by Jared Paul
After he checked the Walther’s chamber and confirmed it had ammunition, Jordan got up and surveyed the devastation. The surveillance building was engulfed in flames, belching smoke and collapsing inward on itself already. Six of the security personnel were nowhere to be seen except in bits and pieces here and there. The last one was on fire and running across the lawn screaming. Jordan squirmed at the sound and ended it with a quick shot from the Walther. In the service they called this an act of mercy. Although Jordan sincerely doubted that the Russians would do the same for him should the situation arise, he felt bound to do so anyway. There was a code that had to be observed on the battlefield. No exceptions.
Honoring the code was one thing when it was a faceless security guard who had never done him any harm and was in the wrong place at the wrong time. As Jordan plodded through the small forest away from the fire, he found himself wondering what the great noble warrior Jordan Ross would do when it came Shirokov’s turn. Shirokov was going to be hard.
A handful of men came out of the gothic mansion and stormed down the hill towards the burning building. They fanned out and started searching the area. Jordan did not want to give away his position so he freed the .45 from its holster and screwed in the silencer. He hid behind one of the thicker pines and waited. When he heard steps rustling through the leaves, Jordan wheeled around and shot but missed. The guard ducked for cover and fired back, hitting the tree. He yelled for his companions.
“Over here! He’s pinned in over here!”
Jordan stood with his back straight up against the trunk of the tree. He waited. When he heard the crunch of the security guard’s boots coming out from behind their cover he spun around to the other side of the tree and fired three times. The guard went down in a heap.
Several bullets whistled past Jordan’s ear and he darted away like mad, zigging and zagging between the trees. He shot the .45 at the charging guards until it clicked empty. Jordan let it fall and grabbed for his twin .38s. Jordan was running too fast to watch his footfalls carefully and he stepped right into a groundhog’s burrow. His ankle rolled over and Jordan tumbled and fell immediately. Limping, he just barely made it to the cover of a wide oak before a burst of .267s would have cut him in half.
It was the same foot he hurt jumping from the motel balcony like an idiot. It hadn’t fully recovered. This felt like a sprain, but it could have been broken just as easy. Jordan figured correctly that he did not have time to remove his boot and socks to check and see. He moaned audibly. The tree trunk was getting chipped away by the incessant stream of gunfire.
One of the security guards called to his partners.
“I think I might have got him!”
Jordan wondered just how much Shirokov had invested in this security army of his. The fact that he had contracted it out to a private company rather than rely on his usual thugs said something. Maybe he didn’t trust the Russians.
There was precious little time and no options left except for desperate, lunatic measures. He had to bank on the profile of a private security contractor. During his time in Iraq Jordan had worked with them extensively. Some of them were fine soldiers, reliable. More than a few were wild cowboys with no official training outside of the shooting range. Shirokov would not employ men like that. He would only pick contractors that prided themselves on being professionals. But experience had taught Jordan that the downside of using professionals is that they expected their enemies to behave like professionals as well.
Shannon liked to tell Jordan that the kind of poker player she despised playing most was a first-timer. Getting a read on them was impossible. You couldn’t predict what they were going to do because they didn’t know what the right moves were. Stupid was just plain hard to fight sometimes.
These men were not novices. They had seen him in combat and knew he had some ability. They would never think he would try something so stupid. It was so stupid in fact that it just might work.
“Ahhhhhhh! Oh God!”
Jordan screamed like he’d taken a bullet to the kneecap.
“I definitely got him.” The voice declared then issued an order, “throw down your weapon and come out with your hands behind your head.”
“Alright. Alright I’m coming.”
He took the .22 from his ankle holster and threw it out to them from behind the tree. Jordan heard one of the guards come and take the weapon away.
“Now come out, very slowly, with your hands behind your head!”
