by Skye, S. D.
“Hmph. Then you’re a fool, because I’m not saying shit to you or your daddy. And honor will get you nothing…except a gold watch, a plaque, and a useless thanks for your service.”
“And what will you end up with? You think the Russians give a shit about you? Without the intelligence, you mean nothing to them. Zilch, nada, goose egg. You’re risking your life to pass the FSB intel, and they haven’t expended a single resource to locate you. I’m in and out of the embassy like a cleaning crew—nobody’s following me. They can’t miss intel they never had, so you are useless to them.”
Mosin batted his eyes; Six realized he had hit a nerve, so he continued.
“You talk about my honor, what about yours? You know how this ends. Turn yourself over to the FSB. Get a party and a leased country house, a flat, an unlucky fall and a broken neck or a ‘suicide’, and a state-issued tombstone?” he said, reminding Mosin of the fate of other Russian defectors who led miserable lives to tragic ends, like Edward Lee Howard. “You look clueless enough to believe the tall tales about Howard dying in a slip-and-fall accident at his dacha. While his death could be characterized as a slip-and-fall. Accident? Yeah, okay.”
Six wanted to ensure Mosin received his message loud and clear: If Americans are nothing else, they are relentless in settling scores. And the record reflected that the U.S. sowed seeds of vengeance until she reaped the justice she sought, no matter how long it took. “So, if you want to rot in this shack, knock yourself out. I guarantee you, confessing in here is better than the rude awakening waiting for you out there.”
Six glared at Mosin and waited for a response. He had given him much food for thought. But he didn’t eat for long.
“Your mind tricks will never work on me! Never. I will sooner die here than betray my country.”
Six tightened his lips and grimaced. “And this is your final decision.”
He shook his head. “No, but I’m sure about you—and you will never turn me over. So return to your embassy and push some paper. Your time is wasted here.”
Six glanced at his watch; Bart would return soon. It was time to go. He slipped into his jacket and left, but not before saying, “As you wish…”
Six didn’t need to stay a second longer. Mosin had given him the answer he sought. Mosin was so confident Six wouldn’t find the intel he was willing to call Six’s bluff.
Another day down—four to go.
Six’s direction was clear now.
He only hoped he could live with his choice.
Chapter 29
Monday Morning — FBI New York Office
“This is some bullshit!” J.J. growled. Murphy’s Law had further knotted an already impossible situation. She’d set herself up for failure believing Fitzpatrick was fair. Even with the additional intel, he still shut down their request. No surveillance team so nowhere near the number of cars they needed to cover Troika’s executive team for the day. Manny, Tony, Scott and J.J. would have to run their own ops. No TAC team—they were supporting a higher priority op. If an arrest went down, they could call in for support, if required. No warrant—Fitzpatrick wouldn’t seek one based on the available evidence. So now, they must have probable cause to stop and search the vehicle. With an hour before the bust, J.J.’s anger was flowing along with her creative juices. The team needed to devise a ruse to stop that car or the entire operation was screwed.
Two things worked in their favor: the element of surprise—no one was expecting them—and Tony’s secret weapon, two NYPD officers in Brooklyn’s narcotics squad. The high school chums were the only two people who hadn’t turned against Tony for joining the FBI. They had wet dreams about running joint ops with the Feds; today their dreams would come true.
The op wouldn’t be complex if they could identify the suspect vehicle. NYPD would stop them claiming a traffic violation. When officers asked for license and registration, they’d claim to smell a strange odor and ask the driver to step out of the car to conduct a search. Yes, the team was stretching the bounds of the law. The alternative was not an option.
The team got fitted with their operational radios and set up static surveillance along North 10th, a one-way street lined with brownstone warehouses and industrial buildings. Fresh gentrification abound, the neighborhood was in the midst of evolving from its dilapidating industrial roots to an artsy residential scene, with pristine brownstone apartments and boutique-style businesses sprawling up between graffiti-ridden, abandoned warehouses and old manufacturing strongholds. The difference was stark; Brooklyn’s past juxtaposed against its future, uncoiling into the new Manhattan that everyone who knew anything about New York touted it to be.
