Rasputin's Shadow

44

Officers Kaluta and Talaoc pulled in across the street from Lolita and scrambled out of their squad car. Kaluta froze in place as his mind registered the sheer horror of the scene outside the restaurant.

It was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed before.

People were trading blows or facing off with one another with knives and broken bottles in their hands, but they were outnumbered by those who either lay dead or dying on the sidewalk. Men and women who’d clearly dressed up for a night on the town were on the ground, writhing pathetically or limping away, their clothes ripped to shreds, their faces locked in expressions of confusion and silent terror. Blood was everywhere and on everyone, a tableau from a zombie movie come to life.

“What do we do?” Kaluta asked his partner as he drew his gun.

Talaoc didn’t answer immediately. Something else had caught his eye, just as they were rushing up to the restaurant. A van had just stormed away and was turning off onto another street. A white panel van, with a refrigeration unit on its roof. Same kind of van that was on the priority APB that had just flashed up on the squad car’s computer screen.

Talaoc hit the Call button on his radio just as two other squad cars swarmed in.

“YOU HURT ONE HAIR OF-”

“Shut the fuck up and listen,” the Russian hissed. “I don’t care about her. You’ll get her back in one piece. I just want the van.”

Jonny’s mouth dried up.

The Russian didn’t leave him time to even think about how to handle it. “I know you have it. Don’t lie if you want her to live. I can make things very long and painful for her. Then I’ll come for you.”

The Russian’s words, the coke, the emotions of the whole damn night-Jonny’s mind was frazzled. He could barely think straight. Yes, of course, his first instinct was a desperate urge to hang on to the van, at any cost. But this was Ae-Cha the bastard was talking about. Ae-Cha, his aunt’s only daughter. His Ae-Cha.

He couldn’t lie.

“I’ve got the fucking van here.”

“Where are you?

“Brooklyn.”

The Russian went silent for a moment, then said, “Drive to Prospect Park. You know where that is?”

“Yeah, I know where it is, motherfucker.”

“Good. When you get there, go in from the Ocean Avenue side. Take the drive down to the ice rink. I’ll meet you there, in the lot.”

Then the line went dead.

Jonny cursed, shut his eyes to try to let some clarity seep back into his brain, then ordered Bon to change direction.

I WAS ALREADY MOVING for the exit, with Aparo hot on my heels.

“Put me through to the cruiser,” I blurted as I hit the sidewalk. “We need eyes on that van. Don’t let them lose it.”

Within seconds, we were pulling away from the mess outside the Green Dragon when the dispatcher put me through to the squad car.

“Who’s this?” I asked, switching the phone to speaker.

“Officer Mike Talaoc, Sixtieth Precinct. I’m riding with Officer Kaluta. You?”

“Reilly and Aparo, FBI. You got the van?”

“We’re about two blocks back from it,” Talaoc told him. “It just turned right on Neptune.”

Aparo hit the gas harder now that he had a clear idea of where we were heading.

“Okay, stay back but don’t lose them,” I told Talaoc. “Just tail them and don’t let them spot you. I’m gonna call in some backup. Our shooter’s coming after the van, and I want to be there when he does.”

THE SLEDGEHAMMER WAS SAVORING a tumbler of limited-edition Iordanov Vodka when his prepaid cell phone rang.

“Chyort voz’mi,” he cursed to no one in particular before he grabbed it and took the call.

Mirminsky hated to be interrupted while enjoying the rewards of his efforts. He felt he’d earned the glass of five-thousand-dollar-a-bottle vodka, what with all the bullshit he’d had to suffer from the SVR enforcer-Afanasyev, or whatever the hell he’d called himself-as well as the accompanying increased heat from the feds. If he were entirely honest with himself, he couldn’t taste the difference between what he was drinking and a glass of Russian Standard, but appearances counted for almost everything in his world and if he was unable to savor the taste, then he could at least savor the price.

Appearances also meant that he didn’t enjoy being seen as someone’s lackey, especially in the eyes of the cops and the FBI.

“You need to hear this, boss.”

“Put it through,” he groused.

After a couple of clicks, the incoming call was connected to Mirminsky’s cell, which he knew was clean because it had been removed from its packaging less than three hours ago.

“Ditko here. We’ve got trouble.”

Mirminsky’s mood went from dark to pitch-black. Ditko was with the vice squad at the Sixtieth Precinct, out in Brooklyn. He’d been on the Sledgehammer’s payroll for seven years now, helping keep Lolita and Mirminsky’s crew out of trouble.

“The lines are going crazy here. Some major bust-up at Lolita. It’s bad. We’ve got some dead, Yuri. I’m on my way there now.”

Mirminsky’s veins flared, then settled back. There had been brawls at the place before. Even a death or two. Lolita had navigated through the turmoil before, and it would do so again. Mirminsky’s lawyers would see to that.

“Is that it?” he grumbled.

“You’re not listening, Yuri. This is really bad. You need to get down there and see it. And that’s not all. The feds are involved.”

That made Mirminsky sit up. “Why the feds?”

“I’m not sure. We got a report of a white van at the scene. Some kind of meat wagon. The feds have a priority APB out on it.” The line went quiet for a moment as Ditko tapped a few keys on his computer. “Wasn’t there a refrigerated van in the shoot-out at Owl’s Head Park? When your guys were gunned down?”

The Sledgehammer’s blood was boiling now. “And I lost two more at Red Hook. All because of the same súka blyad.”

Mirminksy knew most of what had happened at the docks. He had sources on his payroll at other police precincts throughout the city. This sounded like a definite lead on the bastard who had cost him six men and set the feds breathing down his neck.

He wondered why no one at the bar had called him. It wasn’t a good sign.

“Where’s the van now?” he asked.

“I can find out. We’ve got a squad car tailing it, but the fed in charge told them not to intercept.”

Mirminsky was already in full tactical planning mode. “I want to know where the van is. Call me direct with updates. Petr will give you the number.”

He hung up and knocked back the rest of the Iordanov, then he opened a drawer in his desk and took out a Desert Eagle.50 Action Express. On each side of the customized handle, a sledgehammer had been embossed in gold.

He’d had enough of being told what to do. Of assholes destroying his property and treating his foot soldiers like they came off a production line.

Why Lolita?

The bar was close to his heart. It was his very first place. It was where his business grew from. His niece’s fiancé ran it.

What if he were among the dead?

He tried Stefan’s cell. It immediately went to voice mail.

He tried the bar. It rang out.

That sealed it.

This is America, not Russia.

The sluzhba vneshney razvedk-the SVR-didn’t run the show here.

Enough was enough.

He was kuvalda. He was the Sledgehammer.

And it was high time he showed those ebanatyi pidaraz why they called him that.