This kind of thing only worked in the movies. Even if it did work perfect Jordan was sure he would take a bullet or two. But he had an advantage. Unlike the Russians, these guards worked for a corporation and thus had protocols to follow. When neutralizing an intruder, they would be instructed to aim for the thickest part of the target. Head shots would look bad to stockholders. Jordan double-checked that his Kevlar vest was firmly in place. He limped out into the clearing, hands on his head but at an angle so that his neck and shoulders were obscuring the .38s from view. All of those dumbbell presses had not gone to waste.
Two of the three guards came forward. The third one kept back several paces, aiming what looked like a Mack 10 at him. Jordan almost whimpered. This was going to hurt. One of them told Jordan to get on his knees and he did. Far on the other side of the estate the remnants of the security building flared up and blew up. A gas main must have been hit. It was the best chance he was going to get.
One of the approaching guards flinched at the explosion, but the other two kept a steady aim. Jordan whipped the .38s out from behind his head and fired. He landed head shots on both of the guards who were closing in before a series of bullets struck him in the chest and sent him flying back. Jordan gasped for air and returned fire, killing the last guard.
For a moment Jordan lie on his back trying to breathe. The clouds above were evaporating in the early evening air. Grim grays were giving way to solemn hues of blue and purple. Scattered rain drops fell here and there, some of them washing away the streaks of mud on Jordan’s face. One of the guards had clipped his left arm, and it would be of no further use, but it was only a flesh wound. The bullets that struck him square in the middle of the vest would leave nasty bruises. Jordan guessed that for a few weeks they would be the same color as the sky, and then turn chartreuse and yellow before healing, but he would live.
Jordan tried unsuccessfully to sit up a couple of times. He only had a few minutes before Bollier and the police arrived, so he resorted to his trusty motivational mantra.
“Come on Corporal. Get up. Mommy said fuck sticks.”
…
At the top of the driveway a Lincoln Continental was waiting, its trunk thrown open. Several gym bags were clumsily packed into the trunk, half zipped up. Beach towels and colorful tropical shirts were hanging out of some of them. It looked like someone was packing up for an extended vacation in the Caribbean.
The front door was unlocked and opened into a long hallway. Just inside Jordan found a pair of leather suitcases. A series of canvasses were leaning up against the wall next to them. The paintings were set in different times and places; Renaissance Florence, Revolutionary Paris, Victorian London. All of them had a pair of phoenixes flying together burning up in the air over the cities. Jordan thumbed through them until he heard a thud from the adjacent room.
Vladimir Shirokov came bustling in, carrying a pair of big canvasses under either arm. When he saw Jordan Ross he looked glad to see him.
“Ack! Excellent. I was just going to come out and ask. Could you help me with carrying these to my car? I know it is not in your usual job description but I will tip you.”
Shirokov set the paintings down and took out a twenty dollar bill and gave it to Jordan.
“You don’t know who I am do you?”
Not paying attention, Shirokov was busy trying to stack the paintings in a way so that he could carry them all at once.
“What? Are you the new guy?”
Jordan glanced down and realized he was
wearing the same black pajama outfit that the security personnel. Even still, it was impossible that Shirokov had not heard the grenade detonating or the ensuing gun battle. Shirokov was muttering in Russian, French and English. His movements were quick and nervous and he seemed completely preoccupied inside his own mind and couldn’t be troubled with any external stimuli.
“No. I’m the guy that killed your guys.”
“You don’t work for the company?”
Shirokov was slowly coming around. This stranger in his front hall was somehow out of place. Shirokov’s eyes dropped to the .38 and then rose to meet the stranger’s gaze. He stared at Jordan Ross. Jordan Ross stared back.
“I know you from somewhere. Your face is familiar.”
“We’ve never met before.”
“Are you sure? I could swear that I know you from somewhere.”
“You know me from hell. I’ve come to take you back.”
Shirokov was either the most authentic cold-hearted bad ass on the face of the planet or he was certifiably insane. He waved a hand at the muddy stranger brandishing a gun at him like he was a buzzing flea.
