by Chad Huskins
“Let’s see. Malaya Proezd shouldn’t be too far away from here,” he mumbled to himself. Then, he turned to face the kids, and brought up the shotgun. “Vy gohvahreetzyah pah’ang’leesyah?” he said: Do you speak English? They gave him dead stares. “Malaya Proezd? You know that street? Eh…gde? Gde Malaya Proezd?” The kids all looked between one another. “Eh? Gde?”
Then, his answer came from the most unlikely of places: the floor. “E-eta…” squeaked the wounded little bird. “Eta…eta nyedalyeko.”
It was a little garbled, but he believed he understood. “It’s near here? Is that what you’re saying? Close by?”
“Eta nyedalyeko,” she whispered.
“How can you know that?” he said. Then, he repeated the question as best he could in Russian.
“Tser…ts-tserkov…”
Spencer searched his memory for something to connect with that word. Then, he had it. “Church? The church bells?” The bells were still ringing far off.
“Da.”
He nodded. “All right, my tough little Russian beauty, how far from here? You!” he said, pointing at the boy. “Lift her up, let her look around. C’mon, c’mon, up, vverkh, vverkh, vverkh!” The girl let out a pitiful little moan as the boy eased her up into the seat. “Now,” Spencer said, “gde? Where is it? Which way? V vakuyu storonu?”
Trembling, she looked around, her eyes blinking lazily behind a mop of hair the color of honey. Her upper left arm and part of her shoulder was ripped open, the meat and bone exposed. Maybe she was in shock, or maybe she was just that tough. Whatever the case, Spencer only needed her alive long enough to get him home free. “Dva kvar’tala,” she breathed. “Patom…patom naprava.”
That was clear enough. “Two blocks straight up, then turn right?” The girl nodded. “You don’t speak English, so how the fuck do you know what I just said?” The girl nodded. “Little bitch. Better be right.” The girl nodded.
Spencer tossed the shotgun into the passenger seat and pulled back onto the street, listing off to one side of the road, losing control for a moment on the ice, then gaining traction.
At the next intersection, Spencer paused, looked back at the girl, and pointed straight ahead with a questioning look. The girl’s breath was shallow, her eyes opening and closing, opening and closing, but finally she nodded. Spencer drove on ahead.
Sirens from behind him. He glanced in his rearview, saw the flashing lights approaching, and reached over for the Benelli’s grip. There were two squad cars. They looked like they were ready to pass him, then suddenly slowed down. Either the sorry state of the Priora had caught their attention, or someone had reported the car stolen. Probably a bit o’ both. Smart motherfuckers, these vory.
Two short and sharp honks from the horns. The sirens whupped once loudly. One of the cars came alongside them. A voice was shouted over the squad car’s megaphone: “Peretyagivat!” an officer shouted: Pull over! The car started to pull slightly ahead of him, attempting to box him in.
Then, Spencer had an idea. In passable Russian, he said, “Hey boy, wave to the police.” The boy looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Do it.” The boy did as he was told, leaning over to the window and waving. “Now stick your head out and wave to the car behind us.” The boy did that, as well.
Then, Spencer poked the Benelli out the window and pointed at the police car driving beside them, aimed directly at the cop in the driver’s seat. He pulled the trigger. Glass and brain matter splattered across his partner driving, and the car went to one side of the street, slamming into a parked hatchback.
The kids in the back screamed, and Spencer laughed. Knowing the car was full of children, the cops in the car behind him would never open fire on him now. He spun the wheel hard to the left, and the Priora skidded and skated in the ice, doing a one-eighty-degree turn so that he was now facing the remaining cop car. Spencer locked it in reverse, and floored it. He picked up speed to about sixty miles an hour before he leaned out the window and fired a shot at the windshield of the cop car. The Priora swerved, causing him to miss and blast the squad car’s grill. He cocked once more, fired again, and this time it shattered the entire windshield as planned. The squad car lost control, and went up onto the curb and smashed into a storefront.
