by Jared Paul
…
The first target that Special Agent Clemons selected for Jordan Ross to interrogate was a man named Mikhail Polzin. Polzin was a low-level pimp and dealer in Shirokov’s organization who operated out of a seedy motel in Washington Heights.
Jordan cased the motel for three nights and two days, observing Polzin’s movements from behind a pair of binoculars. The FBI had generously, if unknowingly gifted Jordan a used Honda CR-V, the most commonly owned vehicle in the state of New York. Less common about the car were its tinted windows and engine specially outfitted with almost triple the normal horsepower for the model. Jordan folded the passenger’s seat down and laid flat on his chest like he was in the tall grass while he watched.
Polzin was a creature of habit. Like clockwork the wiry, pale Estonian made his rounds every two hours, checking on the girls working in each room and collecting his cut from new customers. He must have worked out some sort of a deal with the hotel’s owner because it seemed that the only people renting rooms did so on an hourly basis and the parking lot was treaded heavily by burnt rubber. At the conclusion of each round and each day Polzin retired to a room on the second floor. Nobody else ever went in or out.
It was around 1AM on the third evening of Jordan’s vigil when Polzin shut himself in for the night. Jordan packed away the binoculars into his canvas bag and removed a .45 caliber Jericho and a Yarborough knife. Though he had tried valiantly to tug his enormous bowie knife loose from the Russian assassin’s face at his house, it never gave and was now lost to him. Jordan screwed a sound suppressor onto the end of the Jericho’s barrel, checked that it was loaded and working properly, and tucked it into the back of his pants. To avoid burning out the engine Jordan had kept the heater switched off and worn two pairs of gloves in order to keep from freezing. When the Jericho was secure he tugged the outer pair off and tossed them into the backseat.
Everything was set. Jordan’s cold breath was fogging the windshield. He glanced into the strange reflection in the rearview mirror. For a few minutes he let himself relive the scene the last time he’d stared into a rearview mirror. He allowed himself to be tortured with the thought that if he’d only given in to his compulsion to blaze right through the yellow light at the intersection his wife and daughter might still be alive. When a sufficient amount of agony and odium had built up in his system, Jordan decided that he was ready to go. Just before opening the Honda’s door and stepping out onto the street, he whispered a phrase that had become a sort of a mantra during his training. Whenever he felt his energy flagging during the hardest part of a cardio burn, whenever his resistance was starting to get the better of him, he listened for the words that stoked fresh flames in his heart.
“Mommy said fuck sticks.”
The motel was an uninspired, two-story architecture shaped like the letter E with three wings of rooms extending off of the base where the front desk, concierge, pool and exercise room were. The design practically seemed to invite this kind of element. On the ground floor soda and ice machines stood ready to serve at the bottom of stairways that led up to a narrow walkway that ringed around the second floor doors.
Polzin’s room was 214, about a dozen yards down the southern wing. Jordan crept up to the stairs and listened for any approaching foot traffic. The faint hum of the opening theme to the HBO show The Sopranos came from the television in the room directly to his right. Somewhere overhead a woman with a Polish-sounding accent was indulging a forced laugh, probably with a paying client who considered wit not wallet as his most attractive quality.
Jordan ascended the staircase, taking the steps two at a time and reaching the landing in a rush. One of the cleaning lady’s carts was parked on the precipice of the stairs. Jordan hid there, obscured by bottles of window cleaner and rags that reeked of ammonia. He stopped and listened again. When he was sure nobody else was walking the second floor of the south wing he stood up and took his weapon out. After a few steady strides he came to the door of room 214.
Putting his ear up against the rust red melamine, Jordan did not hear any sounds coming from within Polzin’s room. He thought about trying the doorknob to check if it was unlocked first. Jordan may have been an urban combat expert due to his army training, but he was relatively new to the exhilarating sport of breaking and entering. Perhaps the door would give to his touch, but what then? If he opened it slow and the door creaked it might give away his presence. If someone was watching the door they would have a full second’s head start to grab for a weapon, which was an eternity in close combat situations. Jordan considered his options and in the end decided that a clean aggressive entry was the best choice. Experience had taught him that fear could paralyze an opponent faster than any well-placed gunshot. A stranger suddenly bursting in through the door would momentarily freeze Polzin and by then Jordan would have the upper hand, or so his theory went.
