Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller)

by Hamric, Zack

  One minute-thirty…casually rising from the couch. One minute-forty- sliding open the curtain and beginning to move smoothly and quickly through the crowd like a leopard cruising through the jungle. One minute-fifty- the front door in sight, a noise behind me like another door being violently shoved open. Standing between me and the door-the same gorilla I saw at the Delano the night before. He inclined his head as if listening to an earpiece and when he straightened, our eyes met. Recognition bloomed instantly across his ugly face-I hit him running full tilt with my head in his chest. He exploded out the door, knocking the two doormen out of the way.

  Car tires squealing from the side. I glance to the right figuring speed and distance. Tasha slid to a halt between the scattered bouncers. I hit the car in midair, catching myself on the roll bar with my left hand and vaulting into the right seat of the black BMW Z4. Thank God for convertibles. One of the bouncers is starting to pull himself up on the passenger’s side of the car. I smash the car door into his face with a sickening crunch of bone-he drops like a stone. Another one grabs the driver’s side door and is fumbling for the lock. He screams in agony as Tasha drives her knife through the back of his hand and into the doorframe. We leave in style-twin smoking streaks of rubber as Tasha exits the parking lot.

  I look at Tasha and she’s giggling hysterically. I can’t help it-I start laughing too-funny how almost dying can do that to you sometimes. “That was just like a scene out of a bad James Bond movie,” she said wiping away the tears as she slowly choked away the laughter.

  “I know, but I usually don’t knock four guys on their ass when I’m leaving a movie,” I said as we headed south down A1A. “By the way, since we’re in a hell of a lot more trouble than we were fifteen minutes ago, any ideas on where we can hide?”

  “How about your place?” she asked glancing over at me in between the whine of gearshifts.

  “Hey, you lead the way, because I have no friggin’ clue where ‘my place’ is,” I said. leaning back in the seat and trying to enjoy the ride.

  We continued south accompanied by the muted crash of the surf rolling in from the Atlantic. About four miles later, we turned right into the Bahia Mar Marina-my internal navigation was still working even if my memory wasn’t. I had another flash as we passed the gates; I knew this place.

  Tasha parked near the docks and we started walking out to G dock. We were dwarfed by the huge luxury yachts that seemed to stretch the entire length of the docks. All gleaming stainless, teak, and fiberglass combined to create floating works of art with full time crews working hard to keep them that way. I was excited in spite of myself-no idea of how I could ever afford to live on one of these-maybe I’d won a lottery at some point in my life? Near the end of the dock, we walked around the stern of a hundred fifty foot Bennetti to see a small sailboat tied against the pilings.

  I looked at Tasha aghast. “Please tell me you’re kidding… I live on this?”

  “It’s not that bad,” she said with a smirk. “And it’s forty five feet -actually a little bigger than it looks.”

  After I got over the initial shock, I looked a little closer and had to admit it was a beautiful boat-just a little bit of a letdown compared to the forty million dollar yacht beside it. It looked like a greyhound of the sea, low sleek, and fast as hell. A sloop if I remembered my sailboats correctly with a mast that seemed to go up forever. I couldn’t tell the age, but it was definitely a classic boat in what appeared to be mint condition. We clambered aboard and unlocked the hatch leading below.

  “Thank God for small miracles,” I said as I entered the cabin. “At least it has air-conditioning. Oh, and thanks for saving my ass back there. Assuming we can actually avoid being interrupted by someone trying to kill us in the next few minutes, we really need to talk. Especially about your fondness for inserting sharp, pointed objects into people with very little provocation.”

  “Every girl needs a little protection,” she said whipping out the switchblade in a blur of motion and proceeding to clean the remaining traces of blood from the blade. “And we can certainly talk; but first things first,” she said diving into the depths of the refrigerator and coming out with a pair of ice-cold Blue Moon beers in her hand. “Salute,” she said as she popped the tops and handed me one.

  “Thanks.” I clinked the bottle against hers, flopped down on the burgundy settee and took a healthy swig of the best beer I’ve ever tasted. The boat was subtly lighted with recessed lighting scattered throughout. I took a second to admire the interior of the boat-heavy on the teak and varnish and laid out the way an offshore sailboat should be-everything securely stowed, a galley that would let the cook strap in during the roughest weather at sea, and electronics in the nav station that would rival those on a boat twice her size. It just seemed right to me, nothing I could really consciously remember, but somehow at a much deeper level, I knew I was home.

  Four in the morning and the doors had finally closed on the Platinum Club and the last cop had left. It would be a night they wouldn’t soon forget, Dimitri thought ruefully-one of his bouncers in the hospital with a concussion, another in surgery trying to repair the sliced tendons in his hand, and cops poking their noses everywhere.

  It must have been one of the damn customers that called 911 during the fight-Dimitri usually preferred to solve his own problems in a way that left few witnesses and no cops. He rubbed his chest and winced-it felt like that big bastard had broken his sternum when he smashed him with the head butt on the way out the door. All that had come before was easy; what was to come next was much more difficult. He had to explain to his boss Sergei Popov how he had failed him. He hoped he would live to see the sunrise.