Spencer came back fully into the driver’s seat just as the Priora glanced off the front of a van pulling out of an underground parking garage. He fought for control for a moment, then turned and looked behind him. He let off the gas, then put the car in neutral to take the pressure off the transmission, cranked the wheel hard to the right, and just when he was about to go straight he put the vehicle back in drive and completed the J-turn.
The tires found just enough friction so as not to go much more than the hundred eighty degrees he needed to get back on track. However, there was plenty of slush from the salt trucks, and the Priora hydroplaned until he smashed into another car attempting to parallel park on the left side of the road.
And Spencer was laughing the whole time, just as the children were screaming throughout. “Whoooo-hoo-hoo-hooooooo! Did you see that? Did—you—fucking—see that? Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhoooooo! A J-turn while shootin’ a shotgun! He’s a wild man, ladies an’ gents! Ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaaaaaa! A fuckin’ wild man!” He was trembling and aroused with excitement. “God damn, son,” he panted. “God damn! That right there was worth the fucking price of admission alone. Worth the plane ticket over here. Worth Dmitry carvin’ my face like a pizza. Worth—every—damn—bit!”
He had little time to act now, and he knew it. More than likely, he hadn’t killed every cop in both cars. They had probably already called it in, and very soon now numerous squad cars would be converging on this area. He was on a timetable now, and this was what it was all about. Coming down to the wire, pushing the world to its limits, taunting it and teasing it, seeing what it was made of it.
Spencer elected to keep the children for a moment. Just in case. Surely they’ll tell dispatch that I got a car full o’ kids. Perfect human shields.
He continued another block, and then took the right turn the girl had suggested. “Yeah…yeah, this looks like it. Malaya Proezd. It goes on a long ways from here, if I remember right, an’ I think I do.” Heart still thumping, he slowed down, found a side street between a row of black-windowed storefronts, and pulled in. Looks like everybody’s closed for the night.
Spencer found a side street that backed up to a large bay door, meant for loading and unloading freight at one of the small businesses. He got out, took one look at the Benelli, and decided he would take it with him, but would need to get rid of it very soon. It was too big not to be noticed if he was walking down the street, and it was almost out of shells, anyway. He still had his Glock, and a Makarov he’d taken off Zakhar’s pals, as well as one of their little Uzis. Also in one pocket were the spare shoelaces he’d taken from Zakhar’s house. Might still need those.
Something flitted in his peripheral vision, just off to his right. A pair of glowing eyes. There one second, then gone the next. Spencer listened to the wind, to the city sounds, to the sniveling children in the back of the Priora.
He turned back to the kids, and said in his best Russian, “Wait here. I’m just going around the corner. If I come back and find one of you tried to leave, I’ll kill the others. Understand?” All the children nodded, so apparently his best Russian was pretty good. The eldest girl held all of the small ones in her arms. A good little mother hen. Was all the world filled with such foolish love?
In the trunk, Peter was still trying to force his way out. At least the little fucker’s finally learned to start fighting.
Spencer eyed the children severely a moment longer, then stepped out of the car. He took a moment to pull a small shard of glass out of his right buttocks, and then jogged fifteen paces to the corner of a printing ship. He rounded the alley and bolted to the other end.
Sirens. A few streets over.
A narrow network of alleys was before him, and some of the
m were dead ends. He passed by a homeless, thick-bearded bum, who had set himself up nice with a large tent made out of sheets of tin, with two massive fires roaring in empty oil drums. He was digging into a can of steaming beans, and looked at Spencer suspiciously as he went by; two outsiders that society wanted no part of, temporarily encountering one another. The bum seemed to notice this in Spencer. He looked up at the sirens, and then, silently, with only a finger, suggested Spencer take the alley to his left.
Spencer nodded his thanks, and moved on.
Down another narrow alley, which looked like it dead-ended—Did the old coot lie to me?—until he found a narrow gap between two buildings that led all the way to a tall wooden fence. Piles of trash all around it provided a great series of steps. He tossed the Benelli over and climbed.
Behind him, he thought he heard movement. A few scuttling feet in the snow. Feet? Or paws?
