by Dylan Rust
“What the fuck is going on?” one of the doctor’s said. He poked his head out of the closet when Claire entered..
“A shooter,” Claire said. “Stay down.”
She looked out the room’s window and found her way out.
There was a ledge outside that hung over a fire escape. She’d be able to climb down from there.
“Can one of you help me open this?”
The doctors didn’t respond. They were back in the closet.
“I can,” the patient said.
He got up from his bed. He still had an IV in his arm. He pulled the IV and its unit with him to the window. His skin was white, his muscles were weak. He wore a band around his arm that had his name. Fred Glover.
“You can’t,” Claire said. “You’re sick.”
“Nonsense,” Fred said. “I don’t have long to live and it looks like you need my help.”
“Thank you,” she said. “We have to be quick. He’s close.”
“The shooter?”
“Yes. He’s a cop,” Claire said. “A crooked cop.”
“I was a cop,” Fred said. “Years ago. For every crooked cop, there are four good ones.”
“Don’t worry,” Claire said. “I know.” She flashed her badge. “I’m FBI.”
Fred laughed. “When I was on the force, I hated the feds more than crooked cops. Now look at me.”
“So you won’t help me.”
“I’m not a monster,” he said. He smiled. “Plus, I’ve learned a few things. I’ve made mistakes.”
The two lifted up the hospital window just wide enough for Claire to squeeze through. Once she was outside, she turned around. “Thank you,” she said.
“Just keep running,” Fred said. “I’ll stop him for as long as I can.”
Claire made her way down the fire escape.
The door to the room open. The two doctors inside screamed.
“Where is she?” Gimley said.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He saw the opened window. As he approached, the patient inside closed it.
“You’re going to regret that,” Gimley said.
“I regret a lot of things,” Fred said.
Gimley shot Fred in the belly.
The crackle from the Desert Eagle sounded like thunder.
The patient fell to the ground.
Claire heard the shot as she stepped foot onto the final level of the fire escape.
The window exploded open.
Gimley stuck his head out.
“You stupid bitch!”
He fired three shots.
Bullets rang off the iron railing of the escape.
Claire made her way to the ladder. She needed to dislodge it from its lock and lower it to the ground.
Gimley made his way out the window and onto the escape. He fired two more shots.
The bullets sparked on the railing..
There was no time to dislodge the ladder. It was a fifteen foot drop. She had to risk it.
She jumped.
Her ankle crumpled as she hit the ground.
She felt a snap.
She stood up and ignored the pain that was pulsing through her body.
She hobbled down the street.
She didn’t go to the police cruisers. She didn’t trust the cops. She didn’t trust anybody.
She ran down an alley.
Gimley gave up his pursuit. He disappeared back into the hospital.
Claire hobbled for three blocks. Her ankle was bleeding. She saw the blood stain her jeans.
She stopped. It finally gave out.
She buckled over and caught her breath.
She didn’t have her phone. Tom still had it. She slammed her fist onto the ground. She wanted to scream, but she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself. She stayed quiet.
She rested for a couple minutes.
She pushed herself up and walked out of the alley.
Back on the street, she saw a television playing the news inside a bar.
She stopped.
A press conference.
Jack was in cityhall. He was being escorted into an ESU van.
The mayor, the commissioner and Igor Grekovitch were on stage. The mayor was fielding questions. She read a news bulletin scrolling across the bottom of the screen. According the mayor and commissioner she was dead.
The assistant director appeared. He gave an interview to a talking head news personality. It looked he was trying to get ahead of the New York Post story about the feds involvement with Jack Spade. Put the fire out before out before it had a chance to spread.
Claire walked into the bar. She wanted to hear what he had to say.
He was speaking to the New York Post writer who’d emailed her.
Clive Hopkins.
“Tell us,” Clive said. “Who was this Agent Osgoode? Was she trustworthy?”
“No,” Clarence said. “I received a call last night from the deceased Agent Osgoode. She said she had been attacked. There is no doubt in my mind that her death was at the hands of the ex-con Jack Spade,” he said. “Furthermore, we are opening an inquiry into Agent Claire Osgoode. Her misguided trust in the ex-con left the bureau vulnerable.”
The air felt knocked out of her lungs. The spineless coward, she thought. Edward was going to pin this all on her.
She left the bar.
She couldn’t go back to the bureau. She was too scared. Igor had everyone convinced. She needed to make sure that her next move was the right one.
49
Located in South Bronx, Hunts Point is one of New York’s most diverse and oldest neighborhoods. Almost half the population lives below the poverty line. And where there is poverty, there is usually crime. Hunts Point’s crime rate per capita is higher than anywhere else in the city. The crime is fuelled by the drug trade and prostitution.
This was why Igor bought the garage in Hunts Point. It was also why is condo was right across the street. He needed a warehouse, a storage facility of sorts, a place to hold what he couldn’t in his club or in the church.
He also needed a place that wouldn’t stand out.
But the garage wasn’t just a cover. Igor liked cars. He had all of his cars modified with security features there.