  CHAPTER 11

  Dimitri had good reason to worry. Popov had already heard from his sources in law enforcement exactly what had happened. Sitting in his home on Fisher Island, Popov reflected on how his fortunes had taken him from a god-forsaken outpost in the Ukraine to this luxury penthouse in one of the wealthiest enclaves in America. Fisher Island was only separated from the end of South Beach by the turbulent waters of Governor’s Cut, but it might as well have been on a different world. Private, with fewer than three hundred residents and accessed only by a ferry, the clientele read like a Who’s Who of movie stars and the uber-wealthy. Popov was able to cultivate a persona as just another nouveau riche Russian without having to answer many questions from overly inquisitive neighbors.

  Twenty years before, he could have only dreamed of such a life he mused as he considered the vagaries of fate that had landed him on these shores. The fall of the Soviet Union had brought chaos and with that came opportunity for those bold and ruthless enough to seize it. Popov had been a career soldier who after years of struggle was finally promoted to the rank of Colonel-General in the Ukrainian army.

  He might have eventually ended up in the Ministry of Defense until he committed career suicide by sleeping with the wife of the mayor of Kiev. She certainly had been a fine piece of ass, squealing in bed like a street corner whore, but in retrospect, it probably was not such a good idea. In a different time or if the cuckolded husband had more connections, Popov might have simply disappeared forever.

  Fortunately, Popov had a few connections of his own and rather than disappearing or being forced to resign in disgrace, he was marked as unreliable and sent to a dead end command with responsibility for the maintenance and security of the nuclear weapons stockpile. Boring work until the early 90’s when the Soviet Union dissolved, leaving the Ukraine as the third largest nuclear power in the world.

  Over the next few years, these weapons were gradually returned to Russia for decommissioning and Popov made connections in the conventional arms side of the business. Bt the year 2000, he was illegally exporting surplus weapons systems ranging from submarines to tanks into trouble spots all over the world from the dark depths of the African continent to the tin pot dictators in South America.

  He was a wealthy man, but even the seemingly endless supply of weapon
s from the former Soviet Union was beginning to dry up-he needed to find another product to export. The answer came to him like a bolt out of the blue one evening while two Ukrainian girls from an outlying village were doing their best to provide him an unforgettable evening of pleasure. “Girls, you’re so lovely,” he said as he stroked the lush blonde hair of the one who had momentarily disappeared between his thighs. “I should take you to Europe and introduce you to my friend who owns the biggest modeling agency on the continent. You will be famous!”

  That was how it started, eight years and several thousand girls ago. His business had spread like wildfire through Italy and now the US. The demand for beautiful, long legged Russian girls to work the massage parlors, strip clubs, and brothels seemed to be limitless. Popov looked around his luxurious penthouse on Fisher Island and took a self-satisfied puff on one of his hand-rolled Cuban cigars. Just one additional benefit of working with his Columbian partners.

  He met the Columbians a couple of years before under somewhat unfortunate circumstances when they tried to muscle in on his action at the strip clubs in South Florida. After he left a couple of their representatives chopped into small pieces and scattered all over town, he called Escobado, the cartel’s top man in Florida. What came from that meeting was a working arrangement that benefited both parties-the Columbians were able to move drugs and launder their cash through the strip clubs and Popov got a cut of everything.

  Things had gone very smoothly until the past two months when the killings started. He had already lost three men in South Florida, Escabado two. He would have suspected Escabado of having a hand in it, but there was no percentage in that action. He couldn’t think of any other organization that would try to challenge him on his own turf. And where the deaths of the clients fit in was a complete mystery. Someone was definitely trying to send a message-he saw with his own eyes what was done to the corpse of his top enforcer and had immediately tightened his own security measures. In general, life was good-except for another annoying problem that had come up in Miami this week.

  His reverie was interrupted as he saw a golf cart, the primary mode of transportation on the island, arrive from the direction of the ferry. He took a moment and poured another Scotch while he waited for Dimitri to come in from the garage. Popov could hear the hum of the elevator and the hiss of the doors as they opened onto the main floor of the penthouse.

  “Dimitri, my friend! How are you this evening,” Popov said robustly clapping him on both shoulders as he emerged from the elevator.

  “General,” Dimitri began speaking with the downcast eyes of a condemned man. “ I am very sorry to disturb you, but we need to speak about what has occurred this evening.”

  “Dimitri, why so gloomy? I have already heard reports of what transpired this evening. A minor setback, nothing more,” Popov said with a dismissive wave.

  “This Kyle Jackle is at most a minor annoyance to us. When he first was introduced by our friend in Italy as someone who could help us with our overabundance of cash in Florida, we had no way to know that our Camorra friend had been turned by the CIA. That problem has already been resolved. Would you care for a cigar?” Popov said extending the box.

  Dimitri’s hand shook as he removed a fragrant cigar from the richly carved humidor. He remembered well how Popov had solved a similar problem a few months before in Naples. “We are looking everywhere for him. He is like a cat with nine lives-we will find him and kill him.” Dimitri said earnestly leaning forward toward Popov.

