Marked Man (17 page)

She felt like a gladiator charging into the Coliseum with a legion of fans chanting her name. Bollier could see how Jordan had gotten addicted to the feeling.

Racing out of the dry dock, Bollier yelled back at Agent Clemons, “hurry up!” The scene was chaotic. Right away Bollier took a skinny Russian by surprise who was trying to take cover behind a booth. He was ducking and watching a group of his comrades trading fire with some DEA agents. He had a small revolver in hand, perhaps a .25 but did not seem over eager to use it. Bollier cocked her weapon and gave him an order.

“Throw the weapon down and walk backwards
slowly with your hands up.”

When the Russian did not immediately obey she
fired a round into his spine. The skinny Russian collapsed to the ground just about the same time that his comrades were cut down by a hail of DEA bullets. Bollier left him there to bleed. She clipped a second one by the pier and ran head-on into the fracas to find another victim.

Overhead an FBI helicopter flew over, shining lights over the suspects. Machine guns were mounted on either side.
Someone in the bird had a megaphone and he was telling the Russians to surrender. Men started emerging from the Cote Gauche in small groups, walking the plank with their hands raised in the air. When they reached ground level they were forced onto the asphalt, handcuffed, and then led away. Slowly, more Russians came out of their hiding places, tossing guns and surrendering to whatever law enforcement officials were close by.

A cocky looking DEA agent came over to Bollier and offered her a cigarette. She didn’t even think about it for a second and took him up on it. She asked him for a lighter and
took a drag.

“Whew. You were a fucking bolt of lightning out there, sister.”

Bollier laughed nervously and blew a gust of smoke out from between her lips. The tobacco and tar tasted a hundred times better than she thought it would.

“Was I?”

“No bullshit. Me and my buddies saw you take down at least three. Great shooting, Tex.”

Bollier said thanks and gave the DEA agent his lighter back. Reeling from the runner’s high, she walked in a daze through the crime scene. The customs agent was covered up by a white sheet, a red stain seeping through at the top. Two dozen or so Russians were lying face down on the ground while some FBI agents taunted them.

She found Special Agent Clemons talking to a woman in a Coast Guard uniform. They shook hands and departed just as Bollier reached him.

“Where’d you go? I thought you were right behind me.”

“Are you kidding? You took off like Ricky Henderson. I couldn’t have kept up if I tried. I got hung up in the dry dock, found a couple of them trying to hide in the yacht. I heard you’re some kind of Terminator.”

Bollier shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know. It all happened kind of fast.”

“That it did. Good news though. Word just came in on the radio. DEA guys found the stash of heroin on the ship. They say they’re going to need a few hours just to unload it all!”

“Oh my god that’s fantastic!”

For a long time the two of them had maintained a professional relationship, despite their mutual admiration. But Bollier was so overwhelmed with emotion that she hugged Agent Clemons.

“You were great.”

When their embrace ended Bollier felt something wet on her hand. She looked down and saw red.

“Kyle?”

Agent Clemons spread his jacket out to have a look. His shirt was ripped and blood was pumping out of an open wound on his side.
As he sank to his knees Agent Clemons frowned.

“That’s not good.”

Bollier broke his fall and screamed for an ambulance.

Chapter Eleven

News of the massive drug bust spread fast. All of the daily city newspapers featured the Riis Landing shootout on
the front page the next morning. Before dawn Bollier flipped through the headlines at a newsstand up the block from the precinct.

The New York Times: 7 mobsters dead, 22 arrested in
joint FBI-DEA drug sting

New York Daily News: The Drug Boat: $800,000,000 in heroin seized after deadly shootout which kills one customs officer, wounds one FBI agent

The Wall Street Journal: Two dozen Russians arrested at Riis Landing bust

Newsday: Brooklyn FBI bust turns deadly, one agent
dead, another critically wounded

The New York
Post: HORROR! 16 FBI AGENTS KILLED, MORE WOUNDED, 3 BILLION IN HEROIN FOUND ON TANKER AT HARBOR

By
noon the news was making national headlines. Detective Bollier was in the visitor’s room in the ICU unit at Beth Israel eagerly waiting to hear an update on Special Agent Clemons’ condition when she saw the story appear on CNN. The news anchor’s lips were moving but Bollier could not make out any words as the television set was on mute. Clips of the tanker ship were shown, along with several wheel barrels being rolled along the pier, each one of them full of kilos of high-grade heroin. Then there were a few mug shots of the Russians who had been arrested. 22 of them were in custody, and another seven had been killed in the gun battle with police. In addition to the slain customs official, one DEA agent had suffered a minor graze wound, and one FBI agent was in critical condition after taking a shot to the spleen.

When the channel cut for a commercial break the screen went black for a moment and Bollier shuddered at her reflection. Her eyes were dark and baggy, her hair was an atrocious mess, and her clothes were still damp from the rain. She had not slept since following the ambulance to the emergency room and had become a general pain
at the ICU by continually asking how Kyle Clemons was doing.