He hired good mechanics to work on his cars. There job requirements were that they needed to know how to fix an engine and also keep their mouths shut if they saw anything illegal.
Aleksander was standing outside the garage.
He motioned for the black SUV to come into the parking lot.
The SUV parked and its doors opened.
The smell of fresh fish permeated through Tom’s nostrils. He knew where he was before the cops took off the black hood. They pulled him out and took off the hood.
Diego’s Garage sign glowed red with neon light.
Across the street was Hunt’s Point’s one claim to fame; its food distribution center, one of the largest food markets in the world. It was busy. Hundreds of mom and pop grocery store owners were out, buying the freshest produce, meat and fish you could find in the city. You had to be there early if you wanted to get the good stuff. Beyond the food distribution center, the Bronx River and East River converged. Twinkling lights of tankers and Port Authority boats glistened in the morning light.
Tom didn’t see Claire.
He didn’t remember much of what had happened after leaving the hospital.
The cops who had surrounded him confiscated his phone and spoke to the associate director. They had lied.
They told Edward that they’d found the bodies of Tom and Claire outside of their apartments.
They then rolled Tom out of the hospital and put him in the back of the SUV. Igor’s men were inside. Tom they knew they were Igor’s men because of their accents. That’s when they put the hood on him.
There was five of them.
“Privet,” one of the men said to Aleksander.
“Privet. Take him down to the chamber. None of the workers are in yet. It�
�s the perfect time.”
The men nodded. They dragged Tom toward the garage’s entrance.
Every step hurt. The bandage on Tom’s stomach was coming loose. He knew his wound had opened. He could feel the blood. He wanted to pass out.
“Where’s Agent Osgoode?” Tom said. He looked around the lot. Only one SUV.
“Shut up,” one of the men said. “You’re lucky you’re still alive. If it was up to me, you’d be dead already.”
“What are you going to do me? What’s going on?”
The men laughed, spoke a few things in Russian. One of them turned to Tom. “What do you think we’re going to do to you?”
“Where’s Claire!” Tom said. “Tell me or… or I’ll.. Ow!”
One of Igor’s men punched Tom in the stomach, right where he’d been shot. He collapsed into the fetal position. He couldn’t breathe. He thought he was going to die.
“Enough with the questions.”
Two of the men picked Tom up by his arms and brought him inside the garage. His feet dragged along the concrete. His vision was blurry.
Inside, one of Igor’s men hit the lights.
The room was spare but there was one notable feature.
Jack’s car.
The 1969 Ford Mustang reflected the glow of the dim light. It’s plates had been removed, along with its rims. Along the walls were tires and other equipment used to repair or modify cars.
There was a doorway at opposite end of the garage.
Aleksander unlocked and opened it.
Tom was forced to walk through. He sobbed. He walked down the staircase to the basement.
At the bottom was another door. Aleksander entered a keycode. The door dinged and opened.
While the upper level looked like a garage, this lower level looked like a butcher’s shop. Saws, and knives stained with blood were hung along the wall.
Tom walked into the room. There were cages on the ground.
The cages were no bigger than ones you’d buy for a big dog. They were all empty.
One of the men opened up a cage. They pointed inside. Tom knew what that meant.
“You won’t get away with this,” Tom said. “You won’t…”
The men laughed. One of them pushed Tom inside.
He fell. His ribs hit the metal floor of the cage. He tried to push himself up, but couldn’t. The pain was just too much.
Aleksander and the men left. They turned off the lights in the basement.
50
Igor had saved it for a special moment. He held up the unopened Russo-Baltique Vodka. It glistened in the light. He admired the gold finish of the bottle, the silver star encrusted on the front, and the two headed bird used as a bottle cap.
This was a drink an eagle deserved.
He opened it and poured himself a glass. He sat down.
He closed his eyes.
He felt relaxed.
Victory at last.
Aleksander walked into his office.
“I just opened a very expensive bottle. If you want a glass, you’d better deserve it,” Igor said.
Aleksander sat down in the chair across from Igor’s desk. He took a moment to collect himself. He decided to start with the good news.
“Jack is on his way to Rikers Island Prison,” he said. “We’ve got confirmation from the warden. He’ll be checked in within the hour. He’s taken care of. Your press conference with the mayor was a brilliant touch.”
“Thank you,” Igor said. He shot back the glass of vodka. He poured himself another. “The mayor assured me that things would go smoothly, as did the commissioner of the police. I can’t wait to have fun with the fool.”
“Fun?”
“Yes. I want to send Jack a message. I want to send a message to every motherfucker in this city who thinks they have a shot at bringing me down.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to cut a piece off of his sister every week until she is dead. I’m going to send Jack the pieces in little brown envelopes. The warden assured me he’d deliver them. Once that is done, I’ll have the warden kill him. Word should spread quick.”
Aleksander nodded.
“What are the status of the federal agents?” Igor asked. “I haven’t heard from Sasha since last night.”
