Against the Law

by Against the Law (epub)

  Gio nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s not a local gang war anymore. It’s an invasion. So . . . if we don’t whack Anton, what do we do?”

  “I wish I knew,” Joe said. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Think fast, brother. We are both walking on these graves instead of lying in one by luck and a couple of inches.”

  Joe smiled at him. “But hey no pressure, right?”

  Gio laughed and clapped his old friend on the back. “That’s right. Fuck it, we’re alive today. Let’s find Nero and go back to Eddie’s house. Annette’s aunt made eggplant parm. She can barely tell right from left, and her lips move when she reads, but I’m telling you, that woman is a genius.”

  26

  JUNO WAS IN A fury; that is, a cold, controlled, brain fury. He still felt responsible, on some level, for the death of Hamid, and now these same people, these shadows, had outsmarted him and his friends last night. They’d made it out safe, by luck and by fast thinking, but he’d come this close to losing Joe and Yelena. For a loner who took a long time to build friendships, and who trusted only a handful of people outside his family, this made the matter very personal, especially since Joe had saved Juno’s life at least twice, and come to trust him with his own. And for the whiz kid side of him, the brainiac gamer, hacker, and hustler, to be bested like this, first out of town and then in his home court? That he could not abide.

  He went back to work, powered by Red Bull, cold pizza, and even colder fury. Cash came over too, just as pissed and just as loyal, but while he was an artist behind the wheel and an ace at video games, he wasn’t much for crunching data and he quickly got bored and fell asleep. But it kind of soothed Juno to have his pal there, snoring lightly on the couch, while he ran the numbers like Cash ran the roads. And then, around two in the morning, he got it. The answer. Or at least a clue to the answer. He got something. And not by hacking or scamming. He got it by going full nerd, pulling some deep quant shit, running reports and combing through the heaps of mostly useless, boring, dust-dry data that Joe had dumped on him. But all once, staring through his glazed eyeballs, he saw it: a pattern. And that pattern was an arrow, pointed right at Zahir. Or whoever the hell they were really chasing.

  “Yo Cash, Cash,” he shook his friend.

  “What? What?”

  “I got it man, I figured the shit out.”

  “Awesome,” he jumped up, as though there were some place to go, then sat back down, rubbing his eyes. “Call Joe.”

  “Now? It’s two.”

  “Dude call him. If you really have something, he needs to know.”

  Juno called, and it went to voice mail. He hung up.

  “Voice mail,” he told Cash.

  “Why didn’t you leave a message?”

  “For Joe? Does he even check voice mail? I’ll call back in the morning. He probably turned his phone off to go to sleep.”

  In fact, Joe was awake, also thinking about Zahir. He’d silenced his phone for the funeral service and forgotten to turn the ringer back on. Finally, he drifted off, only to be awakened around four by a nightmare. He sat up, breathing hard, bathed in sweat, heart pounding, trying not to wake Yelena, who slept beside him, naked on her back, a loaded handgun under her pillow. Startle her and she might blow his head off. Or if he made too much noise in the living room, his grandmother might think he was a prowler and kill him with that ancient revolver she kept under her bed. As the only unarmed one in the house, he grabbed his phone to see the time as he tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of water. That’s when he realized his phone was off. He flipped it on and saw the missed call from Juno. He called, but by then Juno and Cash had both fallen asleep, halfway through a video game that sat, paused, on the screen.

  Donna had a hard time sleeping that night. When the search of Joe’s place, of Gladys’s place actually, turned up nothing, she was a bit embarrassed and a bit frustrated—okay a lot frustrated—but she took it in stride. She was a law enforcement officer, a federal investigator, and that’s what they did, investigate and enforce the damned law. That meant follow the trail of evidence wherever it led, and whatever it turned up. Even if that was nothing. Or a naked girl. Still, she told herself, it felt good to be on track, just doing her job, regardless of her feelings. And she believed that, she really did. At least until she laid down to go to sleep, and those other feelings came out to play, chasing each other around her head.

