Good As Gone (14 page)

I looked in her eyes and had no doubt she’d follow through with her threat to go to Pruszkow alone. She intended to leave me no choice but to take her.

Chapter 25

A half hour later, we rolled into Pruszkow, one of Mazovia’s largest industrial centers.

“How will we know where to find these people?” Ana yelled over the roar of the BMW’s engine as soon as we stopped at a light.

I turned my head back to her, lifted my visor. “I’d imagine most people in town would know where the mobsters hang out.”

“They will be scared,” she said. “Everyone will be too frightened to talk to us.”

“Not everyone,” I said. “There’s one group of people in every city that you can count on to be afraid of nothing. They think they’re invincible. They take great pride in knowing what they’re not supposed to know, and they sell information cheap.”

The light changed. “Who are you speaking about?”

“Children,” I said, then slapped down my visor and rode on.

A few minutes later, I parked the bike on the side of the road in front of an old church. A block back, I’d seen a park packed with eager informants.

“Wait here,” I told Ana, setting my helmet down on the bike.

When I got to the park I surveyed the crowd for a group of teenage males standing around, trying to look hard. Wasn’t difficult. I immediately spotted a pair in black leather jackets, leaning up against a metal fence, cigarettes dangling from their lips.

I walked up to the fence, said from the other side, “Got an extra one, guys?”

They both went for their front pockets; the smaller of them was quicker on the draw. He slipped a fag through the fence, while the other pulled out an old Zippo. They lit me up. I took a deep drag and blew a thin stream of smoke up at the gray sky.

“Dziekuje,”
I said. “I needed that.” I made a show of looking around, making sure there was no one else within earshot. “I’m looking for a couple of fellows,” I told them. “Maybe you guys can help me out.”

They both appeared more than happy to be part of the conspiracy.

“Who do you look for?” the smaller one said.

“A couple of Kazmer Chudzik’s boys,” I said.

The larger one appeared suspicious. “Are you the police?”

“Do I look like the police?” I said. “I’m not even Polish for Christ’s sake.”

The smaller one poked the larger one in the ribs.
“Idiota,”
the kid said. He pointed to me. “You see many police dress like this?”

The larger one looked appropriately chastened.

“There is a warehouse,” the little guy said, “over on Promyka. Pan Chudzik owns it. He and his men, they do business there and take their coffee at a café across the street.”

“Dziekuje,”
I said, handing them each a few banknotes through the fence. “We never had this conversation, okay?”

*

From across the street, the warehouse looked to be at least two hundred square meters. Ana translated the signs as advertisements for flooring, doors and doorframes, and outdoor furniture. Several large men were carrying boxes out of open hatches on the loading dock at the side of the building. Other large men stood in the backs of mammoth trucks, accepting the packages.

“It looks like a legitimate business,” Ana said.

“Probably is. A legit business provides the perfect cover, and it’s an effective way to launder large sums of money. And look at the size of those guys. On-call muscle. They could replace the Ravens’ defensive line in a heartbeat.”

“What does this mean, defensive line?”

“It’s an American football term,” I told her. “I’ll explain later.”

“So what is your plan, Simon?”

I looked down at my suit. “Well, clearly I’m overdressed for the occasion. The goons on these trucks probably don’t have the faintest idea who Dabrowski is. For that, I’ll need to get inside. But first I’ll need a change of clothes.”

The men were dressed in denim from the waist down. On top each wore a dark peacoat over a black turtleneck. Black wool skullcaps rested atop their heads.

We watched as two men finished loading one of the trucks, then pulled down the rear hatch. Minutes later, the truck started up, its tailpipe belching out thick black smoke. Only one man had climbed into the cab, the driver.

I turned to Ana. “Good thing you insisted on coming with me,” I said. “Looks like I’m going to need your help after all.”

*

The truck turned left out of the lot and we followed on the bike. After a few blocks we sped past. As long as the truck was heading into Warsaw, it wasn’t about to leave the main drag. About two miles up the road, I pulled the bike to the curb and gave Ana her instructions. Then we stood on the deserted sidewalk and waited.