Aleksander looked at the bottle of vodka on Igor’s desk. He wanted a drink. He wanted to be drunk. As soon as he told Igor what had happened, he knew there would be trouble.
He let the silence hang in the air.
“What of the federal agents?” Igor asked. His demeanour changed. He was no longer jovial. “Where is Sasha?”
Aleksander looked Igor in the eyes.
“Sasha is dead,” he said.
Igor’s hand tightened on the empty glass he was holding.
“And one of the federal agents escaped.”
Igor broke the glass.
His hand bled.
He threw what was left of the cup at Aleksander.
Aleksander ducked out of the way of the glass and continued: “Sasha killed one of them. The one who was already in the hospital, but we believe Agent Osgoode, the girl, killed her during a shootout in the morgue.”
“Fucking fuck,” Igor said. “That cunt. I’ll rip the flesh off her bones. Bring her to me. I want to personally gouge the eyeballs from her sockets. I want to drink her blood. Once you find her bring her to my penthouse. Bring her to the room.”
“Yes, sir,” Aleksander said.
“Is the other agent dead? Agent Tom? The idiot?”
“No,” Aleksander said.
“What!?” Igor screamed.
“I kept him alive.”
“Why?”
“My men did some digging. His father is wealthy and is a prosecutor in Los Angeles. I’m sure we can arrange something for Tom’s safe return.”
Igor rubbed his chin. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes,” Aleksander said. “I am sure.”
“Good. Good decision.” Igor rubbed his brow. “How did the clean up in the hospital go? Were the NYPD easy to work with?”
“No one in the hospital suspected a thing. The NYPD in our pockets removed the bodies before they could be discovered.”
“Good,” Igor said. “If our only problem is one little girl on the run, we should be fine. The mayor and commissioner invited me to attend the funeral for that cop I killed.”
“Are you going to attend?”
“Of course,” Igor said. “The more I’m in the lime light, the harder I will be to take down.”
“That’s brilliant, sir.”
“But this all hinges on us getting rid of the girl. If she is still on the loose, then she is still a threat. We need her dead. If you fail me, it’ll be your life. This is your last chance, Aleksander. The only reason you are still alive is because you protected me during my father’s funeral.”
Aleksander nodded and left the room.
Igor sat alone.
He wanted to cry.
“Sasha,” he said softly.
He poured himself a drink. He shot it back.
He got up from his desk. He walked to the portrait of his father.
He admired his father’s poise. He instilled fear into millions. His gruff, grey hair and thick moustache were intimidating. His arms, crossed. His legs, stiff. Igor touched the painting.
“I’m sorry, papa.”
He turned away and poured himself another glass of vodka and took a deep breath.
He felt better.
Despite Aleksander’s mistakes and Sasha’s death, it could be worse. The ex-cop was in prison, all the federal agents were confirmed dead save for the one who’d gotten away and the one in his custody. It could have been much worse.
It was almost over.
He needed a pick me up. He needed to feel powerful. He picked up his phone and dialed the madame. He’d bring a new girl up, a young one, and have his way with her for a few days. He’d have her walk around on all fours and p
ut a dog collar on her, make her drink and eat from a dog bowl. He laughed just thinking about it.
He ordered the girl.
The madame assured him she was young. Seventeen. Her name was Mary. They’d brought her in a few weeks ago. She was American.
He snorted a line of coke.
He didn’t want to be stressed.
51
The trip to Rikers was quick.
Jack was in the back of the police van with three heavily armed cops. They strapped him against the wall and had his arms and legs cuffed. The cops were in swat gear; tactical equipment, shotguns, visors.
The van pulled onto Rikers Island Bridge. It was a rainy and dark day. The clouds were thick and a distant thunder echoed.
The van passed the Bowery Bay Wastewater Treatment Plant and LaGuardia, the last vestiges of human civilization.
No planes were in the sky on account of the in-climate weather. It was eerie to see the sky so empty.
“You boys must be feeling hot in all that gear,” Jack said.
“Shut up.”
Jack smiled.
They were just doing their job. They were just cogs in a machine that was meant to maintain the status quo. They didn’t know that the men pushing the buttons and pulling the levers were broken. Jack could tell they weren’t crooked. They hadn’t punched his face in. They respected the rule of law. They were good cops.
After the showcase in city hall, Jack had been held up in a holding cell in NYPD Central Booking. He stayed in the cell for three days.
He’d been living off of cold rotten ham and mash potatoes that tasted like wet cement in his mouth. He relished the food, though. He knew it would be worse in Rikers.
As they crossed the bridge, Jack knew they were getting close to the prison. He could smell it.
Rikers island, home of the unwanted. It always had been. In the 1880s it was wear pigs were raised to be slaughtered. After that, it was used as a partial landfill, full of horse manure and trash. But they had to stop that, as the smell from the island attracted a large rat population. The city tried to contain the rat population by releasing wild dogs, but instead of quelling outbreak, the dogs just killed the pigs and ignored the rats.
The only way the city could take of the rat problem was poison gas.