by Dylan Rust
“Emma Spade.”
The man looked at Jack. He was confused. “You don’t look like an Emma.”
“Pull out the card,” Jack said. “Rodriguez, your boss, wrote a message on it.”
The man didn’t want to argue with Jack. He didn’t want to work. He pulled out Emma’s card. He read it.
Emma Spade. The man paid twenty years worth of storage. Let him in. His name is Jack. Don’t ask any questions.
The man hit the button under his desk.
The gate opened.
Jack walked into the storage facility. The man inside the booth put his hand back down his pants.
A dog ran up to him. A german shephard. Rufus.
He was nothing to be scared of.
Jack bent down and scratched the dog’s neck. He knew where he liked it.
“How are you doing, old boy?”
The dog slobbered and licked Jack’s fingers. Jack hadn’t been there in years, but Rufus remembered. Poor thing was all bark and and no bite. He patted Rufus on the head and walked through the maze of storage containers. Each one locked with a steel padlock attached the handles.
Jack hadn’t been to the facility in years.
He didn’t he think he would ever come back.
He wasn’t sure he would need what was inside.
His storage container was as he had left it.
His stuff was inside a large orange bin.
He picked up the padlock and examined it. Years of being exposed to the elements had rusted the keyhole ever so slightly. He jammed the key in, carefully. He didn’t want to break it.
The padlock clicked open. Jack opened the storage container doors and entered.
A light inside flickered on.
There was a small table at the back of the locker, a tack board set up just above it, and cardboard boxes full of ammo underneath. Four hard cases were on the ground along the wall of the locker. Each case was locked shut by a combination lock.
Jack grabbed one of the cases and placed it on the table. He entered the combination and opened it. They still looked like new. The Two Wilson Combat X-TAC Elite Compacts shined. Jack picked them up and loaded their cartridges with the .45s.
He picked up the second hard case. He placed it on the table and opened it up. The Mossberg 500 belonged to his uncle. He picked it up and examined the shotgun.
How many innocent men had it killed?
His mother had found it stored in the attic of their old house years after her Tony had died. Jack was in his late teens when she made the discovery. She told Jack to hand it over to the police, but he didn’t. He hid it. A family heirloom, he thought. It felt more like a curse.
Something to keep around.
It reminded him of where he had come from.
He loaded the 500 and stuffed fifteen shells in his pocket.
This family heirloom, his family’s curse, was going to be put to some good use.
The innocent blood of those it had killed would be washed away with the blood of evil men.
There was a musicians violin case that had been repurposed to hold a shotgun under the table. His uncle had used it for his hits. Jack put the shotgun in the case.
He then unhooked the ultra-lightweight Pro Tac Bullet Resistant vest. He strapped it on. He had never worn it. The ballistic panels inside the vest were new. It protected Jack from the side and was rated to stop most hand gun rounds. He’d be able to take 44 Magnum slug to the chest.
After that, he grabbed his dual holster from the workbench and put it on. He put the two 1911 style pistols into the slots on the holster.
There was a leather showbox on the wall in the room. Inside was four thousand dollars in unmarked bills. He stuffed the money in his pocket.
Finally, he put on his leather jacket and his ball cap and grabbed the burner phone he kept for emergencies in the locker.
He slid on some aviators he had on the table and left the locker with the violin case in his hand.
He was ready.
67
The commissioner called him first.
He informed him that Jack had escaped and that the warden was dead.
The conversation was short.
Igor didn’t have a lot to say.
The commissioner and the warden and Aleksander had all let him down.
He hung up.
He screamed.
His blood boiled. He grabbed a knife and slashed at the walls inside his penthouse. He tore his cushions to bits and went for every vase, painting and expensive item he could find and left them shredded or broken.
He grabbed a bottle of vodka and took a gulp.
He wanted catharsis.
He wanted blood.
He picked up his phone.
“Privet,” Alexander said.
“He escaped.”
“I know.”
“And you didn’t call me?”
“I was about to, I…”
“You have failed me for the last time. This asshole wouldn’t be a problem if it was not for you men in the bar. Sasha’s would still be alive if not for the mistake of the man you sent to kill the federal agent. He’s coming for me. I know it. I can feel it. He’s coming for me.“
“I won’t make another mistake,” Aleksander said. “I will find him and I will kill him myself.”
“You’ll do no such thing?” Igor said.
“What?”
“You’re going to go to the club. You’re going to wait for me. He’ll be coming for me. I’ll need your help.”
Igor took another swig of vodka. He wiped his mouth. His apartment was in tatters.
“Won’t it be safer to stay home,” Aleksander said.
“No,” Igor said. “He has my address. He knows where I live. That fucking tool Lyle gave me away.”
“Understood,” Aleksander said.
“When this is over, I want you gone,” Igor said. “Do you know what that means? I don’t want to see you again. You will be banished from the gang.”