J.J. perched herself just south of the meet location so she could serve as the lookout for the transport vehicle and warn the team when she spotted it coming.
She sat in her government-issued vehicle, an ancient Ford Taurus bound for the scrap heap, picking her fingernails and praying the op would draw to a trouble-free end.
When her stomach growled, she checked her operational backpack to ensure she’d brought the necessities. No cheese crackers but she did run her fingers across the compact .45 she copped from a perp years ago while on Major Crimes rotation. It was her first big take-down, had sentimental value and was a constant reminder of how close she came to death. It was a key reason she preferred operating against spies.
She sat inside the lemon that the New York office must’ve pulled from its final resting place to serve as loaners for this op.
The one-way road restricted her view to the rearview and side mirrors. Her senses were in overdrive as she trained her eyes on them and cracked the window to listen for the sound of a truck or van coming down the street. She figured it must be one of the two.
At last, two a.m. came and went. And still not much movement except a few stray cars cutting through to other destinations. She craned her neck looking around. No places were open for business on the block. The area appeared almost deserted, an industrial ghost town missing only tumbleweed flipping across the road.
As random thoughts buzzed around in her head, she received a text from Tony, who’d posted himself a few blocks ahead, adjacent to the target address—555 North 10th Street. He sent J.J. a picture. Max Novikov had arrived with three henchmen. Incredible Hulks if she ever saw them. Could’ve been the front line of any NFL defense, tall and solid, like human walls. J.J. Watts’ bigger brothers. The picture showed them walking into the target location, an old industrial building with a fenced-in lot next to it. She figured they opened the gate to allow vehicles carrying shipments in and out. Once the vehicle was off the streets, they’d need a warrant to get to it—and with Fitzpatrick at the helm, they had no hope of getting authorization.
“Everyone in position?” J.J. asked. The FBI team responded in the affirmative. No NYPD.
“Farley? Fischer?” Scott said. “Hello?”
“Shit! Their radios must be jammed,” Scott said. “We’re out of time. Let me drive to their position and make sure everything’s okay.”
“Tony?” she called out. She was met with silence.
He responded to her with a second text. This time photos of Santino and an older Italian-looking man walking inside the warehouse.
Jesus! What the hell is going on? Does Santino have a death wish? Are they going to war right now?
Tony sent another text.
I don’t believe what I’m seeing.
We might have another problem.
No sooner than she processed the gravity of the situation, a truck appeared at the corner behind her and stopped. She grabbed the binoculars and trained them on the truck’s front bumper. Out-of-state plates.
“Guys. I’ve got a white van registered in Florida. This has got to be it,” she said, waiting on a response. “Farley? Fischer? Tony?” Nothing. From anyone.
Stone silence. Shit. She gulped hard and scrambled to action.
She had to think fast. How in hell could she stop this truck? And who would be
there to back her up if something went wrong? She watched it turn onto the block and approach her position. Time was short, and her choices were few. She glanced down at the ops bag and clenched her eyes shut.
She hated to do it, but she had no choice. She slipped on her gloves and went to work.
As the van crawled down the street, J.J. grabbed the .45 from the backpack, used her gloved hands to wipe off her prints, and shoved it in her jacket pocket. It would, at last, come in handy. After ripping the radio receiver from her ear and laying it on the seat so she didn’t spook the driver, she took a deep breath and prepared to tap into her inner ghetto.
She prayed her NYPD reinforcements would be back online within a few moments, and this scene could end before it got out of hand.
“All right,” she said to herself. “This is gonna hurt a little bit.”
As the truck slow-rolled to within feet of her vehicle, J.J. mashed the gas, bolting into the single lane. The truck slammed into her driver-side door jarring her a bit. She emerged unhurt except where the door pressed against her arm.
