Marked Man

by Jared Paul

  “We want you to be Batman.”

  “Only with guns.”

  “Lots of guns.”

  “I have access to information through my office that can rip up Shirokov’s gang. I know the key players, I know where they hang out, and I know what their excesses are. The detective here has an extensive network of criminal informants. Between the two of us we would function basically as your very own personal intelligence agency. We supply the targets…”

  The door to the sunroom creaked open just as Agent Clemons was hitting full stride. Shannon shyly poked her head in carrying a pitcher of apple cider.

  “Is anyone thirsty? I just made a batch of this…”

  Together the three of them said no thanks, practically all at once. Already they were in sync.

  “How about something from the pantry, I’ve got crackers, plus some…”

  “Shannon.”

  Bollier spoke her name like she was a beloved but infantile family pet that had made a mess on the rug after she’d been warned repeatedly to do her business outside. Slowly, Shannon shrunk away and closed the door behind her. When they were sure she was no longer lingering by the sunroom door Agent Clemons resumed his briefing for Jordan.

  “We supply the targets and you hunt them down one at a time. But not all of them. Some of them will have vital information, and they’ll have to be… persuaded to help you. If you catch our meaning.”

  “It’s not hard to pick up on.”

  “Good. So, if we’re all agreed that this is the path we’re going to go down, then as soon as I get back to my office I’ll get to work with killing you off. In the meantime Bollier is going to expend some saved up vacation time and will stay here with you help with your training regimen.”

  “Training regimen?”

  The workout and diet plan that Agent Clemons outlined for Jordan Ross was a brutal ten week course designed to blast every fat cell in his body into oblivion. For breakfast Jordan would drink a green smoothie consisting of kale, lemon rind, and banana, along with two boiled eggs. After breakfast Jordan would jog four miles uphill on the treadmill. For lunch Jordan would get another green smoothie, consisting of spinach, blueberries, and lemon rind, plus a slice of two grams of lean turkey deli meat. In the afternoon Jordan would undergo strength resistance exercises, followed by sprinting an even footed six miles on the treadmill. Dinner would be a feast of asparagus, cauliflower, and two grams of halibut. Forbidden items included sugar, red meat, grains, dairy, and starch. Every seventh day Jordan could rest his body and be afforded one baked potato as a treat. Provided that he followed the training regimen’s instructions to a tee, at the end of the ten week period Jordan Ross would be as physically fit as any human being could be expected to be. In the army Jordan had gone through similar diets but nothing quite this intense. He agreed that he could pull it off and would stick to the program.

  “Great. Oh, and there’s just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No drinking. The only liquid that you’re allowed on this program will be water.”

  That last caveat proved too much for Jordan.

  “Well fuck it then. No deal.”

  Detective Bollier tried to be sympathetic, because the thought of going without booze for ten weeks was as alien and cold to her as anything she could imagine.

  “Look. God knows I couldn’t handle going that long without a taste, but you know what alcohol does to your body. Even as little as two drinks a night would set back your progress several weeks. We don’t have the time.”

  “I’m well aware of the effects and I don’t care. If you want me to be your Batman guinea pig crusader then there’s going to have to be some compromise on this. Neither of you are taking the risk. You get to sit in your offices in the air conditioning and go through files. I’m going to be out in the field. If something goes wrong I’m going to be the one who gets dead. Not you.”

  The two of them tried for the better part of an hour to sway Jordan’s mind. In the end, they had to settle for a vague promise that Jordan would do his best to drink as little as possible, and if he did he would stick exclusively to the clear stuff; gin and vodka and white tequila. Arguing with Jordan proved to be a drain on Agent Clemons’ will.

  “Alright. I guess that’s as good as we’re going to get for today. Anything else Les?”

  Detective Bollier pursed her lips and let out a huff of air.

  “Nothing that I can think of. What about you Mr. Ross? Any doubts? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  “Sounds good to me. I feel like we should formally seal the deal.”