“Ack. If you were going to kill me you would have already. I have plane to catch. If you’ll excuse me.”
The Russian boss gathered up the paintings again and moved to go but Jordan blocked his path. No, it was not insanity or ruthlessness. Shirokov was putting on a brave face, but he was unmistakably terrified, and not of Jordan. Someone or something had put such a dread in him that he had barely taken notice of the warzone on his front lawn.
Bollier’s words came back to Jordan.
Someone much higher up is pulling the strings that’s a thousand times more dangerous. Listen! The scope of this thing is so much bigger than we thought.
Shirokov tried again to get around Jordan but he would not let him pass.
“Whoever you are, you are being very rude. Either shoot me or let me go.”
In his mind’s eye Jordan saw Sarah in the station wagon, reaching up with her arm to shield herself from the oncoming SUV. Jordan cocked the .38.
“I can’t let you go.”
Jordan aimed and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Thirteen
At his arraignment Vladimir Shirokov came in on crutches, wearing a walking boot.
Minutes before the police arrived to detain him, an anonymous assailant broke onto his property, killed a dozen security guards, and shot Shirokov in the foot. When the FBI questioned him about the incident Shirokov said nothing. The same went for their inquiries about his connections to the drug bust on Riis Landing, a prostitution racket spanning six states, a dozen murders, and a sprawling gambling empire spanning two continents. Shirokov made no statements. He gave them nothing.
The state-appointed attorney entered a plea of not guilty for his client. Due to the extraordinary nature of Shirokov’s criminal activities, and the high probability of flight risk, the state of New York asked the judge to set Shirokov’s bail at a prohibitive level. The judge agreed and made it three million dollars.
…
Special Agent Clemons was kept in a medically induced coma for several weeks after the wound he suffered during the FBI sting. The doctors assured detective Bollier that this was a precautionary measure and that he would be fine. She visited dutifully every day, straightening the get-well cards and freshening up the flowers that other well-wishers left in his room.
As much as she was concerned for his health there was another reason she checked in each day first thing when visiting hours opened. Agent Clemons had access to files and funds that she did not and would be instrumental for the state’s case against Shirokov. They were safely tucked away in the jungle of paperwork in Clemons’ office, but Bollier had grown paranoid. The FBI building was supposed to be completely secure but that hadn’t stopped the Russians from abducting her there. Shirokov clearly had powerful connections. What was to stop them from breaking in and stealing the case files?
More than anything, Bollier wanted to be the first person that Clemons spoke to when he woke up. On a brisk morning in April the doctors deemed that he had fully recovered and brought him out of the coma. When he came too, someone was squeezing Agent Clemons’ hand. His eyelids fluttered open and he saw Leslie Bollier looming over the side of his bed. It took some effort to speak but he made due.
“How… how long was I out?”
Immediately she brightened up and clutched his hand in hers.
“Oh thank God. You were in a coma for about a month. I was so worried. Do you remember what happened?”
“Russian asshole shot me. I didn’t notice until the fight was over. How did we do?”
“Better than you could have possibly hoped for, the DEA found the heroin in the hull of the ship. Something like 800 million dollars’ worth. We killed seven of them and arrested 22 more.”
Agent Clemons managed a weak smile.
“That’s great Les. Any of them flip?”
Bollier wasn’t sure how much excitement she should subject him to but felt it was necessary.
“Yes. Thanks to our… mutual friend… we got one of them to talk.”
“Fantastic. Where is he now?”
“Who? Jordan?”
Agent Clemons tried to nod his head but the motion made him nauseas. He whispered a yes.
“He’s holed up in his condo.” “Jordan got to Shirokov’s compound and made sure he couldn’t get away. Got there just ahead of the SWAT team.”
“How’d he get to him?”
“That’s another problem. He had to uh… work his way through a bunch of security guards in order to get access to Shirokov’s house.”
“How many of them?”
“Eleven.”