  And what were these “feelings” she had about Joe Brody? She had to admit there was a spark, immediately. And the fact that it struck while she was handcuffing him outside the cheesy strip club where he worked was also the first glaring red flag. That was why, when she got on this case, potentially the biggest of her career, and Joe turned up in the middle of it, again, like a bad penny (or a bad omen or a bad conscience), she’d told herself, screw it, I’m just going to play it straight and do my job. Let the chips fall where they may.

  And when the trail went cold in his bedroom, she did what a good investigator does, she went back to the last solid link: the dope operation. She dug out the plate number for that black Benz she saw leaving the scene and ran it. Turns out it was registered to Sergey Popov, who lived in Brighton Beach and worked as a manager at a nightclub, Zena II, that had been linked to the Bratva, the Russian mob. Not only that, when she checked the place out in the NYPD database, there’d been two 911 responses just last night, one a fire alert, which turned out to be false, and one a report of a bouncer with a gun. No arrests, but some of the very confused witnesses did say they heard gunfire nearby. And then there was the girl in Joe’s bed: also Russian.

  So there it was, a new Russian connection in her case. They decided to place this Sergey under surveillance. Parks and Andy were taking the night shift, and she was supposed to be resting up to take over tomorrow. It was all on track. Until she laid down and tried to shut her eyes. And the feelings came out to play.

  Anton was not the worrying type. He’d fought his way to the very top of a mountain made of broken bones and busted skulls largely because of what he lacked: conscience, regret, shame, self-doubt. If he wanted something, he took it. If someone got in his way, he hit them. If they hit back, or if he thought they might, he killed them. That was his philosophy and his business strategy and, though it might be simple, it had worked extremely well so far. He was, in essence, a bully. A thug brutal enough to bully the other thugs and bullies. And in modern Russia, as the lines between businessman, politician, criminal, and spy had all dissolved, bullying was a growth industry. They’d elected one president, the thug-in-chief. And now, here too, in America, they’d chosen a bully to lead, a President Putin of their own. Anton had loved New York since the moment he’d set foot in Brooklyn, but it was only now that he really felt American.

  That’s why, when Nikolai Koslov had first come to him, the decision had seemed as simple as any other. Nikolai was SVR, a cop and a spy working for the Kremlin, so not to be trusted, but he’d offered a good-faith gift, the identity of his mole in the Russian New York underworld, Yelena Noylaskya. Good, they would skin her alive and stuff her as a trophy, an example to the others. Thank you, Nikolai. Then he’d proposed his real business: some friends from US intelligence and some mercenaries, disguised as jihadi, were stealing Afghani dope, and had a foolproof way of getting it into New York. All they needed was distribution. Through intermediaries, they’d reached out to Little Maria, and it didn’t go well, especially not for the dead middlemen. But Anton had his own network, his own people. Maybe he could use an unlimited supply of pure Persian heroin?

  Sure. He’d be happy to buy, for his own territory. But he couldn’t move that kind of weight without expanding, and stepping on the toes of Little Maria, Alonzo, Uncle Chen . . . half the bosses in the city. Nikolai understood the problem. That’s when he introduced Toomey. Ex–Special Forces and now a mercenary, Toomey was the one who stole the dope and shepherded it through. He’d brought a team of his fighters here to New York. They’d clear the territory,
then Anton’s people would move in. Anton liked this idea: as a bully he understood the difference between a real soldier and a fellow bully, and he knew that few street criminals would be able to put up much of a fight against Toomey and his men. He talked to his top lieutenant, Sergey, who pointed out the problem: a bunch of white boys setting up shop on a Black or Spanish corner would be seen as cops or immediately attract the cops. It was Sergey’s idea to recruit the local kids, young delinquents with just enough sense to run a cop spot without caring too much where the package came from, as long as it was on the money. And man was it ever. They called it White Angel because it took you straight up to heaven. The plan worked beautifully and they began to make a fortune overnight. Until Gio and the others began to connect this new dope, White Angel, with the Zahir business. That created new issues. It got Gio’s friend Joe involved. Everyone knew he wouldn’t do regular hits or enforcement, that was why he was given free reign as sheriff, but now he was on the track of Zahir and that meant he was getting closer to Anton. And if he did unmask him, then Anton would have all the other bosses, the whole town, lined up against him, at once. Not even the other Russians would stick by him, once they knew he was in bed with the SVR.

