Marked Man

by Jared Paul

  Sarah was hot so she cracked the window. They were arguing about the swear jar on the top of the refrigerator. Emma promised to go to bed as soon as they got home. An SUV swerved out in front of them and another one blocked them in. Then there was a crash, then Askokov speaking French into a cell phone, then pointing a gun at Jordan’s head. He dropped them both down a manhole. Then the vodka, then he put a cigarette out on his tongue, then that son of a bitch winked at him.

  Jordan Ross stood up. He got his bearings and squirmed past a line of people ushering out of the row, saying excuse me, pardon me, as he practically tackled his way through the crowd. Out in the hallway he saw Askokov being led away by the officers of the court. Jordan shouted so loud that it startled the entire courthouse.

  “Hey Askokov! Mommy said fuck sticks!”

  Jordan got a running start and threw himself at the defendant like a lineman leaping over a pile of bodies to stop a goal line rush. Askokov’s face looked like a shocked wide mouth bass hooked through the gills. The collision toppled the big Russian over and Jordan punched at the big ugly fish face repeatedly, swinging his fists with a fury and a force that would have killed the man in less than a minute if the court officers hadn’t intervened.

  “You son of a bitch! You planned it. You planned the whole god damn thing. I know it! I know!”

  Several pairs of arms were tugging Jordan Ross away from Askokov, who had lost several teeth, broken his nose, and was leaking blood all over the nice marble floor. The big bad Ukrainian drunk had pissed himself in fear. With a power fueled by rage and adrenaline Jordan broke free of the court officers and was almost on Askokov again when four NYPD plainclothes police got a hold of him and wrestled him to the ground.

  Five minutes went by and Jordan screamed hysterically for every second, swearing that he would kill Askokov if it was the last thing he did, and the next thing after that he would kill every single member of Askokov’s family and then his neighbors and then his neighbors’ families.

  The bum rush and the beating was more activity than Jordan had done in months and his body could not handle the stress. After screaming himself hoarse under the pile of cops, Jordan was exhausted and slipped into unconsciousness.

  Watching it all unfold from near a drinking fountain further up the hall, a man with a gray beard reached into his trench coat and removed a cell phone. There was only one number programmed into the contacts list. As the plainclothes policemen dragged the grieving widower away, he dialed the number and let it ring. On the other end a smoky voice answered.

  “Da?”

  “Vladimir. Nous avons peut-être un probleme.”

  Chapter Three

  Jordan Ross was booked on a misdemeanor assault charge. He spent several hours in a cell by himself until an anonymous benefactor paid his bail and set him free. Detective Bollier was waiting outside the station for him, lounging against the front fender of her Ford Taurus. She was holding two steaming cups of coffee.

  “You look like you could use a lift. You thirsty?”

  Without hesitating a second Jordan took the coffee from her and got in the passenger’s side. Once his brain finally had processed everything that morning, he took a deep breath.

  “Thanks for the ride. I suppose you were the one who paid my bail too?”

  Detective Bollier shook her head and shrugged.

  “Wasn’t me. You don’t know who it was?”

  “Nope.”

  Bollier was silent for a while. She drove gracefully for a cop, no jerking stops and starts. On the wheel, her un-manicured hands were steady and confident. The police radio was turned to a low volume. Every few seconds a report of a mugging or a break-in came through the static, but after a short while they became one with the humming white noise of early evening traffic in Manhattan. Bollier kept off the main thoroughfares, ducking and weaving west through the side streets, inexorably inching towards Brooklyn.

  “So I take it that you’ve figured out what happened to your wife.”

  A white heat rose in Jordan’s throat.

  “You knew didn’t you. You knew they planned it. That’s why you asked me about Sarah’s job.”