When we saw the truck rise over the hill, Ana stepped out into the middle of the road, waving her arms in the air. For a moment, I thought the driver might run her over, but then the truck slowed, rolled to a stop a good ten feet in front of her. The driver squinted, took one hard look at Ana, and didn’t seem the least bit annoyed at the inconvenience.

Ana stepped around to the passenger side of the cab. She climbed up and stuck her head into the open window. Spoke to the driver in Polish.

There were other cars on the road, so I had to act quickly. I rolled under the truck and popped out on the other side. I knew that if the driver glimpsed into his side mirror, he’d take off. But he didn’t. His eyes remained fixed on Ana.

I leaped onto the driver’s side of the cab and raised my Glock. Held the barrel against the back of the driver’s head. He turned, and the barrel was pointed right between his eyes. He looked more confused than scared.

“Czy mowi pan po angielsku?”
I said. Do you speak English?

The driver shook his head.

“Ana,” I called out. “Tell him to slide to the middle of the cab. We’re getting in.”

Chapter 26

It felt strange being out of the suit. As though I’d lost an extra layer of skin, a kind of armor. Ridiculous, because I rarely wore suits at all these days. When I was with the U.S. Marshals I had to wear them when escorting prisoners into courthouses, but now that I was on my own, I saw no need, unless dressing up would aid me in gaining access. Otherwise, a T-shirt and jeans were just fine with me. Maybe because my father had always hated them.

Ana waited down the street with the bike as I drove the truck, the driver unconscious and tied up in its belly. When I reached the warehouse, I backed up to the loading dock just as the other drivers had, then I buttoned the peacoat, adjusted my skullcap, and hopped down from the cab.

My Polish was far too limited to engage in conversation, so I brushed past the other drivers as though I didn’t see or hear them, leaving them with bewildered looks on their rough faces. I entered the warehouse and moved through the maze of equipment and boxes as swiftly as possible without drawing any unnecessary attention. In the rear I spotted a door marked
BIURO
, which I assumed meant “private,” so I headed for it.

I didn’t bother to knock.

I opened the door and stepped into a spacious office, smoke so thick it looked like London fog. Through the cloud I saw a long metal desk, one heavy Pole sitting behind it. Two others sat in front of the desk, though they looked more like tough guys than clients.

“Morning, fellows,” I said. “I’m looking for Pan Chudzik.”

“Who the hell are you?” said the one behind the desk.

His nameplate read
ALBIN JANKOWSKI
.

The others turned in their chairs but seemed unsure what to do, whether to draw their guns or lay out the red carpet. They should have drawn their guns because I wasted no time reaching into my peacoat and drawing mine.

“Nobody move,” I said calmly.

Ana had had no problem at all pulling up photos of Kazmer Chudzik on her smartphone’s browser, so I knew after a brief review of the trio of faces staring back at me that Chudzik wasn’t in the room.

“Where can I find the boss?” I said.

No one answered, no one said a word. It was as though someone stepped into this office and held a Glock to their heads every day. I admired their coolness, but I didn’t have time for this. Lindsay didn’t have time. Time was slipping away.

I swung my arm, pointing the gun at the nearest Pole’s kneecap. He didn’t flinch. His eyes simply floated behind me, just as I heard the hammer cock on a pistol, felt the cold steel of a barrel just to the rear of my left ear.

Everyone in the room laughed.

Everyone but me.

Jankowski spoke first. “Welcome to Pruszkow, Pan Fisk.” He placed a lit cigarette between his lips and smiled. “I think maybe you should drop your weapon, no?”

This was an ambush. They knew my name, knew I was coming. Only way that was possible was if they had received a call from Gasowski. Wasn’t the first time I discovered that a cop was dirty. Happened all the time in my line of work. Especially in Mexico. The border towns and Mexico City never failed to disappoint as far as police corruption went.

Corruption, dirty cops. It was how multibillion-dollar criminal enterprises continued to exist throughout the world. Greed feeding on greed. It was a sickness, a wound in the heart of humanity that I was sure would never be healed. At least not in my lifetime—which seemed to have just shortened considerably.

