Overkill

by Dylan Rust

  “But…”

  “No buts,” he said. “We’ll do what we have to do.”

  “I should tell the assistant director,” she said. “We can rescue those women the legal way.”

  “Not until I get my sister,” Jack said. “If Igor feels threatened. He’ll kill her. Stay away from the bureau until I save her. Promise me that.”

  “You think she is still alive?”

  “As long as I am alive,” Jack said. “She’ll be alive.”

  Claire nodded.

  “For the time being, we will have to do this ourselves,” he said. “Once I get my sister out of there, you can tell your assistant director, you can perform the raid on the club and the chuch and you can save those women. But not until I save my sister. Understand?”

  “But are you going to hurt Lyle?”

  Jack didn’t answer. He kept reading Lyle’s file.

  “Is this why you left the NYPD? Is this why you handed in your badge? There’s a line between right and wrong, Jack. When you cross it, there’s no going back.”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “You don’t know anything about me. I handed in my badge because I was forced to. You don’t know the whole story.”

  He got up from the computer. He needed some sleep. And he didn’t want to answer questions about his past. He walked to the door.

  Claire stopped him. She grabbed his arm.

  “You can’t break the law. If you do, you’ll be no better than them.”

  “I’ll do what I have to do.”

  “Jack!”

  They stared at each other.

  “Did you warn the other agents you work with about the man who tried to kill you?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you heard from any of them?”

  “No,” she said. “Tom is probably on his eighth beer, Vasiliev is in the hospital, Clarkson and Wright are packing up the warehouse, and the assistant director, Clarence Edward, he doesn’t respond to any of my texts.”

  “They’re in danger,” Jack said. “You should call them.”

  He pulled away from Claire. She grabbed hold of him again. She pulled him close. She didn’t want him to leave.

  “Stay with me,” she said. “I’m scared.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “Please.”

  She placed her head in his chest. She put her arms around him. “I need you.”

  Jack thought about pushing her away, but he couldn’t. He held on to her. He sniffed her hair. He lifted up her chin. She was beautiful, young, and compelled to the do the right thing. She was the only person in the city he knew he could trust.

  She opened her eyes.

  He kissed her.

  His lips were moist and tender. She wanted him. She needed him. She pulled him onto her bed.

  The two of them fell on it. Jack unbuttoned her blouse and pulled down her skirt. He moved his hands along the insides of her legs. She slowly spread them open.

  He pulled her panties down and unzipped his jeans.

  Her heart pounded. It felt wrong. But she couldn’t resist.

  “Jack,” she said. “Promise me you won’t go too far. Promise me you’ll do the right thing.”

  He licked her neck. She tasted good.

  “Promise me,” she said.

  He looked her in the eye.

  Seconds passed.

  “I’ll do the right thing,” he said. “I promise.”

  She closed her eyes and gave herself to him. She needed the release. She wanted to feel safe. As long as she was in his arms, she would.

  38

  Aleksander took a long drag of his cigarette and threw it onto the cobble stone. He was at the warehouse where the FBI agents had set up shop. The lights were on inside.

  It was raining and cold.

  He looked at his watch. They should be done. The shooting had stopped minutes ago.

  He was growing impatient.

  His shoes were covered in salt, slush, and grime.

  He hated this city. He wanted to be back in Moscow, where the winters were more predictable and the vodka was better. This mix of rain, snow and sleet for four months out of the year was tough to take. Especially when you didn’t have any good vodka.

  His phone buzzed. It was Igor.

  “Privet,” he said.

  “Are they dead?”

  “I think so.”

  “What do you mean you think so?”

  “The men are inside. The shootings done.”

  “Call me when you’ve confirmed everything. Take a snap shot of the bodies with your phone.”

  “Understood. Oh… and, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your going to want to see this?”

  Aleksander took his phone and snapped a photo of the 1969 Ford Mustang parked outside the warehouse. He sent the photo to Igor.

  “Bring me that car. I want it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Aleksander hung up.

  “Fuck me,” he said to himself.

  He needed these two assholes dead. If his men had failed, then his head would be next. Igor was sounding more and more like his father each day.

  The door opened.

  The men walked out. They were covered in blood.

  “It’s done.”

  “You got them both?”

  “Yes.”

  Aleksander walked into the warehouse.

  The two federal agents were alive.

  They were breathing.

  They were unconscious.

  “You know, this was a lot harder to do than usual. Why can’t we just kill them?”

  “Because we need to kill them with a specific gun.”

  Aleksander called Igor.

  He told them that two of the federal agents in the warehouse were captured. He mentioned that he hadn’t heard from Aslan, Vladdy or Gorchev yet. They were tracking the two federal agents who’d left the warehouse in the morning. He also said that Sasha said she was just outside the hospital, where the injured federal agent was said to be.

  He hung up.

  Aleksander turned to the men.

  “Igor is pleased with your work.” He handed the men Jack’s GLOCK 17. “Shoot them both in the head with this.”