  Special Agent Kyle Clemons nodded and reached out to shake Jordan’s hand, but he didn’t move.

  “I was thinking something more along the lines of a toast.”

  For a moment the fresh-faced federal agent looked like a vein in his head was going to explode at the speed of sound, but Bollier smirked and put him at ease.

  “He’s just fucking with you Kyle. Take it easy.”

  “Yeah. Just kidding. You FBI folks sure like to take things literally.”

  “Oh. Yes. I suppose we do.”

  Shannon burst in with a flacon of finely aged scotch and a set of four glasses on a tray. Her face was a deep shape of red, like a passion fruit and she smelled like the inside of a whiskey distillery.

  “Nooo! Come on now I say we all have a toast anyway!”

  Chapter Eight

  The funeral for retired Army Corporal Jordan Ross was a subdued affair. He was laid out at the Hopkins’ Family Funeral Home in Caroll Gardens. Due to the gruesome nature of what the hydrogen cyanide capsules had done to the remains, the ceremony was closed-casket. Several well-wishers who had known Jordan in the army came from all over the tri-state area to pay their respects. Only a few family members were present, as his parents were long dead and most of his extended family was scattered on the west coast.

  Jordan’s closest relative was Mary Ross Pollard who lived in Philipsburg, New Jersey with her husband and three kids. The Pollard clan arrived a few minutes late clad in black and whispering an argument over which highway they should have taken.

  Following the ceremony a hearse drove Corporal Ross’ body to Greenwood Cemetery. The rain had driven off about half off the crowd from the funeral home. As her brother’s casket was being lowered into the ground Mary Ross Pollard sniffed away a snob and made an off-hand remark to her husband Phil.

  “I just can’t believe that he would do that to himself.”

  “I know, but he lost everything. Sarah, Emma, he didn’t have a job. What did he have to live for?”

  “And that suicide note. So heinous, it was so unlike him.”

  “What do you expect?”

  After sprinkling some earth on the box and tossing a rose on top, Detective Bollier shuffled her way through the wet lawn chairs and greeted Mary and her kids with a sad smile and a sincere I’m-so-sorry-for-your-loss. At least it sounded sincere to her ears.

  Some of Jordan’s friends from Charlie Company came by next and hugged Mary even though they had never met, and told her how brave her brother had been and that they wouldn’t be standing there if it weren’t for him, and regardless of how his life ended he had lived honorably and that was all that really mattered at the end of the day, wasn’t it? Mary agreed that it was and thanked them for coming.

  Several more mourners paid their respects and then the last two men in the crowd came over. They had strange foreign accents, and for some reason kept their collars popped open even in the blowing rain, like cold was a concern beneath them.

  “So sorry Meeses Ross.”

  “Yes. Vee are very sorry for you.”

  Mary mouthed a quick thank you and tried to force a friendly smile. She was eager to get back into the car to avoid the logjam on the turnpike, but felt obligated to speak briefly to everyone who had come.

  “So. How did you two know my brother?”

  The big man on the right had a neck
lace with a silver medallion cloistered in a tangle of chest hair. He looked at his companion and stammered.

  “Ahh. We knew heem from around.”

  “The neighborhood.” His partner broke in.

  “Around the neighborhood.” The large hairy one agreed.

  Mary nodded several times fast and excused herself. Back in the car while waiting at a red light she told Phil not for the first time how odd it was that so many strange people lived in Brooklyn. Maybe it was the place itself that attracted them, or maybe everyone was normal but over time Brooklyn transformed them into something unnatural.

  …

  Vladimir Shirokov’s eyes were growing tired and beginning to water. For the better part of a month he had been reading Leon Trotsky’s dry sprawling History of the Russian Revolution. Despite his better efforts the book was getting the best of him. He could see why Stalin had dispatched an assassin thousands of miles away to push an ice pick through the back of Trotsky’s head even years after he was no longer a threat. The man’s tediousness was a capital offense.

  Shirokov was close to nodding off when a knock at the door roused him.

  “Da?”