Showtime.
Chapter 30
Monday Morning — New York City
Santino crawled down North 10th Street in his Mustang, Nicky Mumbles at his side, scanning the brown-hued brick facades for the address numbers which were all but impossible to read from the car. His eyes flitted from side to side as he took in North Brooklyn’s changing face. He glanced at his watch. They were still twenty minutes early. Frankie Z had told him Russians were always late, so time wasn’t an issue.
Santino’s heartbeat almost crushed his chest cavity, not so much from fear of the death sentence that awaited him, rather from the searing rage threatening to explode through his hands and squeeze the bones in Nicky’s neck to powder. If thoughts could kill, Nicky would be slug food, lying six feet under with two hollow points in the back of his head. He wanted nothing more than to sink his soulless corpse in the East River. Instead, Santino forced his voice into its usual cordial tone, just as his Uncle Sal had ordered. Restraint was the opposite of every instinct his father had ingrained in him since he was a kid. The family silenced rats and traitors before they became cancers that subsumed everyone around them. Not this time. No. This time the plan was to sacrifice a hen to trap the fox.
And Santino was clucking like a motherfucker.
Nicky couldn’t suspect for a second that Santino wanted to end him, but the task proved tougher than he ever conceived.
After eyeing Santino with a skeptical glare during the whole ride, Nicky paused before breaking the silence. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? You on the rag? You’ve been acting like a little cunt all day.”
Santino swallowed hard and growled inside; his gut knotted from forcing down the anger spilling from within. The split-second gave him an instant to conjure a lame excuse. “I went to that spot on 15th, the place where you got the Stromboli. I think they gave me some bad scampi.” He patted his stomach and forced a belch.
“See, you don’t listen. I told you not go there. Gave me food poising. I had the shits for two days.”
“I hear you loud and clear, but Swifty said it was okay, so I thought I’d give it a shot,” Santino responded.
“Swifty? Please. The man’s got a stomach like an industrial storage tank. He could eat the torch off the fuckin’ Statue of Liberty, and it wouldn’t even give him gas.”
Santino found it hard not to chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. I get the idea now. Too little, too late. I’ll be all right. Just ready to get this meeting over with so I can go home and grab some Zs.”
“You sure? ‘Cause I can stop and get you a box of Midol and some Tampax. Gotta pick some up for the old lady while I’m at it.’’
“Which one? You got four of ‘em, dontcha?” Santino stepped out of the car and looked up the street. All clear.
“Hey, hey. Watch ya mouth. My wife, she’s got bionic hearing,” Nicky said, trying to lighten the mood. “At least I’m doin’ better than you. You couldn’t get pussy at a cat convention.” Nicky laughed hard at his own joke as he exited the car. He walked over to the warehouse and looked at the address. “555 North 10th Street in Brooklyn. This is it, right?”
Santino nodded as he checked the address on his phone. The location was perfect. On the corner of a one-way street with building construction on one side and a bunch of low-rise abandoned buildings in the surrounding area. It would be easy to spot the Feds if they showed up. On the right side of the building was a large fenced-in lot secured by a chain-link gate and padlock. Santino shot off a quick text and approached the door, knocking and peering inside the blacked-out windows, trying to get a heads-up on what awaited him.
“Somebody’s coming,” Nicky said from beside him.
When the door opened seconds later, the supersized Russians greeted him at the entrance, and Santino proceeded inside. It wasn’t enough to call them big. They were chunks of flesh and blood carved out of Siberian mountains. The corners of their mouths turned downward, and their eyes hid under bushy uni-brows. Santino wanted to speak to them in their language. Ugg.
Each dressed from head to toe in black paramilitary cargo pants, tight shirts, and boots. Assault rifles were slung over their shoulders as if they were about to advance on a beachhead. Santino shoved his hands in his pockets, wrapped his fingers around his brass knuckle, and then clenched his eyes for a moment to feel the weight of his piece around his ankle. He was walking heavy, but not heavy enough to shoot his way out of this predicament.