Agent Clemons had undergone five hours of surgery to cauterize an artery that was severed by the bullet. Then, he had to have the blood drained from his stomach. The head surgeon told Bollier that her FBI friend had lost over half of his blood, and that he was frankly extremely lucky to be alive, but that there was a profound risk of clots given all of the thickening agents that they’d employed. Luckily Bollier turned out to have the same blood type and had already donated two pints. She was pale and weary, but far too amped up to rest.

Bollier only dragged herself away from the hospital to visit the precinct and interrogate the Russians. Few of them spoke English, and those that did had a vocabulary that seemed limited to two words, fuck and you. The most loquacious of the bunch was named Uri Grigoryev, who threw in a suck my ass.

None of the 22 men who had been brought in made a statement. Despite facing charges of accessory to first degree murder, conspiracy, and intent to distribute heroin not one of them blinked. This was problematic. All of them were low-level soldiers with a few lieutenants thrown in. Without at least one of them turning states witness it would be virtually impossible to charge
Shirokov.

Pacing the corridors of the 84
th
precinct, Bollier decided to play the only card left in her deck, and dialed Jordan Ross on his burner.

…

When detective Bollier called the day after the drug bust Jordan was in the middle of a game of checkers with Zhadanov. It was the only diversion he’d found in the storage locker and to prevent going crazy he’d unbound his captive’s hands so that he could play. His feet were still bound and his will had been completely broken so Jordan saw no reason not to. Zhadanov was not going to win any international checkers titles any time soon but it beat sitting idly waiting for a call.

Jordan had just double jumped two of
Zhadanov’s pieces when the burner rang. The Russian’s bright blue eyes shot to the phone and then to his tormentor.

“Well this is it
Petey. Moment of truth…” The burner was ringing in his hand but he stared Zhadanov dead in the eye. “…If you were lying I want you to know I’m going to carve your face off first. But I’ll let you keep your eyes, so that you can watch the rest.”

Zhadanov
urinated himself as Jordan Ross flipped the phone open and answered the call.

“Good afternoon detective. I’m so glad you finally called.”

“I’m not going to apologize, Mr. Ross. I would have called earlier but I’ve been busy splitting my time between the precinct and the ICU. Clemons got shot.”

“Shit. Is he going to be alright?”

“I don’t know…” Bollier sounded more worried than Jordan had ever heard her, far more than she was when they were being chased and shot at on the Williamsburg Bridge. He wondered if she was secretly in love with the FBI man. “…the doctors say he’s touch-and-go, in and out of consciousness. They say he lost half his blood, practically a miracle that he’s survived this long.”

“Well that’s something. What about the sting? Did the boat come in with the drugs? Our friend
Petyr is just dying to know.”

In the corner
Zhadanov flinched and mumbled something about getting tired of this crazy man and his sick jokes. Despite the long night and the accumulated stress Bollier chuckled. It seemed that the only thing that could make her laugh lately was gallows humor.

“Tell
Petyr to relax. He came through. On the news they’re saying the dope on board was worth something in the range of 700 to 800 million dollars.”

Jordan breathed a sigh of relief and gave
Zhadanov a thumb’s up sign. He had not been very eager to cut anyone’s face off.

“That’s great. So now what happens with him?”

“Well. There’s one hitch. We arrested 22 guys and not one of them is talking, which means that someone is paying them to keep quiet. See if you can get Zhadanov to tell you who Shirokov’s bag man is and where you can find him, it will probably be a lawyer. Kill the lawyer and I guarantee we’ll get one of these guys to flip and then we can indict Shirokov.”

“Kill a lawyer? Isn’t that going just a bit too far?”

“Trust me guys like Shirokov would be out of business in a week if it weren’t for dirty lawyers. If I had to guess it’s the same one that represented Askokov at his trial.”

“Say no more, detective. He’s deader than Dillinger.”

Jerking alert, Zhadanov tried to jump up and make a break for it, but all he managed to do was flip the chair over and land face first, barely breaking the fall with his bare hands.

“Not you,
Petey. Just chill out.”

“Anything else, Detective?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Shirokov has gone underground. We sent units to question him at the coffee shop he usually hangs out in, but he’s gone, and we can’t find him at any of his other normal haunts. Zhadanov should know where to find him. If he tells you where to find him and the lawyer you can let him go.”

“Whoa wait, let him go? Don’t you need him to testify?”

“Not anymore, the way it went down at Riis Landing we don’t need him. Besides it’s probably best if he doesn’t go flapping his gums about our methods of persuasion. Give him the option though, if he wants to we can get him set up for witness protection.”

“Good call.”

“I’m gonna go back to check on Kyle. Best of luck, Mr. Ross.”

“And you.”

Jordan pressed the end call button and put the phone away. With a groan, he helped lift Zhadanov’s chair back upright. His cheek was bruised from the fall.