  Nadiya appeared and informed him that Leonid and Dmitry were outside. With a tired wave he told her to usher them in. Big Vitaly the bodyguard came in first, waddling into his office like a great overstuffed Georgian turkey. He squeezed his hips into a chair in the corner and Shirokov marveled at the furniture’s resilience that it did not surrender and collapse under Vitaly’s girth. The two men were wet and smelled of fresh earth.

  Dmitry bowed to one knee and kissed the star on Shirokov’s hand then Leonid did the same. Shirokov waited for them to report.

  “Avtorityet. Vee have come from funeral for army man.”

  “And?”

  “He vas buried. Vee saw police woman at funeral home but not cemetery.”

  “And the family?”

  “Just one. A seester. Information is here.”

  Dmitry passed Shirokov a wet folded piece of paper that had a driver’s license number written on it. He read it, committed it to memory, and then folded the paper and tucked it away in his top desk drawer.

  “Police woman has not been at precinct for long time. She only come back yesterday. You vant us to keep following her?”

  Nodding absently with his fingers folded into a steeple, Shirokov thought about it. He let the silence flood the room until it was uncomfortable for his underlings. Without constant chatter in their ears they grew restless. Quiet reflection seemed to cause them great distress. Shirokov had hoped in past years that he could find capable, thoughtful men who also had the fortitude to stab a perfect stranger through the eye, but this was a hope that he had abandoned some time ago. Husky Leonid turned his head to his partner and then to the bodyguard in the corner, clearly wondering if Shirokov’s mind had deserted him, leaving nothing but a flaccid, emptied shell behind.

  “Avorityet?”

  “Nyhet. Leave the police woman go. She is no longer important with army man in ground. As you well know we have bigger concerns to prepare for. You go now.”

  The two soldiers poured themselves out of his office with some effort, squeezing through the door. Once they were gone Shirokov turned his attention to Vitaly.

  “Is everything in order?”

  “Da.”

  “Excellent.”

  Shirokov dismissed Vitaly and attempted for the third time to finish the page he was on.

  …

  The reflection in the full-length mirror was unquestionably Jordan Ross. He knew this only because his rational mind explained that it could be nobody else. To the casual observer, the reflection may have been a mixed martial arts fighter, one of those crazy guys who fought in steel cages until the head blows turned their minds to pudding, or perhaps a famous body builder, but not Jordan Ross. And yet it could not be anyone else. There, his mind said, on his right thigh just below the waist was the P-shaped birthmark he had carried all his life. And there, on the shoulder was the scar from the sniper’s bullet in Fallujah. Without these familiar landmarks to guide his eyes however Jordan would never have recognized himself.

  All of the body hair he had carried since puberty had been removed permanently by a laser. His head was shaved cleaner and smoother than an unspoiled bowling ball. Strangest of all was Jordan’s new beard, which draped half way down to his chest in thick salt and pepper tufts. Never before in his life had he grown out anything more ambitious than a neat little goatee. This was a beard for vagrants and professional musicians, a beard appropriate for Rasputin.

  Jordan ran his fingers through the beard and smoothed it into a neater shape, then he sucked in a breath of air and flexed. The effect was mind-blowing. Every muscle proudly stood out, well defined. A tight six pack was threatening to add two new members to the abdomen gang. Deltoids, biceps, triceps, gluteus, obliques, pecs, quadriceps, all of the major muscle groups were sleek and powerful. Jordan Ross felt like a tightly coiled snake, ready to strike and kill predators even three times his size.

  He had to hand it to Special Agent Clemons. The program had definitely paid off, even with the occasional vodka tonic tossed into the mix. Still with seven days to go Jordan had melted off 24 pounds of fat and replaced it with rock hard muscle.

  “You don’t have to do it you know.”

  Shannon was watching him flex and stretch in the mirror from the side. This warning was becoming a common refrain as the deadline approached. Bollier had done her best to shield Shannon from their plans, but she’d figured it out anyway. Even if she could be an unspeakable pain in the ass at times, Jordan had become friends with Shannon in their time together at the cottage, but this was one subject that he was growing tired of rehashing.