  Bollier sighed and wetted her lips, which seemed to be the only luxury she allowed herself. The lipstick was a subtle shade of red, not meant to attract attention.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t completely sure until I found out how much her foundation was costing the Russians.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I did. Loudly. Only there were two problems. I was investigating Askokov for a homicide from 2011, a courier connected to their heroin business. If I told the DA that Askokov had connections in the Russian mob it would mean revealing an undercover source who’s still actively gathering information. And then since you couldn’t remember anything and there were no other witnesses at the scene it was his word against yours. The prosecutor knew something was fishy, but he had nothing to go on so he had to settle for the drunk-driving case.”

  “So he gets 14 years for premeditated murder. Nice world we live in.”

  “14 years is better than nothing, isn’t it?”

  “He should be dead. If I could have just had fifteen more seconds with him…”

  “And what would that solve? Askokov was a pawn; a nobody. Killing him wouldn’t do anything. Who would you rather get? Some lowly German storm trooper, or Goebbels?”

  Jordan Ross glanced over at Bollier and regarded her curiously. She smiled out of the side of her mouth and turned onto the Williamsburg Bridge. The sun was setting behind them.

  “What are you saying?”

  “You want to get even? I can help. But do it smart. Get the guys that are really responsible, the ones who ordered the hit. Isn’t that what really matters?”

  “You’re not an ordinary detective are you? Why would you help me get even?”

  “Listen. That’s not important right now. All that matters is we have a common enemy. Have you ever heard of Vladimir Shirokov?”

  Jordan was about to admit that the name was unfamiliar to him when an impact from behind jarred the car forward. The front tires lost their tread and skidded all over the lane, and Bollier tried to rein the vehicle in like a rodeo rider struggling to corral an irate bull. When she finally regained control of the car she looked in the rearview mirror to see who hit them, but the glare of the sun turned the big vehicle behind them into an anonymous black silhouette.

  “What the hell. Can you see?”

  The side mirror was not adjusted properly for the angle, so Jordan leaned his head out to have a look. His eyes burned from the sun lingering on the horizon of steel skyscrapers.

  “Sun’s in the way.”

  The Taurus was still going forty miles an hour and Jordan’s answer was caught in the wind rushing through the open window.

  “Maybe you should pull over…” Jordan pulled his head back inside the car and the side mirror exploded from a gunshot. Another bump from behind came, this one twice as strong as the last. “…then again maybe not.”

  Finally the sun set behind the shadow of the Freedom Tower and their assailant came into view. An enormous black sports utility vehicle was riding hard on their back bumper. From the vehicle’s passenger side a vaguely familiar looking bald man was pointing a pistol in Jordan’s direction, trying to steady his aim to get a better shot. Bollier swerved the wheel to the left just in time. Another bullet burst through the rear window and lodged itself into the dashboard. With her foot pressing the accelerator down as far as it would go, Bollier shouted for Jordan to help.

  “There’s a .38 in the glove compartment. I hope that your aim is still sharp, Corporal.”

  The Taurus lurched forward and weaved through the traffic on the bridge, narrowly missing several deadly crashes and scraping a few cars on the side. Jordan’s earlier observation that the detective was a good driver had missed the mark; she was an incredibly daring stunt woman. The driver of the black SUV was not in the same league and st
arted to lag behind. As Bollier darted around a French bread delivery truck Jordan stared at her incredulously, the gun warm in his hand.

  “Where did you learn to drive like this?”

  “I grew up in Georgetown.”

  Just when it seemed like they would escape their attackers, another big black vehicle dived in from the left lane and side-swiped them. The Taurus bounced to the edge of the bridge and skidded along the railing. Sparks leapt up and showered into the cockpit.

  “Take the wheel.” Bollier commanded.

  “What are you going to…”

  Before Jordan could finish his question the detective already had her hands off the wheel and the Taurus’ front tires were snaking again. He reached across and grabbed the leather wheel, trying to steady it. Bollier snapped her seatbelt off and unzipped her long gray London fog jacket then started digging around inside. Out of the corner of his eye Jordan saw a shoulder holster. Bollier carried a Sig P226. In a dizzying two seconds she loaded, cocked, aimed, and fired.