Jordan took a deep breath, shifted his weight back, and kicked forward with all of his strength.
The idea worked. Jordan caught a glimpse of a startled Polzin lying prostrate in bed next to a girl in a mini-dress and clear heel pumps, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. Unfortunately Jordan had not had the opportunity to truly test his strength, and as fast as the door collapsed inward from the force of his boot, it rebounded back off the wall and closed in his face. That precious second was lost. Jordan pushed through into the room to find Polzin rolling off of the bed, his hand grabbing for a handgun on the night table. On the bed the half-naked working girl screamed and curled herself into a tight little ball.
Polzin had the gun and slid under the bed. Jordan charged as Polzin fired several shots at the wall, intending to cripple the intruder by shooting out his legs, but the intruder was too quick. In one swift leap Jordan was on the bed, surprised at the spring in his legs. Jordan aimed the extended Jericho between the pillows at the head of the sheets where he imagined Polzin’s torso might be below him. The girl was quivering on the bed.
For a moment Jordan waited and so did the pimp cowering beneath the springs. There was no percentage in firing blindly at each other at such close range. They waited. Jordan’s plan had been to take Polzin alone and unawares so that he could question him and get information about one of Shirokov’s captains. This was not going according to plan.
Knowing that he could not wait long, Jordan spoke to the man beneath the mattress that was bouncing under his boots.
“Mikhail! I just want to talk.”
For a second everything was quiet in the room except for the fretful sobs coming from the girl who was hiding her face from the wild-eyed bald man waving a hand-cannon over her head. Then Polzin yelled out an instruction in French.
“Ana Descendre le lit!”
Jordan had never taken any French but he understood the meaning well enough. This was not a promise to come out with his hands up, nor an offer to talk it out. He was telling the girl to get off the bed so that he could get a clear shot at the gunman who had interrupted their romantic interlude. Polzin repeated the girl’s name.
“Ana!”
A second and a half passed and then a loud rapport echoed through the little room. Ana’s stomach burst open from below and she finally rolled off the bed, screaming. Another shot came up through the mattress. Sprigs of orange fluff came billowing up from the intestines of the bed, along with a white powder. The bullets missed wide right of Jordan’s head and he returned fire. Dozens of bullets shredded through the bed from both sides. A cloud of sweet white powder floated out into the air and covered Jordan’s face and seeped into his nostrils. From the floor Polzin rattled and coughed blood as several of Jordan’s .45s struck him square in the chest. The spray of bullets from beneath him stopped and Jordan climbed down off of the bed.
Over in the corner the girl named Ana was bleeding out into the carpet, cradling the motel room telephone but the energy to dial failing her. One look told Jordan there was nothing he could do for her.
While he had been careful enough
to bring a silencer, the shots from Polzin’s gun would be bringing the police or worse soon so Jordan had to work fast. He picked up what was left of the mattress and tossed it off of the spring. Arms spread out on the floor and blood dribbling down his neck, Polzin was already dead. That came as no surprise. What had been hiding just beneath the mattress however, was another matter.
There were six rows and four columns of tightly bound manila packages on the springs. Some of them had exploded in the gun battle, and an off-white powder was spilling out through the gaping tears. Jordan knelt down to get a closer look. He poked one gloved finger into one of the burst packages and came out with a small hill of powder clinging to his appendage.
Jordan knew next to nothing about drugs. He was exclusively a drinking man. His only experience with drugs had been just after high school, when he smoked a part of a joint in the garage at a friend’s graduation party. There was no immediate effect but after a minute or two and another puff Jordan found himself staring blankly at a row of paint cans on a shelf, trying earnestly to comprehend their existence and his own and coming up short. For what seemed like a very long time he gaped vacantly at the paint, devoid of a coherent thought. Once his senses came back to him Jordan did not particularly mind the tingly stupefying sensation but never went out of his way to feel it again.