I glanced at the floor. Behind me, the door was open, light spilling in from the warehouse. A single shadow melded with mine. Meant there was only one man holding a gun to me. I could still feel the steel pressed against my skull, so he was close. Too close. Get in close like that with a man on his feet and you risked getting the weapon taken away from you.

“Set down your weapon,” Jankowski said again. “
Now.
And kick it toward me.”

Slowly, I bent at the knees and set my Glock on the floor. Kicked it over to the desk as instructed, then rose, placing my hands in the air. I studied the three faces in front of me. Confident grins all around. Good. These men weren’t trained. They thought they’d neutralized the threat. Not a single one of them was reaching into his suit jacket for a weapon.

Jankowski removed the cigarette from his mouth and said, “Who else besides Staszak and Gasowski have you told about the lawyer Dabrowski?”

“No one,” I said. “I thought it best to contain the information so that something like this wouldn’t occur.”

He smirked. “Ironic, no?”

“No,” I said. “Unfortunate. For you.”

“For us?” Jankowski stuffed the cigarette back into his mouth, took a drag, and laughed. It seemed that the laughter was contagious.

Everyone in the room laughed.

Everyone but me.

“That’s right,” I said as the sound faded into chuckles. “See, I came here with the intention of asking you where I could find Kazmer Chudzik and his lawyer. I had no intention of hurting anyone. Now you’ve forced my hand. I’ve got to defend myself. I’ve no choice but to hurt you all. Quite badly, from the looks of things.” I smiled, mimicked Jankowski’s voice. “That is unfortunate for you, no?”

The room erupted with another round of laughter.

This time I joined them.

Harming your fellow man is a hell of a thing. Even when it’s human garbage like the men in this room. I’d hurt my fair share but I’d never get used to it, never stop regretting the very need to do what had to be done. I’d never get any pleasure out of it. Even when I finally found the man who took my daughter, Hailey. I would experience the thrill of relief, sure, like the end of a forever hangover. I imagined it’d be like pulling a stiletto out of my gut. Just knowing it was no longer in there, violating my organs, would be enough. I’d be able to push aside the thought of losing blood. Be able to die without feeling as though I’d left something unattended to.

As the laughter faded I swiftly turned my head to the left, out of the line of fire, jerked my left elbow to alter the gunman’s aim, wrapped his gun arm around my own, and with my right delivered an open-palm strike to the side of the head. I followed with a punch to the jaw to snap the head back, then delivered a blow to his throat. I placed my right leg behind his and threw him hard to the ground while ripping the gun from his hand. I spun and delivered a round kick to the jaw of the Pole immediately to my right. His gun was out, and as my foot connected with his face, he fired, wide, clipping the Pole to my left in his right shoulder, causing him to drop his weapon.

Jankowski had risen from his seat behind the desk. His pistol was aimed at my chest and he was about to squeeze the trigger. It was him or me, I decided. And if it was me, it was Lindsay Sorkin, too, so I fired.

The bullet struck Jankowski square in the chest and he fell back into his leather chair. A red rose bloomed where a beating heart had been just moments earlier.

The stench of blood and burning flesh now accompanied the foul smell of cigarette smoke, reminding me of Ostermann and his justification for knocking Dietrich and Karl out cold in the alley. Our lives hadn’t been at risk then, and I had thought I sensed some pleasure in Ostermann after he’d swung the butt of his gun the second time.

Rest assured,
he’d said to me,
my beating two child kidnappers in a back alley of a Berlin nightclub will not cost me a single hour of sleep.

I’d believed him. And though I’d derived no pleasure from what I’d just done, I didn’t think it would cause me much anguish, either.

I looked down at the man who’d held the gun to the back of my head. I’d broken his larynx, so he’d be of no use at all. The two men who’d been seated in front of the desk had passed out, one from the pain of a bullet to the shoulder, the other from my round kick to the face.

I emptied the chamber of the gun I’d taken, wiped it down, and dropped it at its owner’s side. Then I picked up my gun. I stood and surveyed the men one at a time. Each of them had been in the process of raising a firearm. This offered some relief. I’d defended myself. Done nothing wrong at all.

Still, one man lay dead and three lay unconscious, and I was no closer to finding Lindsay Sorkin. No closer at all.