Neither mountain spoke. Maybe they didn’t understand English. But they nodded at him and jutted their heads toward a dark green metal door in the back of the room. It had three deadbolts which Santino took as a sign: When shit went down beyond the threshold, it was meant to stay there, like Vegas.
“This way?” Santino asked, pointing to the only door.
Both grunted in the affirmative.
Santino opened the door and allowed Nicky Mumbles to walk through first. Unlike Santino, he noticed there wasn’t a hint of anxiousness in Nicky’s demeanor, which he found odd given they’d just walked into the enemy’s lair. Uncle Sal had told him to keep his eyes open, and it didn’t take long for the revelations to begin. Nicky appeared comfortable, as if familiar with his surroundings. Santino trailed him down a narrow hall, four closed doors on either side. Nicky opened one at the end, without hesitation, without asking. And judging from the mumbles inside, he’d reached the correct one, confirming for Santino that Nicky was in bed with Russians and had plans to bump him off….right now.
In his mind, only one question remained: Was Frankie Z aligned against him or not. Once he got the answer, he’d walk away with all the information he needed—if indeed he walked away.
Trailing behind Nicky, Santino craned his neck to scan the room before entering. A dim light shone through the warehouse as they entered. On the wall facing him was a large blacked-out picture window that moonlight struggled to penetrate; it faced the empty lot. In the rear of the space, a large garage door also faced the adjacent fenced property.
His eyes then shifted to the dusty, wooden executive conference room table with about ten chairs positioned around it. Swifty sat next to some guy with strong Russian facial features—yellowish skin, thin lips, and a protruding nose—and testosterone bleeding through the pores. Santino figured the guy must be Max Novikov since no one else had entered except the mountains. Both Max and Swifty were dressed in tailored suits, and the smoke from their cigars clouded the air. As he moved forward, he drew a bead on bloody meat hooks swinging from the ceiling as if the carcasses had been removed moments before Santino’s arrival, perhaps to make space for him.
“Santino, get ova here. Got somebody I want you to meet.” Frankie greeted him with a handshake and fatherly pat on the back. “This is Max Novikov,” Frankie said with a stogie smoking between the pudgy fingers of his other hand, gesturing for them to shake. Swifty turned to Nicky and shifted his glance from one to the other. “You two
met?”
“I don’t believe we have,” Nicky said, extending his hand and a put-on grin. He avoided Max’s gaze. The discomfort was unnatural.
Max was younger than Santino imagined, late 30’s, early 40’s. His stoic expression struck Santino as more business-like than mean-mugged. He and the mountains looked fresh from the same womb, like brothers, at least in the face. Not the build. Max was no mountain. More like a hill.
“Good to meet ya,” Santino said. As a sign of respect, he gestured for permission to take a seat.
“Please,” Max offered. Nicky followed suit.
As he bent down to sit, he identified a new threat. Two more mountainous brothers posted in darkened corners at the back of the room. Four of them total—strapped with heavy arms. Santino had a sudden urge to say a Hail Mary.
“You, uh, you sure got a lot of fire power. I thought this was a friendly meeting,” Santino said as his phone sounded. He pulled it from his pocket and tapped out quick response.
“That’s my intent,” Max responded. “Let’s call my brothers here an insurance policy, if you will, to ensure this is a pleasant visit for all involved.”
Santino’s eyebrows arched, and he let out a chuckle. “I see.”
Nicky landed a condescending pat on Santino’s back and belted out a fake laugh to break the tension. “It’s okay, Santino. You can leave this conversation to the grown-ups from here.” He turned to Frankie and gave him the stink eye.
“Look,” Frankie said, taking the hint. “Whaddaya say we get down to business and dispense with the group grope, eh? We all understand why we’re here.”
“Do we?” Santino mumbled under his breath, drawing a wicked sneer from Nicky.