In the bloody aftermath of his fight with Polzin in the motel room, Jordan had a very similar look on his face. His chest felt tight and a bright euphoria was coming over him. Something very important was happening, he was sure, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Whatever happened was a good thing though. Jordan had won. Jordan was supposed to get information from this slug but he had won another shootout like Jesse-Fucking-James and it was a pretty good feeling all things considered. Something important was happening though.
“Ohhhh shit.”
The drugs were important. Bollier and Agent Clemons would want to know about this. Jordan did not know how many drugs were a lot of drugs but if ever there were a lot of drugs in once place this seemed to qualify. Jordan knew he could not carry the whole stash so he grabbed one of the packages and bolted for the door.
Although his mind was surrendering to the opiate it had not conquered him yet. Jordan was cognizant enough to stop at the door way and peek out. No shots were fired in his direction. Jordan stuck his head out a little further and looked both ways. He was sure that the other neighbors in the motel had heard the gunshots but it seemed they were too afraid to come out.
Jordan stepped out onto the landing and started walking towards the stairs when he was seized with an irresistible idea. Was he not Batman with guns? Would Batman with guns use the stairs after winning a shootout with a deranged Russian pimp and drug dealer?
“Of course not!” Jordan said the words out loud but could not have said why.
Slinging one leg over the railing, and then the other, Jordan pumped his fist at the air and then jumped down to the ground level. He twisted his ankle in the fall and had to limp away feebly towards the Honda. Jordan packed the drugs into the space beneath the driver’s seat, turned the keys in the ignition, and gunned the accelerator down as far as it would go.
Jordan drove fast and checked his mirrors every fourth second to make sure that the Russians hadn’t sent anyone chasing after him. The shootout on the Williamsburg Bridge easily ranked up there with some of the hairiest moments Jordan remembered from the Gulf War, and he was not eager to try his hand at maneuvering like a stunt driver the way Bollier did.
The upgraded CR-V engine hummed and roared as he shifted through the gears. Circles of light thrown by street lamps blew by, briefly illuminating the cab of Jordan’s car and creating a strobe effect. In between the lights the car went dark. Black then orange, black then orange, the alternations increasing in frequency as Jordan continued to drive as fast as he dared away from Polzin’s motel. After the clamor of gunshots the quiet of the drive was somehow unnerving for him, so Jordan flipped on the car’s radio and was delighted when Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes came on. Shannon had included this in his workout playlist. It became his favorite.
Jordan’s head thumped to the bass line and his fingers drummed on the steering wheel and he drove faster, egged on by an inexplicably strong desire to go fast and not worry about the consequences. When Jack White’s chorus started up Jordan turned the volume up as loud as the system would go and he screamed the lyrics like he was in a posh pit in the front row at a live concert.
“And the feelin comin from my bones says find a home!”
While Jordan was in the middle of his one-man karaoke performance the CR-V blew through an intersection where an NYPD squad car was idling. The speedometer on the dashboard read 74 miles per hour. Sighing, the driver addressed his partner in the passenger’s seat.
“I hate the Friday night shift. Really I do.”
“You can just let it go.”
The cop shook his head and engaged the flashing lights and siren, then shifted out of park and went off to pursue the speed demon in the Honda CR-V blasting the stereo.
When the song ended Jordan felt the rush dissipating. An egotistical disk jockey’s voice piped in through the speakers and to Jordan’s ears it sounded like Freddy Krueger’s fingernails scratching right through a chalkboard after the music. Jordan turned the dial, in search of an equally inspiring song to keep this glorious feeling going, whatever it was. Just when he found an upbeat tune on the vintage rock station Jordan heard a wailing siren growing from behind him.
