Outrage

1

It was one in the afternoon on a smoking-hot July day in Manhattan with the humidity and stench of the city hovering above the asphalt and concrete as a noisome translucent vapor. Ahmed Kadyrov wiped the sweat from his forehead as he watched the pretty young woman struggle with two stuffed paper bags, one in each arm, as she exited the mom-and-pop grocer on 110th Street on the Upper West Side. He waited until the auburn-haired beauty started off down the sidewalk and then hurried to catch up.

Despite being a methamphetamine junkie beginning to show the signs of his addiction-a deteriorating complexion with dark circles under his large brown eyes-Kadyrov was still a decent-looking young man of twenty-two who was often mistaken as Hispanic with his neatly coifed black hair and trim mustache. But he was Chechen, having immigrated to the United States at age twelve, and still spoke with an accent, which women found attractive.

However, the only thing Ahmed Kadyrov liked about women was terrorizing and raping them, and then robbing “the bitches” to feed his demanding drug habit. Lately, he’d been getting a kick knocking them around a little too, and the last time had been particularly gratifying when he used the switchblade he carried in his pants pocket to draw a few drops of blood from his victim’s neck.

As a boy he’d watched as a Russian army squad raped his mother and sisters. It was an event the psychiatrist at the Horizon Juvenile Center in the Bronx, where he’d served a year for his first sexual assault, had told him was at the root of his “issues with females and predilection toward sexual violence.” But he didn’t give a shit what some “fag shrink” thought; if anything he identified with the Russian brutes. Women, especially pretty ones like his mother and sisters, were whores and got what they deserved.

Kadyrov found the areas around the colleges in the five boroughs to be good hunting grounds. There were lots of pretty young women, especially in this neighborhood near Columbia University, which increased his odds of finding one in need of a “Good Samaritan,” the ruse he used to win their confidence. They could be so incredibly gullible. For instance, he usually struck during the day, when such women thought they were safer accepting help from a neatly dressed stranger in a short-sleeved button-down shirt and khaki pants with a nice smile and friendly attitude.

“Excuse me,” he said as he moved slightly in front of the young woman, forcing her to slow her pace and adjust her heavy bags, “may I help you, please, to carry?” He laid the accent and foreign word groupings on especially heavy when on the prowl; he perceived that for some reason, women also thought polite-seeming European types were less dangerous.

The young woman smiled but shook her head. “Thank you, that’s very kind,” she said. “But I’m only going three blocks, and I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way.”

Kadyrov was ready for the expected response and reached for what appeared to be the heaviest bag before she could protest further. “Is no problem, I am going this direction. Please, I help.” He turned up the smile a notch with a look in his eyes that indicated his feelings would be hurt if she refused his generosity.

“Well, sure, if you don’t mind,” the young woman said with a smile. “I’m Olivia.”

“Very good to meet you,” Kadyrov said. “I am Stefan.”

They talked as they walked. He said he was a prelaw student at Columbia University, an irony that made him smile inwardly. She told him that her husband, Dale, taught English lit there. “He just made full professor,” she said proudly. “It means more money, so we’re going to be moving into a nicer apartment. I’m supposed to be packing now.”

They reached the entrance to her apartment building, a ten-story, 1950s-era edifice of dingy yellow brick with graffiti scrawls on the walls as high as the “artists” could reach. Olivia stopped and turned to Kadyrov with a smile and reached out for the bag he carried. “I can get it from here, Stefan, thank you so much.”

Kadyrov shifted the bag away from her outstretched hand. “Is no problem I take in for you, then I go,” he said with a grin. “Job is, how do you say, only half-finished. No?”

Olivia hesitated, but she looked again at his smiling face and shrugged. “Well, sure, that’s very nice of you.” She stepped in front of Kadyrov so he wouldn’t see the access number that she punched in. There was an electronic buzz and click and she smiled over her shoulder as she pulled the security gate open. “Come on up.”

Kadyrov smiled. He loved this period of stalking just before he pounced, when his prey still didn’t know that she was about to be savaged. Beautiful women, like so many pampered, stupid sheep, could be so oblivious to the fact that the wolf was walking among them dressed in a Brooks Brothers shirt, khaki pants, and loafers.

Olivia led the way to the elevator, which they took to the fifth floor, and then walked down the hall to a corner apartment. Kadyrov was pleased that there were no sounds from the closest neighbors’ apartments. He slipped his free hand into his pants pocket and grasped the handle of the switchblade.

Olivia turned the key in the lock and opened the door. “Would you like a glass of water?” she said. “It’s all I have. The fridge is empty and-”

Whatever the young woman intended to say next was cut short by the hand that went across her mouth and the feel of the wickedly sharp knife blade held against her throat. “Don’t scream, sooka, or I’ll cut your fucking head off,” Kadyrov whispered in her ear as he kicked the door shut behind them. “Now we’re gonna get busy.”