  One of the men took the gun and walked up to both agents. Agents Matti Clarkson and Dobson Wright were dead. He shot them both in their temples.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  Blood oozed out of each hole.

  Aleksander smirked.

  Two problems were solved. Only three were left. Aslan, Vladdy and Gorchev were going to call him once the the other agents were captured. Sasha was taking care of the body in the hospital. She was going to make it look like an accident. Igor’s plan was going to work.

  Aleksander walked up to the car.

  The door was locked.

  He smashed the window.

  He got inside and hot wired it.

  He drove the car to Igor’s garage in The Bronx. He’d have the plates changed there.

  39

  Tom stumbled along the streets to his apartment.

  He lived four blocks from the Dillinger.

  He knew the route well. He’d drunkenly made this voyage many times.

  It was busier than usual. People crossed the street when they saw him. His right shoulder slung up and down when he walked. It kinda made him look like a walking zombie.

  He didn’t realize, of course.

  He was six shots and seven beers deep. He was pissed drunk and trying to come up for air.

  He lifted his collar up and zipped up his jacket.

  It took him more than a couple minutes to accomplish this. In the process he’d dropped his last packet of gum.

  After Claire left the bar, he felt sorry for himself.

  He thought the drink would help ease the pain. It didn’t. It just made him feel worse.

  He was one block away from home.

  T
he snow stopped and the moon appeared.

  Its glow shone over the tops of the towers that jutted up into the heavens. Their harsh lines were drawn in the milky white of its light. Tom looked at the moon’s face, the pockets and craters that made up its celestial surface. It looked like a screaming skull.

  He needed to get home.

  He picked up his pace.

  He stumbled into two people. A young couple, as drunk as he was. The young man tried to impress his girl and cursed at Tom. Tom ignored him and kept moving.

  He wanted to take a cold shower.

  He wanted to throw up.

  He could see his building.

  He couldn’t hold it in.

  He ran down an alley.

  The sickness inside needed release.

  The alley was between an antique furniture store and a pawn shop. He stumbled behind a dumpster and got on his knees and gagged. A waterfall of bile, booze and chewed up chicken wings and burgers splashed down onto the snow, grime and concrete. He continued to vomit until the world had stopped spinning.

  He sat down and caught his breath.

  His jeans were covered in his filth.

  “You see where he went?”

  Tom looked up. Who was that? He got to his knees and hid behind the dumpster. The voice sounded Russian.

  “Down here, I think?’

  At the entrance of the alley two men appeared. They were each holding guns. They looked like men from The Dacha House. Tom rubbed his eyes, grabbed his gun, and waited. He almost fell over in the process. He was still very drunk.

  “He’s quick for a drunken piece of shit.”

  “Yeah, he’ll die quicker.”

  “He’s probably passed out behind one of these trash cans.”

  One of the men kicked three trash cans over. Rats, racoons, and pigeons scurried in every which direction.

  “Run little bitches, run.”

  “Oy, do you smell that?”

  “Smells like somebody shit themselves.”

  The two men laughed. They were close. Ten feet, maybe five.

  Tom shook his head. He knew what they were smelling. It was him. He had to think quick. He laid on the ground and closed his eyes.

  He’d play dead.

  The two men walked around the dumpster. They spotted him.

  Tom was lying on the ground, face first. His eyes were closed. His face rested in a pool of melted snow and vomit. He did his best not to throw up again.

  “Fucking Americans,” one of the men said. “Can’t hold their fucking liquor.”

  “We need to kill him?”

  “No, no. We are going to bag him. We need him to bring him to Aleksander. He’s going to shoot them with the gun.”

  “Let’s get it over with. It’s quiet. He’s drunk.”

  “I’ll hit him the back of the head.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay.”

  One of the men turned Tom’s body over.

  “This guy is flabby for an agent.”

  “Too many donuts?”

  “Too many everything.”

  They both laughed.

  The man who flipped Tom over pulled out his gun. He pulled it back.

  Tom’s hand was in his pocket.

  He was drunk.

  He was loose.

  Normally, he would’ve been terrified, scared stiff but the booze helped.

  He pulled out his gun and fired.

  Pop. Pop.

  He missed.

  But the missed shots worked in his favor.

  Both the men jumped. They had been caught off guard. They needed a couple seconds to realize that they weren’t dead. That the man they’d been sent to grab had missed and was a terrible shot.

  A thick string of vomit, mixed with black, crusted rat shit hung off of Tom’s face. He stared at both men. His heart raced. His eyes were blurry.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “Wrong move,” the man standing above him said. He was wearing dark glasses. He reached for his gun.

  Pop.

  Tom fired again.

  This time he didn’t miss.

  The man in dark glasses fell backward, a spatter of blood painted across the brown brick behind him.

  The other man had pulled his gun out, and fired. He hit Tom in the stomach.

  Tom responded with seven shots.