Panic splashed over Jordan’s body. It felt eerily similar to the plunge he’d taken into the East River in detective Bollier’s Taurus. The feeling was glacially cold but burning at the same time. Jordan’s eyes darted to the speedometer and then widened in horror as he realized he was driving at least 20 miles an hour over the speed limit.
Another far more disturbing realization came to Jordan then. He was high. The white powder under Polzin’s bed, whatever it was had gotten into his nose and by extension his bloodstream. This explained his ridiculous decision to jump off the balcony, and the euphoria that accompanied the crescendos of the White Stripes song. Worst of all this also explained the sudden and debilitating paranoia. Jordan was driving an unregistered motor vehicle at a dangerous speed with a kilo of drugs under his seat. Jordan eased his foot off the accelerator gradually and studied his face in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, and flecks of white powder were clinging to his beard. Quickly, Jordan brushed out as much of it as he could. Some of it got on his pants and he had to get rid of that as well.
By the time the CR-V came to a complete stop on the side of the road Jordan had swept all the powder off, but he couldn’t shake the horror. While he waited for the police officer to get out of the car Jordan pulled the .45 out of his waistband and put it under his leg. He turned the radio off.
Mortifying thoughts passed through Jordan’s mind, each growing scarier in succession than the one that came before. What if the cop gave him a speeding ticket? What if he asked him to get out of the car? What if he gave him a Breathalyzer test and it gave him away? What if he found the kilo under the seat? What if he found the recently fired gun hidden under his leg? What if he was one of the dirty cops that Bollier had talked about that were on Shirokov’s payroll? If the Russians had sent this uniform after him he was essentially a hit man with a perfectly legal license to use deadly force.
Jordan squeezed the handle of the Jericho and whispered a quick prayer that he would not have to use it. He did not want to kill a cop under any circumstances. However, if he was arrested it would immediately blow the cover off of his vigilante operation, and worse still, the Russians would get word and his family and friends would be put at risk again. Languishing in a jail cell for a double homicide and possession with intent to distribute he would be powerless to save them. How many dozens of lives would be lost? All on account of this one cop who had to pull him over for speeding. It was a possibility that had never occurred to him, but Jordan was not
going to kill a police officer.
Not unless he had too.
The cop approached from the side and knocked on the window, a flashlight in hand. Jordan dutifully rolled down the window and smiled up at him.
“Good evening officer. How can I help you?”
“License n’ registration.”
“Sure thing.”
Jordan’s right hand relaxed it’s vice grip on the firearm and reached out to the glove compartment. Special Agent Clemons had taken care of all of this. The insurance was all paid for, the driver’s license completely legitimate. There should be no issues. Jordan handed his identification and insurance information and the cop shined his light over the documents.
“Mister Wallace. Do you know why I stopped ya?”
“Yes sir, I was speeding.”
“That’s correct. Do ya know how fast ya were going?”
“No sir I couldn’t say exactly.”
“Around 75 miles per hour by my clock. Have ya been drinkin tonight Mr. Wallace?”
“No sir, well. I had a glass of wine with dinner but that’s all.”
The NYPD officer smelled like aftershave. His accent sounded like he was from Queens and he looked tired like he was near the end of what had been a long shift. Jordan toes were clenched so tightly inside his boots that they would be blistered in the morning. With every ounce of his willpower, Jordan fought the urge to whip out the Jericho and empty it into the officer’s chest and then drive away at the speed of sound.
“Any reason in particular why ya in such a hurry?”
“Just trying to get home is all, it’s been a long day.”
Jordan did his best to sound nonchalant, blue collar, like someone he imagined that the officer could relate too. Whatever you do just please don’t ask me to get out of the car. Please don’t ask me to get out of the car. Please don’t ask me to get out of the car. For a while this phrase repeated itself in his head, as urgent as any plea he made to God in a foxhole while in the green berets. If he had to shoot this cop to escape something as stupid as a speeding ticket so that he could go out into the world and shoot more people his conscience would never let him hear the end of it.