Aleksander said nothing. He was quiet. He deserved exile. It could have been worse. “Yes,” he said.
“Good.”
The phone call ended. Igor walked to one of kitchen cupboards, opened it up, and pulled out a bottle of Advil. The bottle said to only take two every four to six hours. He took four. He washed them down with water.
He’d have to leave soon.
He didn’t know how long he had. He knew that Jack would be on his way to his penthouse. That fucking scumbag Lyle. If he’d kept his mouth shut, he would have been alive. But Jack had a way of breaking people. Igor would never admit it, but was jealous. He watched the security tape of Jack’s encounter with Lyle over and over. Jack knew Lyle’s weakness. He went straight for it. Lyle was vain. A blemish or scar on his face would be akin to death. He folded before Jack even pierced his skin.
Igor rubbed his head and walked to his room and grabbed Jack’s GLOCK 17. He’d kill the son of a bitch with his own gun. There were two naked women inside his room. They cooed at him and called him to come back to bed.
“No bitches,” he said. “I’m busy.”
“But Mr. Grekovicth,” one of them said. “You said that you’d be ready in the morning. We’ve been thinking about ways we can help you get it up today. We’ve got some good ones.”
Igor snapped.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
He aimed Jack’s gun and the women.
They screamed and rolled off the bed and hid on the far side, peeking above to see if he was still there.
“We’re sorry,” they said.
“Stay here,” Igor said. “Stay here and wait for him.”
“For who?”
“A man is coming. A very dangerous man. He’s coming to kill me. When he arrives, tell him I will be at the club waiting for him.”
The girls were shaking. They nodded at Igor’s unusual request.
He then walked to the torture room.
He unlocked the door.
She was tied up.
He sighed. He was looking forward to today. He was going to cut off another toe.
She was breathing heavy.
“Your brother is coming for you,” he said.
She didn’t acknowledge his voice.
“I should kill you, but I won’t. I know he’ll come for me. And when he does, I’ll capture him. I’ll keep him alive and I will murder you in front of him.”
He closed the door and locked it.
He walked to his front entrance. Beside the front door was a picture of his family when he was young. He was only six years old in the photo. It was taken ten years before his father’s death. He was sat on his papa’s lap. He was smiling. His mother had his arm around his brother, Artem. His brother was tall, looked like his father, and was smart. Igor’s father glare dominated the photo. The intensity of his eyes. The strength he displayed.
Igor closed his eyes.
He could his father’s voice. He told Igor that he was foolish for not killing Jack when he had the chance. He was foolish for worrying about what the other crime families thought of him. He was foolish for spending more time focusing on perception than reality.
His father’s imaginary criticisms hurt.
But Igor needed it.
He needed to feel belittled.
He let the guilt and anguish wash over him. He left his penthouse. He left the door open. In his pocket, he had the knife he’d used to cut Jack’s sister’s toe off with. It was still stained with her blood. He stabbed the knife in the door. A message for Jack.
Igor left.
He made his way to his fortress in Little Odessa.
If Jack wanted to fuck with him, he’d be ready.
68
Jack held out a hundred. “You didn’t see me,” he said.
The cabbie went to grab the money, but Jack pulled it back.
“Okay,” the cabbie said. “I didn’t see you.” He grabbed the hundred from Jack’s hand.
“You’re name is Jamil Danesh. Your cab is number five-forty-six. If the NYPD hear about me, I’m coming for you. Understand?” He opened his jacket and showed Jamil a gun.
Jamil nervously nodded.
Jack got out of the cab.
The sun was shining and it was warm. He breathed in the humid air. The smells of the newly thawing city hung in his nostril. The warmth felt good on his skin. He felt loose, relaxed. The thaw was coming. It was long overdue.
He was in Hunt’s Point.
There wasn’t much in the neighborhood.
A food distribution plant, Diego’s Garage, and a tall building. It was in the middle of being gentrified. In five years the place would be crawling with yuppies and their designer dogs. Jack preferred its current look.
He liked the bareness, the open fields and post-industrial feel of the landscape, the hain link fences that surrounded empty lots of crackled concrete and nothing more.
He sighed.
Igor’s penthouse was up ahead.
The concrete and mud surrounding the newly built building glistened thanks to the melting snow.
Jack doubted that Igor would be home.
But that’s not why he came there.
His sister was inside.
The penthouse was exactly where Lyle said it was.
The building wasn’t finished. Construction workers carried supplies in and out and the heavy machinery operating outside was loud.
Jack walked up to a truck outside the building that had a decal of a construction company on it. He looked in the cab. He grabbed a hardhat. He took off his ball cap and stuffed it in his pocket. He’d get less questions with the hardhat on.
He walked into the building.
The floor of the lobby was covered in a protective plastic sheet. It was muddy from the boots of the workers. Three walked in behind Jack. They were carrying a big slab of drywall. Jack walked with them. Building security though Jack was their foreman.