The number made Agent Clemons wince. Not for the first time he wondered if unleashing the lethal weapon that was Jordan Ross on the Russians was worth all of the blood it was going to cost in the long run.
“My precinct assigned a pair of detectives to work the case. I’m sure that he was careful and didn’t leave any evidence that could get back to him, but you never know.”
“Right. So that’s it? We won?”
Bollier bit her lip.
“Well. With Shirokov it certainly appears so. He’s going to be tried this summer for a full volume of felonies. But it’s bigger than him now. Jordan said he had a car packed for a long trip. It looks like somebody tipped him off we were coming.”
“So what happens now?”
“The whole case pretty much hinges on Uri Grigoryev’s testimony. We’re keeping him under lock and key, but I don’t know. Nothing feels safe anymore. Those pictures that you showed me have me questioning everything and everyone. There’s too many coincidences. Too many holes. Detective Castillo has been missing long enough to presume he’s dead. What if Shirokov had a hand in it? It seems like he’s not afraid to bump off anybody. Plus yesterday afternoon he got out on bail.”
“How much?”
“Three million.”
Had he been able to Agent Clemons would have whistled in astonishment.
“It’s not so much the fact that Shirokov has that kind of money to throw around that scares me, but that he’s willing to spend it so openly. He has to know that’s going to come up in court but he did it anyway. I don’t like it. That kind of brazenness tells me that he’s got some trump card to play. Someone could be protecting him. Grigoryev says that there’s some kind of mastermind pulling the strings from overseas, someone that Shirokov alone speaks to, and only over the phone. Supposedly even he doesn’t know the guy’s name. Maybe after we convict Shirokov he’ll be willing to talk.”
“Maybe. Let’s take it one super-villain at a time, detective.”
“I guess. Listen. I wish I could say I come here just to catch up and see how you’re doing. But I wanted to talk about the stuff in your office; the corruption evidence, the state senator, the dirty cops, all of it.”
“What about it?”
“Is it safe? I mean I k
now it’s a federal building and everything but look what happened to me.”
Agent Clemons thought about it for a second before answering.
“It’s safe.”
“How can you be sure? With what Grigoryev has been telling me who knows how deep it goes.”
Agent Clemons calmly repeated itself.
“Trust me, Les. It’s perfectly safe where it is.”
Although detective Bollier still had her doubts she let it drop. She trusted Kyle’s judgment.
…
When his bodyguard Vitaly Krupin came to pick him up from Sing Sing, Vladimir Shirokov commanded him to drive straight home to his gothic German mansion. He told Vitaly to wait in the Lincoln Continental and he hobbled inside on the crutches, shedding his clothes. Even with his handicap he was naked by the time he reached the second floor landing. Shirokov wrapped his cast in a plastic bag and ran a hot shower. For almost thirty minutes he soaked himself over and over.
He had only spent a week in Sing Sing before he produced the funds to make bail but it had been vile all the same. Shirokov scrubbed his entire body several times over, trying to wash the smell of jail off that he was convinced had seeped into his pores. He took extra attention to wash the skin beneath his tattoos. Shirokov had seven-pointed stars on his knees, elbows and hands, a rose in the center of his chest, and an elaborate burning red phoenix on each arm that were his own design. Shirokov despised many things about Sing Sing but nothing quite so much as the hideous body art of its inhabitants. The Neo-Nazis were the worst of them. Horrid swastikas, barbed wires, ship anchors. He was a tattoo artist himself and would have been ashamed to create such atrocities, let alone sport them on his skin. They were of such a poor quality that Shirokov somehow felt that merely by approximation his own tattoos had somehow been sullied.
The first day in the yard one of the skinheads caught him curling his lip up at a cross tattoo on his wrist and called him a dirty Jew. In the brief scuffle that followed Shirokov broke the man’s pelvis and jaw using the crutches. Had Shirokov stayed much longer the Nazis would have become a problem. But he was free. In the grand scheme of things three million dollars was a small price to pay for freedom.