  He could hear the bullets ricochet off the brick, metal, and concrete around him. He prayed that one of those bullets managed to find their mark.

  Three of them had.

  The man dropped in front of him.

  The adrenaline faded, pain took over. Tom’s stomach bled out onto the concrete.

  He reached for his phone.

  He was trying to dial 911, but he’d missed it. He jammed at the screen with his fingers and and hoped something would dial someone somewhere.

  He leaned back, compressed the wound as much as he could.

  The moon’s screaming skull revealed itself once again.

  He closed his eyes. He was sure he was going to die.

  40

  She’d hadn’t been with a man in a long time.

  She looked at him. His breathing was slow. He didn’t seem bothered by any of the stress. She leaned in and kissed him.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch.

  Her saliva glistened on his bicep.

  Despite the fact that the world seemed to be burning down, he made her feel at peace, at ease.

  But still, she’d not been able to sleep.

  Her pulse raced and her stomach was tied in knots. She’d been going over everything. Igor’s men must’ve been able to track them down because of Tom’s wallet. If they’d found her…

  She flung her head back in her pillow and closed her eyes. She just wanted to stay in the moment, to be with Jack. She didn’t want to think about the investigation or the team.

  Her phone buzzed. It was resting on a bedside table.

  She grabbed it.

  It was Tom.

  She knew it would be trouble. She didn’t want to answer.

  “Pick it up.”

  Jack was awake. His large, blue eyes glowed in the dark of the night. His voice was deep like thunder.

  She answered the phone.

  “What is it?” she said.

  There was no answer.

  “Hello?”

  She heard a groan and some heavy breathing.

  “Tom? Are you okay?”

  Jack grabbed the phone from her. He held it up to his ear.

  “He’s wounded.”

  Claire shot up from the bed. She pulled up her panties and put on her bra.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to save him.”

  “It sounds like he’s been shot,” Jack said. “You can tell by the way the air is exhaling from his mouth. The sounds of the street make me think he’s in an alley. He doesn’t have long.”

  “I’ve got to try.”

  Jack sat up. He looked at his watch. He’d slept for an hour and a half. That would have to be enough.

  “Are you going to help?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Claire zipped up her pants.

  “What? Why?”

  “He’s your problem, not mine.”

  “Then where are you going? It’s not safe out there.”

  “You know where I’m going. I’m going to Lyle Cunningworth’s.”

  Jack stood up. He stretched and got dressed and put on his jacket.

  “Stay safe,” he said. He walked to the door.

  Claire grabbed him by the arm before he left and kissed it. “Jack…” She stared into his eyes. “Do the right thing. You promised.”

  He pulled her close.

  “I’ll put an end to Igor,” he said. “I’ll do what I have to do.”

  She let him go.

  “Take this,” she said. She walked to her closet and opened a shoebox. “This was my fathers. It’s the only other weapon I carry. It�
�s loaded.”

  She handed Jack the Charter Arms Bulldog.

  He smiled.

  The five-shot double-action revolver packed a hefty punch. He placed the easily concealable weapon in his jacket.

  He winked at her and left.

  She looked at her watch. It was 4:00am.

  She got herself ready as quickly as she could. Her head pounded. She was still hungover. She wanted to throw up, but she pushed.

  She finished getting ready and made her way to the street and hopped into a cab.

  The cab driver was burly, loud, and burped every time he hit the brakes. His breath smelled like bacon and sour cream.

  It took the cab five minutes to get to Tom’s place. She flung a twenty at the driver and jumped out.

  She ran down Tom’s street, checking every alley she passed. She spotted him two alleys away from his apartment. He was lying face first on the ground, one hand on his phone, the other under his stomach. A pool of melted snow and vomit surrounded him.

  “Tom!”

  There were two dead bodies on the ground beside him. They were dressed just like the man who’d attacked her.

  Tom groaned. “Claire,” he gurgled out. “Claire?”

  She knelt down and turned him over.

  “Ow, ow, ow.”

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  She looked at the damage. It wasn’t good, but it was better than it could have been. The bullet hit nothing but guts.

  “It went clean through,” she said. “You’re going to be okay.”

  She pulled out her phone and dialed 911.

  If they got there soon, he’d make it.

  She took off her jacket and placed it over the wound. She held it down.

  “You’re going to make it. Just breathe.”

  Tom screamed.

  “Save your strength,” she said. “If you make it through this, I’ll buy you some gum.”

  He smiled, then grimaced. “You asshole,” he said.

  Claire smiled.

  The sirens of an ambulance echoed throughout the alley.

  They were close.

  41

  The windows were high and wide. The ceilings were thirteen and a half feet from the ground. The penthouse overlooked the whole geometry of Central Park. There was nothing else in the city like it.

  Inside, each room was furnished with unique materials. The entrance gallery had marble floors and parchment panels framed in mahogany. The library was all Brazilian rosewood. The dining room had a Venetian stucco ceiling. The bed was made from Jaguar-green lacquer and bamboo.