As soon as he landed on the other side, Spencer picked up his Benelli and started down the alley. And here, he froze.
A pair of eyes waited on him at the other end. They belonged to a large, four-legged, dark-gray animal with a long snout, but too big to be a wolf. It looked like the pictures he’d seen of those extinct kinds of wolves. What were they called? Dire wolves, he thought. But it couldn’t be. A mix-breed of some kind? It looked to be about five feet long, and was at least 180 pounds. A fucking monster, by any right.
Spencer stared at it, and it just stared right back.
Neither one of them moved.
Finally, the animal threw its head back, and howled.
The sound of scraping paws and growling throats suddenly seemed to come from everywhere at once. Behidn him, on the other side of the fence, the same trash he’d used as steps was being torn apart, knocked aside. Then he heard incessant pawing at the wooden planks. Scraping against stone and plastic and wood. Low, guttural snarls echoing off the narrow walls. Behind the fence, there was a sudden commotion, but it ended swiftly and not once did it distract the beast in front of him.
Spencer looked back at the animal directly ahead. It had taken a few slow steps towards him. He brought the Benelli up, moving towards the creature. Alpha males only bowed to those that could make them beta.
The dire wolf’s lips peeled back, revealing a row of sharpened, salivating teeth. It glared at him. Spencer smiled, revealing his own teeth. The dire wolf stopped advancing, and now began to circle him. Spencer did the same. The dire wolf moved to his right, and Spencer stepped to the left. All around him, the snarling of the others grew in volume. More of them seemed to be joining by the second, only they couldn’t get around the walls and fences surrounding him.
Sirens. Closer now.
Spencer kept the shotgun trained on the dire wolf. He wanted to shoot it and be done with it, yet if he did, the Benelli was loud enough to attract attention for a block or two. So he circled the creature until he was at the opposite end of the alley. Spencer then backed away, towards his exit. The dire wolf continued grinning at him, watching him go. That grin said many things. It said, “Running away?” It said, “Where can you go that I can’t find you?” And it said, “We’re not finished here.”
Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the wolf wasn’t following, Spencer turned down two more alleys, then crossed a dead street and passed into another alley. He could no longer hear the snarling dogs, but he did hear one more summoning howl. He knew he was being hunted. The alpha male had been alone when he came upon Spencer, alone against him and his shotgun. On an instinctive level, Spencer knew the animal had his scent, and that, once rejoined with its pack, it would pursue him again.
When he stepped out of the next alley and onto a more lively street, Spencer dropped the shotgun beside a pair of black and bloated trash bags that someone had left by the curb. The street was a little more populated than the others he’d been down, but only marginally so. Spencer couldn’t stay here. With so little foot traffic, it wouldn’t take long to spot him, not if the vory had given the police any sort of description of him. Spencer had to assume they had. Fortunately, now that he was floating around the area surrounding Malaya Proezd, he recognized some of the landmarks he’d familiarized himself with when dropping off one of his rental cars. There was a mini-mall opened until eleven o’clock. If he was unlucky, they had closed in light of the storm.
Sirens. Closer now.
The wind was murder. It sliced into his skin and bit into his eyes. He cut down an alley that he didn’t know, but was pretty sure it would come out somewhere around…ah, yes, the back parking lot of the mall. There was a row of trees and a low-lying picket fence separating the lot from a small park.
Spencer stayed close to this fence as he fished inside his jacket for some of the wadded pieces of paper he’d taken from the dock house. “C’mon, c’mon, just an address. Anything. C’mon, gimme gimme gimme.”
Sirens, and honking horns. Very close, but still not visible.
Spencer jogged the rest of the way to the mall’s entrance. It was opulent and bright, and actually not too deserted, which he thought was strange for such a stormy night. There were enormous crystal chandeliers hanging from a large, dome glass ceiling, and artificial wreaths hanging from walls and faux vines climbing pillars. It almost looked like Christmas in here, it was so brilliant.
