairs and made his eyes water, but he made no reaction. During his time at Black Dolphin prison Shirokov had brewed and gotten drunk on things that even the thirstiest rodent in a freezing Irish village at the height of the potato famine would not have touched. By comparison the Pruno was quite pleasant.
Regarding Winston, Shirokov had been hoping to enlist him for his plan. He felt that he could trust his cellmate more than the transferred Russians, and there was the chance that he could convince some of his friends to help. Now that his potassium perchlorate and aluminum powder babies seemed due any day, Shirokov made his play.
“Weenston. I have proposition for you.”
His cellmate looked at him warily.
“Yeah I was afraid you eventually was gonna say that.”
“Hear out if you please. Just hear me out is all I ask.”
“Okay.”
“I promise you when I arrived that we would walk out of here together. This can still be done. But I would like very much to have your help, and the help of your people. These… men… these fugazi Nazis as you call them… they are problem. I can arrange for them to be problem no more, but I must have help to leave this place. What do you say?”
Winston sighed and took a long pull from his cup of Pruno. Unlike Shirokov he couldn’t help but wincing at the burn.
“Look dude I like you, so I’ll just be straight. We hate them Aryans just as much as you, maybe more. And I wanna walk out of here but it can’t be like that.”
“Why not?”
“You’re from Russia. You ain’t grow up here, you don’t know what it’s like for my people. I like you, we like you, but we ain’t about to put our ass at risk just so you and your people can get outta here. And we can’t accept your help. It’s a thing of principles, see? If we walk outta here then it’s got to be because we did it. Can’t be because some Ruskie with a bomb or whatever in his ass sprung us. You can’t lead us on no jailbreak. And you can’t help us in no war with the Aryans. W
e got to do it on our own. Feel me?”
Shirokov was truly sad for the first time since his days in the black solitary cell. He tried to think of an appeal to reason, or to solidarity, or anything that would convince Winston to change his mind. In the end though he knew there was nothing to be done.
“I wish it was not so, Weenston. Truly. But I understand.”
They clinked their cups together. Winston raised his before sipping.
“Make you feel any better I’m rooting for your crazy ass.”
Shirokov tossed down the last of his Pruno and said that it did.