“So I’ve got some good news.”

For a brief second Zhadanov’s face flickered with hope.

“You were right about the drugs. The DEA and the FBI raided the boat and found 800 million worth of heroin in the hull.”

“I told you zis. I am not a liar.”

“I know you’re not,
Petey. And that makes me very happy, because I have two more questions for you. If you answer them truthfully then you’ll be free to go.”

“Fine.
Anysing just ask me.”

“Number one: none of the guys who were arrested as part of the sting are cooperating. The detective thinks it’s because someone is paying them off. Who is it and where can I find them?”

Zhadanov smiled for the first time since Jordan abducted him from XZLENT. Some of his teeth had been knocked out in the meantime, but it was still a very joyful grin. “That would be ze lawyer.” Zhadanov hocked and spat onto the floor. The stain was tinted slightly red. “I vill tell you where to find ze lawyer, and I hope zat you will kill him slowly.”

“I promise that I will.”

Jordan rummaged through the odds and ends in the storage locker until he found a black marker, which he used to write down the details about the lawyer that Zhadanov gave him; the name and address of the law firm, and a physical description of the key player.

“Alright. One last thing. The cops are looking for
Shirokov but they can’t find him. Where would he go if he were going to lie low?”

“You
vant my advice? Zis you should not ask me. Going zer you will die, I guarantee.”

“Let me worry about that. Tell me where I can find him.”

Zhadanov sighed and wiped at his eyes as he hung his head in shame. The lawyer meant nothing to him clearly, but it had taken an extraordinary amount of convincing to get Zhadanov to spill the beans about the drug shipment. Jordan marveled at the level of loyalty and terror that Shirokov seemed to inspire in his gang. Even after everything that he had put Zhadanov through, the thought of further betraying the
avtorityet
gave him heart burn.

Several minutes of quiet went by before Jordan began to lose his patience.
Zhadanov was slouched forward in his chair, crying. Jordan took out his Yarborough knife and let the light bulb overhead shine off of the blade in front of Zhadanov’s face.

“
Petey. You have been doing so well. Don’t make me do something that I’m going to regret. All you have to do is tell me where Shirokov is and this is all over.”

The Russian raised his head
sadly to look at Jordan Ross.

“For you maybe. For me, I must live
wis shame. Knowing my life is over and I have betrayed Vladimir.”

“Your life isn’t over. If you want we can get you into witness protection.
You’ll be safe.”

Zhadanov’
s laugh was mocking and bitter. Again he spat a bloody mess onto the floor.

“
Pah! Witness protection. Please. I vill take my chances and make run for it. Whoever you are, I don’t know. But you do not understand Vladimir. You do not understand us. Wis us there is no protection. Wherever you possibly could hide me in ze world it does not matter, zer is no safe.”

Jordan placed the cold flat of the blade against
Zhadanov’s cheek.

“How safe do you feel right now? Tell me where he is.”

The captive’s Adam’s apple quivered and bobbed. Zhadanov’s pupils dilated and then he began to speak.

…

With Zhadanov sedated, taped up and hidden in the trunk of the Honda CRV, Jordan drove out to the offices of Schuester, Wong, and Kagonovic in Murray Hill. It was early in the morning and a crescent moon was visible, hanging low in a pink and cerulean sky. Jordan used a wire clothes hanger and a credit card to jimmy the back door open and then snuck into the room that had Kaganovic’s nameplate on the desk. He sat in the high-back executive chair, kicked his feet up on the desk and waited.

Half an hour later,
Kagonovic came in for work bearing a briefcase and a steaming cup of coffee. It was indeed the same attorney that had represented Askokovic. Jordan recognized him by his thick glasses, dictator moustache, and conservative suite and tie combo. Kagonovic was four foot ten with the feet and hands of a pre-pubescent child. When Kagonovic walked into his office and saw the stranger at his desk he cocked his head to the side.

“Can I help you sir?”

“Yes I do believe you can.”

Jordan showed the lawyer a Beretta with a silencer attached to the barrel. He pointed the gun at him and motioned for
Kaganovich to sit. Kaganovic dropped the coffee, spilling it all over the carpet as he raised his hands.

“Look, take whatever you want. But I don’t have any money.”

The lawyer’s suitcase clicked and dropped open and a few dozen thick stacks of cash fell out right into the puddle of coffee, sugar and cream. Kaganovic paused and then threw the suitcase at Jordan and turned to run. He missed badly. Jordan caught up after several strides and grabbed Kaganovic by the scruff of the neck like a kitten, then threw him up against the wall. Jordan pressed the Beretta against the lawyer’s nose. He squirmed from side to side, eyes closed behind his glasses and pleading fast and desperate.

“Alright
alright I have money! There’s fifty thousand dollars on the floor in my office just take it and go!”

“What makes you think I’m interested? Who said this is about money?”