He’d been in here only once, just to scope it out and mind-map the place. The stairs leading up were exactly where he remembered them. “C’mon,” he said, rifling through the wadded invoices. There were several copies of Customs slips, shipping and receiving orders, and a ship’s inventory from three months ago. “C’mon, c’mon, give me somethin’. I know you’re in here, Zverev. Somewhere in all o’ this, I can find you. I just need a start. Gimme gimme gimme.”
He found a slip with a destination to Nigeria:
TO: Felix Azu
27 Apata Street
Somolu, Lagos
Nigeria, 23401
Nigeria? That’s far from Siberia. He smiled. Rhymes, though.
Outside, the sirens had converged somewhere nearby.
Spencer took out Zakhar’s phone, and thumbed through the pictures he’d taken on his touch screen. He zoomed in on various portions, the TO and FROM sections of invoices and mailing slips. He’d snapped a few pictures, he just had to find the right one, or the right sequence of slips, and then connect some dots.
A few more slips that were tagged for Nigeria popped up on the screen. Some to the U.S., too, others to the Philippines. Then, Spencer looked back at the invoices in his hand. He found one more to Felix Azu, of Nigeria, zip code 23401. This slip was a payment received, however, complete with a tracking number sent through eBay, and a note from the PayPal service of Russia to Felix Azu, with an item ID number listed as HD1175V0043289K.
“Huh.”
No more sirens. Either they had gone somewhere else or they had just switched them off. With at least one police officer dead, it was a safe bet they hadn’t called off the search.
The Starbucks was where he remembered it, too. Can’t be a civilization without a Starbucks, he thought, dipping inside. This particular Starbucks doubled as an Internet café, and had provided him with some valuable information his first night in Chelyabinsk. Computers were available for use for increments of fifteen and thirty minutes. He still had some time left on the card he purchased when he was last here, and showed it to the lady behind the counter.
“Kahk zheevyosh,” he said: What’s up? After she slid his card through, she told him he had about eight minutes left on his card, and asked him if he wanted to use it all. “Pozhalusta,” he said: Please. She pointed him to one of five computers.
Spencer sat down and immediately went to eBay. He was unable to make contact with Mr. Felix Azu as he didn’t have an eBay account himself. So, Spencer took two of his precious eight minutes to set one up, making up most of the information as he went along and using his fake ID from Derbent to fill in the rest. Once he was logged on, he clicked on SEARCH FOR USER and typed in F
ELIX AZU.
Spencer’s message to the mysterious Felix was short and sweet:
Many things are changing. Other channels may have been compromised. Contact me at this account ASAP to get new address and shipping orders. We may have problems with item #HD1175V0043289K.
We’ll leave it like that, see if it lights a fire of curiosity.
Unless he missed his guess, the vory v zakone were in league with Nigerian scam artists. Why else were they doing so much business with a Nigerian on eBay?
The Nigerian scams were at this point cultural awareness, a part of history. A very large part. For more than two decades, people had been getting scammed by emails from con artists in Nigeria asking for donations for a charity overseas, or telling the recipient that they had a dead relative that had won the Nigerian lottery just before they died and, what do you know, they are the only living relative, and they can have the lottery money as long as they send all their bank account information, security codes, passwords, et cetera. People tended to believe this onslaught of Nigerian scamming was a recent crime wave. In actuality, the famous Nigerian scams had been going on since the 1800s, back when it was only snail mail, and to this day, if a person ever got in contact with someone from Nigeria on eBay trying to buy something from them or sell something to them, there was a better than 99.9% chance it was all part of the ongoing legacy of scammers.
The vory were thieves—vory v zakone translated roughly to “thieves in law,” after all—and so it wasn’t a giant leap to guess they were in business with the Nigerians, especially with the eBay slip, and the fact that the Nigerians had increasingly focused on eBay throughout the last decade. The question was, what might the vory and the Nigerians be doing together? What was item number HD1175V0043289K? More trafficked people? Nah. Nigeria’s too far away to carry children and doped up women. Probably just another piece of hard merchandise. The docks were probably…yeah, yeah, part of a re-mailing service, he figured.