Jack walked to the elevator with the workers, he held the door.
“Thanks,” one of them said.
Jack held his head low. “No problem.”
They all got in.
“You hear who lives in this builder,” a worker said.
“No, who?” another said.
“The guy who helped the mayor find that crooked cop killer, Igor Grekovitch. I hear he’s on the tenth floor. What was the name of his club in Brighton Beach?”
Jack spoke up. “The Dacha House.”
The workers turned and looked at the mysterious man in the hardhat. They just shrugged their shoulders. The building was under construction. There were a lot of new faces coming in and out.
“That’s right,” the worker said. “The Dacha House.”
Another worker chimed in and said, “We should hit that place up this weekend.”
All the workers laughed.
Jack smirked.
They wouldn’t be going to The Dacha House.
The Dacha House wouldn’t exist after tonight.
The elevator dinged. The workers got out. Jack hit the button for the top floor. He rode the elevator up.
The elevator opened. Jack walked out.
Like the lobby, the floors were protected by a thin, plastic sheet. The floor had only one room. Igor’s penthouse spread across the entire floor.
The penthouse was his castle.
His secret lair.
Jack walked up to the door.
He saw the knife sticking in it.
He pulled it out.
He knew what Igor’s message was. He knew what the knife had been used for. Igor wasn’t home. He would be at The Dacha House. Scared. Shaking.
Jack twisted the door handle.
Igor had left it unlocked.
Jack knew why.
Igor was obsessed with secret security cameras. His penthouse was most likely littered with them. Igor would be in his club, in his office, watching. Jack didn’t mind playing along. He hoped the histrionics of his little escapade would entertain Igor.
He walked into the penthouse.
It was a mess.
The poor, little gangster had thrown a temper tantrum.
“Anybody home?” Jack asked.
“Stay back!”
A woman with an Eastern European accent.
She was nervous.
She was in the kitchen.
Jack walked toward the kitchen. He found her standing beside the counter. There were two of them. They were both naked. One of them was holding a knife. She had its pointy end directed at Jack.
Jack raised his hands.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I came here for Igor.”
“What do you want with Mr. Grekovitch,” one of the girls said.
“I’m going to kill him.”
The girl holding the knife lowered it. She placed it on the counter. Her face contorted. She was trying to smile but it’d been so long. It didn’t feel natural. “How can we help?”
“Pick up the knife again,” Jack said. “Keep it pointed at me. Don’t let Igor know that you feel safe around me.”
The girls looked confused. “What?”
“Igor’s watching. Until you know he’s dead. You should be careful. Watch out for yourselves. I’m going to look around his place.”
The girl picked up the knife and aimed it at him again.
The two naked women huddled in the corner of the kitchen. They were shaking. They must’ve been new. They didn’t yet know Igor’s predilection for surveillance.
Before Jack left the kitchen one of the women shouted out to him, “Igor told us to tell that you that he’s at The Dacha House.”
Jack turned around before she finished. He knew what Igor would say. He knew where Igor would be.
“He said he has the federal agent,” she said.
Jack stopped.
He tensed up.
He turned around.
“Did he say which agent?”
“No,” she said.
It was Claire. It had to be Claire.
He took a deep breath.
He pushed forward. He snooped around the penthouse. He needed to find Elaine.
He searched every nook and cranny.
Eventually, he ended up at the torture room.
The door was locked.
He pulled out one of his X-TACs and shot the lock off.
He kicked the door open.
The black walls were cut with knife slashes. There were whips, chains, and an assortment of knives on the wall.
He turned on the lights.
He saw her.
She was unconscious.
He removed the shackles that were holding her to the wall and he cradled her in his arms.
He hung his head low. He’d failed his .
She was alive, but her spirit would be broken.
He carried her to the front entrance of the apartment. It was time to leave.
There was nothing else to see, nothing else to find.
Before he left, he spotted something familiar.
The keys to his car.
They were hung up on a coat hanger by the front door.
There was a keychain attached to them.
Diego’s Garage.
69
Jack place Elaine just outside the front door and kicked open the door to Diego’s Garage.
Nobody was home.
He turned on the lights.
There she was.
Betsy.
The 1969 Ford Mustang’s reflective striping, dual exhausts, and matte-black hood glimmered. Igor’s men had changed the plates, but they’d left everything else the same. Jack inspected inside the car. He’d spent years making sure that it was in perfect order. The simulated wood trim was still there, as were the high backed seats and the remote sports mirrors.
He opened the door, but stopped.
Scratching.
He closed his eyes. He focused on where the sound was coming from. It was the door to the left of the room.
He walked to it and opened it.
Agent Dunce was on the ground.
He’d crawled up from what looked like a dungeon.
He was dirty, skinny and pale.