  There were two Russians riding in the second vehicle. The man in the passenger’s seat saw the detective getting ready to shoot and ducked his head just in time. Instead, the bullet caved in the driver’s face. The driver fell limp over to the side and the SUV roared out of control, listing towards the divider in the center of the bridge. It bounced off and rolled over several times, coming to a stop across two lanes.

  “That’ll do. Thanks.”

  Jordan realized that he was still gripping the wheel. He let go and Bollier took control again. The first SUV was hot on their tail again, having caught up while the Taurus tore a big scratch alongside the edge of the bridge. Jordan turned to fire but had to leap back in when a flurry of bullets struck the side of the car. Apparently in the interim the bald shooter had upgraded to an Uzi. In between long, eardrum shattering barrages of gunfire Jordan tried to get a better look at him. Once he was certain he huffed out a frustrated breath of air.

  “It’s him.”

  “Him who?”

  “He was there the night of the accident. We were blocked in by two SUV’s. This guy was in one. I recognize the tattoo.”

  “Two phoenixes.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Perhaps another time, Mr. Ross we have a bit of a situation here.”

  The detective was right about that much. Like a hydra with its head split, the overturned SUV had been replaced by two more, which were closing in fast. Bollier fired out of the driver’s side, trying to stave them off long enough to avoid being rammed off the bridge. It was a long way down to the East River. Jordan did his best to control his breathing. Fighting mad may help in a bar room tussle but in a shootout an angry gunman was an inaccurate gunman. His training had taught him that much. The old Special Forces reflexes were still there, buried somewhere underneath his layers of grief and guilt.

  He wanted the bald man dead more than anything in the world, but he had to clear his mind. Jordan closed his eyes and focused. He listened to the Uzi’s staccato song, waiting until he knew the rhythm by heart. Finally the bald man paused to reload. Jordan did not hesitate, wheeling around and taking time to get the sights lined up. With one eye closed Jordan squeezed the trigger. The round sailed on a perfect line through the windshield and landed in the shooter’s Adam’s apple. Bleeding madly, he dropped the Uzi, which clattered to the highway floor and started firing off rounds as it spun. One of the SUV’s wheels was clipped. The driver had no choice but to pull over or risk flipping over like his friend.

  “Two down, two to go.”

  Finally Bollier breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the end of the Williamsburg Bridge. She swung a hard right into traffic and barely missed an oncoming semi-truck. The truck’s horn wailed angrily.

  “That was too close.”

  The dangerous move had bought them ten yards of breathing room from their pursuers. Bollier hit the gas and turned onto a narrow lane, riding the riverfront. They had a lead for a short time but the detective’s car simply did not have the horsepower to compete with the Russians’ large brutish gas guzzlers. A bullet fired from one of the SUVs just barely grazed Bollier’s cheek and she started bleeding liberally into the lap of her khakis. She cursed but was more shaken than anything and continued to drive, gritting her teeth and hissing through the pain. One of the SUVs got alongside and pressured the Taurus up against the embankment on the edge of the river. Jordan took aim at the windows, only to find that it was protected by bullet proof glass. He fired at the front tires but they kept on rolling; a custom polymer, no doubt. Someone had gone to considerable expense to armor the entire vehicle.

  “We’re in trouble.” He announced.

  “I noticed.”

  Some sixty yards ahead Bollier spotted a ramp in their path. Bollier jerked the wheel left, trying to force the SUV off their flank, but the pressure of its weight was too much. Jordan saw what was coming and tensed up, stomping his boots out as if there were brakes on his side. Bollier had the same thought and hit the brake, but the second Russian vehicle accelerated up from behind and rammed their rear fender, forcing them forward.

  “Take the ramp.” Jordan yelled.

  “This isn’t fucking Starsky and Hutch you don’t know what’s on the other side.”

  “Maybe not but I do know what’s on this side.”

  Bollier pushed the Taurus into its highest gear and again tried to brush the SUV on the left aside.

  “Take the ramp there’s no time!”