  “Of course I don’t have to. I want too.”

  Shaking her head, Shannon walked over and stood next to Jordan. She spoke to the hulking reflection rather than to his face. For months she had been cooking his meals and taking care of his laundry. When he started the intense training program Shannon had gone into town and bought a CD and made a mix-tape for him of motivational anthem rock and hip-hop. Jordan played the CD on a loop as he furiously raced away the pounds on the treadmill. It was the nicest thing anyone had done for him since Sarah died and he told her as much. Jordan would miss Shannon. She knew this and had been trying to talk him out of the whole vigilante idea.

  “Why? What do you have to gain from going back out there? They think you’re dead. They won’t come after you anymore.”

  “Someone has to stand up to them. Someone has to make them pay.”

  “Why does it have to be you?”

  “It doesn’t! I told you I want this.” Jordan raised his voice for the first time when addressing her. He thought that he might feel bad about it. Shannon was such a fragile creature after all, but to Jordan’s surprise no remorse came over him.

  “It’s such a waste. Look at how you’ve transformed yourself. You’re in perfect shape, you can get a new wife, a hotter wife than the one you had. You can start a new family anywhere you want, you can completely start over but you’re just going to throw it all away for revenge.”

  Turning to face the detective’s slight and volatile partner, Jordan stared her in the face.

  “You don’t understand. Revenge is what I have. It is all I have now. You think I’m throwing my life away but you’re wrong because I don’t have one. They took that from me. They took my entire life out from under me. All I’m going to do is return the favor.”

  Every time they had gotten drunk together lately Shannon had been sounding this same note. Why she’d grown so attached to him Jordan couldn’t understand. Maybe he was just the closest human object around next to Bollier and she was grasping for a new connection as she felt that one slip through her fingers. Shannon had been trying to poison him against her girlfriend and the FBI agent, saying that they were manipulating him, that they didn’t care if he lived or died. Jordan did not believe that but h
e wouldn’t have cared either way.

  “So you’re just going to leave. Where will you stay? Do you even know?”

  Detective Bollier and Clemons had set up a spare apartment in the city. It had a home gym, a bed, a refrigerator, and a closet to store all of his guns. Everything that Jordan Ross was going to need for the rest of his life, however long that may be.

  “It’s all been pre-arranged. I’ve got a place to stay. I’ve got a new identity. They’re going to funnel me payments for the necessities. I know you think that they’re using me but it’s not like that.”

  Shannon’s face twisted into a sulk that she’d been using so often lately Jordan wondered if it might stay that way forever.

  “But who’s going to take care of you?”

  Finally annoyed past his breaking point, Jordan barked at Shannon.

  “Believe it or not there are some of us who can take care of ourselves. We don’t need to be fucking babied all the time, we don’t need to have someone else validate our feelings constantly no matter how childish they might be. We can make our own decisions and not blame other people for manipulating our emotions because we’re adults. We can operate a blender and a washing machine on our own.”

  He paused to make sure that Shannon was getting the point. Just in case he drove it home.

  “I’ve made up my mind to go ahead with this and there’s nothing you can say or do that will change that. It’s a done deal.”

  That may have been going too far. Shannon stormed away and slammed a door somewhere upstairs in the cabin. Jordan finally felt that elusive guilt, but it was for her own good that he nip their friendship in the bud. Sure he was going to take down a lot of Russians but he was realistic about the long-term prospects of this little venture. More likely than not, retired Army Corporal Jordan Ross was going to get a second funeral and it would happen sooner rather than later.

  On his last day in Connecticut Jordan returned the mittens he borrowed to Mr. Williams. He had to settle for saying good-bye to Shannon through the door as she refused to come out of her room to see him off. Bollier drove Jordan back into the city and he felt a giddy excitement building that may have been fed by the vibrant energy of New York, or may have been anticipation of the storm to come.