  The one advantage Anton had left was surprise. So he talked to Toomey, and again, there was no hesitation. Like men of action, they acted. Coordinated strikes against their most likely adversaries—Maria, Alonzo, Gio, Chen—and a trap for Joe and Yelena as a bonus. But it hadn’t gone the way Toomey promised. And now, suddenly, things were not so simple, and for the first time that he could remember, Anton was worried.

  “What are you worrying about?” Toomey asked him. “We’ve got more firepower than any of them. More than the cops. And no one knows anything yet.”

  They were on the balcony of his party house, staring at the ocean, with a spread of caviar, coke, and cold vodka in front of him and warm hookers waiting inside, while his wife and kids waited in another, even bigger and better house nearby. The bully life was sweet, as long as you were top bully. But now he had no appetite for any of it, except the vodka and his cigarettes, which he lit end to end.

  “It doesn’t matter how big a gun you have, Toomey,” he answered. “This isn’t Chechnya. We can’t hold that territory without product.” He turned to Nikolai, who was lighting a fat Montecristo, playing the suave European, not concerned. “Do you realize what that bastard cost us, stealing the stash?”

  “Of course,” Nikolai said, with a shrug. “I can count.” He nodded at Toomey. “When does the next shipment come in?”

  “Day after tomorrow. We can hold out till then.” Toomey smiled reassuringly, and Anton nodded, reassured. Toomey, however, was lying. Joe had thrown a major wrench into his own plans and he was as worried as Anton. But unlike Anton, he was a soldier, a warrior, not a bully or a dumb thug. He was still confident of bringing his mission off with a high likelihood of success, as long as he met that next shipment and kept control of it.

  “Good, good,” Anton was saying. “And I want Joe dead.”

  “He can’t hurt us,” Toomey said, not wanting to get distracted from his own primary objective. Anton slammed a fist onto the table and the caviar scattered, bouncing crushed ice onto the coke, probably a thousand dollars’ worth of little fish eggs and white powder ruined. Nikolai cursed as some sour cream got on his pants. He dipped a napkin in water and began blotting.

  “He has already,” Anton thundered. “I want his head. And Yelena Noylaskya too.”

  “Fine,” Toomey said, magnanimously. Sometimes bullies needed to be appeased. Toomey understood this: Richards, his theoretical boss, was just a smarter, better-connected bully. “We have an operative, a freelance hitter. The best there is. I will put her on Brody and Noylaskya.”

  “Her? You’re sending a woman?” Anton leaned toward Nikolai. “You agree with this?”

  “My friend,” Nikolai said, tossing the napkin aside. “We are sending the devil.”

  Anton grinned. “Good.” He turned to Sergey who’d been standing at a respectful distance, his stomach growling. He’d had no time to eat and had not been happy to see all the food hit the floor. “Sergey!”

  “Yes sir?”

  “I’m sending you with Toomey here, to make sure the next shipment comes home with no problems, understand?”

  “Yes sir,” Sergey said, and nodded at Toomey.

  Fuck, Toomey thought, as he smiled and nodded back.

  But that wasn’t the only new complication to come up that night. Toomey and Nikolai took their limo back to the Wildwater building, pulled into the parking garage, and rode the express elevator to the executive suite, where Richards, his sidekick Jensen, and their new CIA liaison, Powell, were waiting. Powell looked tired and a little freaked out—no wonder if Vicky had been sucking the life force out of him. Nikolai had called her a devil. Fair enough. He would have added succubus if that dumb peasant Anton had understood. Now, however, she’d have a new game to play, and Powell might be tossed aside, like a half-eaten fly.

  “So . . . you settled things with our friend in Brooklyn?” Richards asked.

  “Yes. No problem,” Toomey said.

  Nikolai draped himself over a chair. “We told him we’d send Victoria after that Brody.”