  “Shut up I know what I’m doing!”

  With no other options the detective engaged the emergency brake and turned the wheel as far as it would go. The Taurus gained a few feet of separation and tried to slip out between the ramp and the SUV, but it came on too fast. Bollier hit the side of the ramp at an awkward angle and the car went airborne, spiraling end over end like a well thrown football. Even though his field of vision was spinning Jordan saw several freight compartments stacked up on the other side of the ramp. Had Bollier listened to him they certainly would have been killed.

  The Taurus was in the air for only two, maybe three seconds but it seemed so much longer. While they were spinning Jordan pondered for a fraction of a second why in emergencies time crept like a slug, but the happiest moments blurred by so fast. He even had time to come up with a simple plan. If they survived the plunge into the river, and that was no guarantee, he would swim with Bollier under the pier and hide until the Russians were gone. Jordan swung his door open. Just before they hit the water and the frigid blue East River swallowed them up he grabbed the detective’s hand. Maybe it was all part of the plan to pull her out of the water, maybe he just didn’t want to die alone.

  …

  Roman Dorokhin pulled over and parked his massive armored Volvo alongside a stack of freight boxes, recalling how Boris Maslov had laughed at all the tens of thousands of dollars he had invested into bullet proofing it. Boris said he should have saved it for something useful, like a stripper. Boris Maslov was dead now. Boris was a fool.

  Along with his two comrades Roman walked up to the edge of the water. Large air bubbles were coming up from where the police woman’s battered and bullet ridden car had sunk into the water. Roman motioned for Ivan and Yakov to reload as he pressed a fresh clip into his Kalishnokov, then the three of them unloaded into the frothing group of bubbles. The bullets sliced into the river, cutting the water as if it were icing on a dark blue cake. The sound of the three weapons harmonizing together was quite a roar, but under the clamor Roman heard the distinct sound of distant sirens.

  “Ostanovit!”

  He waved for them to cease fire. Ivan obeyed immediately. Yakov fired one more round into the river then followed suit. Roman smacked the simpleton Yakov on the back of the head and rattled off a series of insults in French, which Yakov did not understand, calling it a tongue for effete, decadent snobs. When he was through berating Yakov Roman tip-toed up to the very edge of the water, then peaked over the embankment. When he saw what
he believed to be blood wafting up to the surface he was satisfied. Roman barked for the others to get back into the Volvo and they left in a hurry before the police could arrive.

  …

  Vladimir Shirokov flipped to the next page in the heavy hardcover volume resting in his lap. He adjusted his reading glasses so they rested further down his nose, a wide beak that drew comparisons to vultures by those foolish enough to utter them. He read fast, absently puffing at the cigar hanging precariously from his bottom lip. By some miracle of physics it stayed in place, as if it feared Shirokov’s willpower more than any penalty that disobeying the laws of gravity might invite.

  The coffee shop he owned on 14th street had closed an hour earlier, and Shirokov was enjoying his daily down time by reading in the back office by himself. A recording of Dmitri Shostakovich’s ninth symphony emanated from a pair of speakers outfitted on the wall. A tumbler of iced vodka was sweating on the table next to his ash tray. Intermittently Shirokov reached out for the glass and drank. Sometimes he chuckled at inside jokes known only to the author and himself. The more he drank, the more he chuckled.

  The previous Friday he had discovered this volume at the Tompkins Square Branch of the library. It was called Europe Central, a novel written by William T. Vollmann. The book was fictional, which was something that Shirokov ordinarily did not go in for. Although he secretly pined for stories set in faraway lands with dragons and sorcery, Shirokov believed he had gotten too old for such things and now preferred to dwell in the realm of the possible. Besides, history was usually far weirder in his experience. Every now and then though, Shirokov allowed himself a treat from the literature section. He reasoned that since Europe Central was heavily researched and based on actual events in the twentieth century, it did not count as cheating. Plus it had won the National Book Award, which had to count for something towards serious reading.