  “I’m sure you will,” said Popov. “In the meantime, there have been serious errors and someone has to pay for them. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Dimitri warily nodded his head as Popov smiled a wolfish grin and slid the cigar cutter toward him. “ I just need this much,” he indicated holding his thumb and forefinger apart. “To help keep you focused on the task at hand.”

  Dimitri’s forehead broke out into a sweat as he picked up the cigar cutter. He inserted the pinkie on his left hand a quarter inch into the stainless steel blades of the cutter and looked at Popov for confirmation. Popov nodded and Dimitri snapped the jaws of the cutter closed.

  CHAPTER 12

  What a lousy way to start the day. When Rivera walked out of the elevator and into his office, he found Miller and Davis already sitting at his desk drinking Starbucks amid the scattered remains of what looked like a blueberry muffin. Miller was speaking quietly on his cell phone and Davis made himself right at home with Rivera’s desk phone tucked into his shoulder as he hammered away on his laptop and tried to talk at the same time.

  “Can I get you guys another cup of coffee or maybe some bagels?” Rivera asked. “Or maybe another office so you can get the hell out of my way?”

  Miller looked up with a smile. “I’m feeling the love this morning. How are you detective?”

  In spite of himself, Rivera was actually beginning to tolerate Miller. He still found something vaguely irritating about Davis-could be the cockiness that seemed to be riding just under the surface or the way his eyes would roam around the room when they were having a conversation instead of focusing on him.

  “So what brings you guys back to my world this morning?”

  “There was a little excitement in Lauderdale last night,” said Miller as Davis continued his phone conversation. “It looks like our boy showed up at a strip club and decided to throw a little party. The description from the witnesses didn’t exactly match up to Kyle, but the trail of destruction he left behind seems to fit his style.”

  “So, why was he there? Maybe feeling a little lonely after the stressful week that he’s had? Nothing like a little rub and tug to solve the problems in a man’s life.”

  “I’m not sure why he would show up there. Not a good move at all-this was one of the clubs owned by Sergei Popov. Popov is the Ukranian general who started the ball rolling in Italy and started moving his business into Miami a few years ago. The Camorra mob guy in Italy that we turned a few months ago is history. We just got word last night that Popov got wise and apparently decided to terminate the relationship.”

  “They killed him?”

  “Worse than that. Apparently they found out about him this week when Kyle’s cover was blown. They tortured him for two days before dumping him more dead than alive in front of the US Embassy on Wednesday-and it took another two days before we could positively identify the man.”

  Rivera raised his eyebrows. “Why the delay?”

  “There wasn’t much to work with-before they finished squeezing him for information, his fingers had been cut off one at a time, his tongue ripped out, and his eyes burned out with a butane torch. In the end, they had to identify him with DNA records from when he had been arrested a few years before. The worse part is that it looks like he might actually survive.”

  “Take me back a little-you mentioned that Jackle had been working undercover in Miami for a couple for months before his cover was blown. Did he screw up or was there an informant somewhere?”

  Miller shook his head. “Kyle was the best-no way I could imagine him getting rolled without there being a leak somewhere in the system. He was right in the lion’s den on this one-the Italian introduced him to Popov as a guy who could move cash in any amount and any currency, Dollars, Euros, pounds, it didn’t matter. It’s paid off big time-for the past three months, we have a record of every cash transaction and the structure of the companies they were using to layer the cash.”

  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “He checked in with me seven days ago on a throwaway cell phone-unusual for him; he usually only spoke to me over secure lines. It seemed pretty much business as usual except he had been asked to expand the work he was doing to include laundering cash for the cocaine smuggling operations being run out of Columbia. Over the course of a few weeks, he had been pulled into several meetings with Popov and some heavy hitters from the Columbian cartel. His impression was the amount of coke being smuggled into the country would doub
le over the next twelve months. ”

  “Kyle had been hearing some rumbling from some of the other guys in Popov’s organization about a special project that Popov and the Columbians were working on together to make it all possible. The last thing Kyle told me was he was able to use a key logging program to steal the passwords on Popov’s computer. Popov stepped out of the room on Sunday for a few minutes to take a call. Kyle had just enough time to email a handful of the most current files to a secure email account. That was the last we heard of him until he turned up missing five days ago.”

  “Any idea of where that email account is?” asked Rivera.

  “Nope, it was a personal account he setup as a secure drop-no idea of how to access it or where it might be.”

  “So, how do we find your guy? Just keep following the trail of dead and broken bodies?”

  “We may not need to,” interrupted Davis. “We might actually have caught a little break last night; the witnesses at the club said that Jackle left with a girl after he wrecked the place. If you’re interested, I managed to get an ID on her.”

  Rivera broke the silence first. “And she is?”

  “Her real name is Tasha Kozlov. According to the documents, she’s been living for the past three years in Sevastopol, a little town on the coast of the Black Sea in Ukraine. Don’t know much more about her except she came in the US with a legal passport about two months ago. She’s apparently not part of the Ukranian sex pipeline-looks like she showed up on her own and started working at the club just after she arrived in the country. I’m not sure what her connection is with Kyle, but she really put her ass on the line to get him out of there-apparently stabbed some bouncer in the hand as they were leaving.