  Richards frowned, brow furrowing as he thought, which always caused him discomfort. He liked having Victoria around because she made him feel tough, like the guy with the vicious Rottweiler on a leash; on the other hand, actually unleashing her made him uneasy, like the guy with the vicious Rottweiler running loose. But, on the third hand, Brody had stolen his dope, not to mention shooting down his chopper and nearly killing him. His pride still stung. “Good idea,” he declared, nodding, brow furrows vanishing as he finished thinking and made a command decision. “But now something else has come up. Jensen?”

  “Sir.” It was the nice, crisp way he said the word that had got him this job. He turned to the others. “Our sources in the FBI and local police have told us that someone new is poking into our operation. They don’t know much, but it could become a problem.”

  Richards pointed at Powell. “It’s your ex-wife, Mike.”

  Powell blanched. “Donna?” he asked. “I mean, Agent Zamora?” Jensen pressed a button and her federal ID photo appeared on the screen. Powell hadn’t spoken to her or even seen his daughter since he’d been back. He wanted to, he missed Larissa terribly, but somehow, even though he was home, he still felt too far away.

  “What’s your assessment?” Richards asked him. “Is she a serious threat?”

  “No,” Powell said immediately. “I mean, she knows her job, but I can control it, use the bureaucracy to throw them off or even shut it down. We can use national security. Say it’s classified.”

  Richards nodded. “Good. That’s smart,” he said and gave Powell a firm, friendly slap on the thigh, like a good leader, to let him know he understood. “Thanks for being a team player on this.” But still, after Powell left, he pulled Toomey aside, and asked him, “What do you think? Can Powell handle his ex?”

  Toomey shrugged and looked at the photo of her. She looked smart. And sexy. Too much of both for Powell maybe. “Who knows?” he told Richards. “He obviously couldn’t handle her when they were married. I better keep an eye on her myself.”

  Yolanda put her reading glasses on and pulled her chair up so that her nose was just inches from the screen. She’d been told by her daughter that this was bad for her eyes, but she felt more comfortable this way, like when she was driving. She was on one of those sites, hunting and pecking among the keys, filling in a dating profile. It had been her friend Gladys Brody’s idea; well actually, she had suggested it for Yolanda herself, urging her to get back out there and find herself a new man while she was still young enough. But Yolanda had another, better idea: she was making the profile for Donna.

  She knew she’d be annoyed, and refuse if Yolanda asked her, so she didn’t ask. She figured she’d just wait till the eligible bachelors starte
d lining up, then show her the choices and let her decide, answer one or delete the whole thing. What was the harm? She added a nice photo she had of her and filled out the questions. Where it asked, What type of guy are you looking for?—she wrote: Handsome. Brave. Honorable. Like law enforcement or fireman. Actually Donna had never mentioned firefighters. That was Yolanda’s idea. She’d seen one of those calendars at a friend’s house. In some of the pictures they weren’t wearing much more than boots and a helmet. Then, after thinking for a second she added: Ex-military.

  When Joe woke up on the couch the next morning, both Gladys and Yelena were standing over him. He sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  “What?” he asked.

  Gladys handed him a cup of coffee. Yelena handed him her phone.

  “It’s Juno. He’s been trying to call you.”

  A couple of hours later, they had once again taken command of the manager’s office at Club Rendezvous. As soon as everyone was settled with coffee or sodas and the door was shut, Joe spoke.

  “First, before we get into it, Liam, is that stash safe?”

  Liam smiled. “It’s buried next to some bones that have been there since the seventies. So I expect they’ll be all right a few days more.”

  “Good enough. Now Juno, why don’t you tell everyone what you found? You’ll explain it more clearly than I can.”

  “Right.” Juno stood up, as though delivering a report to the class. “So basically what I did was set up an algorithm based on the dates we have for when the dope shipments came to town, more or less. I didn’t know exact dates of course but within a one-week window. Then I searched the data and captured any events within that window or one week prior. This produced a mapping . . .”

  “What difference do the dates make?” Josh asked. “We know they had to send it before it got here?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Liam added, “you say this is the clear explanation?”

  Only Yelena nodded at him encouragingly. “Give him a chance. He’ll get there.”