Against the Law

by Against the Law (epub)

  Another wrenching scream came from the other room.

  “Speaking of which,” he added. “Sounds like your tool is just about repaired.”

  Richards nodded, then glanced at his watch. “And I better get back to that party. Keep me posted.” But he hesitated before leaving, suddenly feeling a wave of insecurity, remembering the pressure of the jagged glass against his throat, the totally dead, flat look in Brody’s eyes. Until Brody was dead, was he safe anywhere, even here? As if to reassure himself, he looked around his office. Everything appeared to be in order.

  36

  DONNA SAW TOOMEY—RICK—MAKING HIS way toward her in the crowd. She smiled. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. In some ways of course her mom was right, he was her type of man—but seeing him here in his VFW hat, and the whole thing with the parking—it all reeked of a certain kind of arrogance and entitlement that she got more than enough of on the job, where dick-swinging was a major pastime, and the egos behind it were as fragile and volatile as an angry toddler’s. Then again, at least he’d earned the right to swing his a little if he wanted.

  “Hey, Rick,” she said, smiling. “Glad you made it back. Sorry if walking in the crowd is a pain.”

  He shrugged and looked down at his cane as if he was surprised to see it. “You know, on a day like today, I carry this bullet fragment with more pride than any medal, because I got it defending America, and avenging 9/11.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “We all owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  “Not necessary,” he said, with a shrug. “But a little respect would be nice.” He sidled up closer. “You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you? You’ve chosen a life of service too. You wear that badge. Live by a code. Whether or not others honor it.”

  “I like to think so.”

  “Donna, let me ask you, one warrior to another. Is there something in your life you love so much you’d do anything to save it, no matter the sacrifice?”

  “Sure . . .” Donna said. “My daughter.”

  He smiled. “Of course. Your mother mentioned her.” He took his hat off, looked around, and then put it back on. “Well that’s exactly how I feel about America. Like a protective parent.”

  “Huh . . .” Donna said. “Well I guess everyone here feels that way.”

  “Do they? I don’t think so. I think a lot of them need a reminder. A wake-up call. Before it’s too late.”

  Too late for what? she was about to ask, definitely getting a bad vibe now, but also, as always, another part of her was working, eyes and ears scanning, and she heard a voice, a cop, saying, “Go right ahead, Deputy Marshal Logan,” and she thought, Oh, Blaze is here, and turned and saw, coming through the crowd, a curvy blonde with a Yankees cap and dark glasses and a blue blazer, white shirt, and khakis who looked sort of familiar, and kind of like a Fed, but was certainly not Blaze Logan, despite holding up a Federal ID and walking with her other hand lightly on her side-holstered gun.

  And just as it was clicking in Donna’s head and she was remembering, That’s the redhead from last night, she also saw her draw the gun, and extend her arm, like in slow motion, and point it right at, of all people, Rick Toomey.

  “Gun!” she yelled as, instinctively, she threw herself on him and knocked him to the ground, and something seared across her back, like a burning ember, and the sound of a gunshot echoed in her ears. And then she didn’t have time to think because total chaos broke out.

  Vicky was annoyed. With herself mostly but also with that Fed, Zamora, who she knew was Powell’s ex and who was definitely on her to-do list now, though not yet at the top.

  In the seconds after the shot went off, and she missed, her bullet nicking Zamora and then flattening into the ground, panic broke out around Vicky, with people yelling and pushing in every direction. She joined right in, pushing her way through the crowd, waving her badge, yelling “Federal Marshal!” and even holding the gun in the air, which scared the punters shitless. And witless. They turned and fled or ducked, as cops and Feds ran toward her and she waved them on, pointing toward the vortex of the disturbance. But the crowd was so big and so loud that within a few minutes she had crossed into another area where people had no idea anything was wrong, and she pocketed her weapon as she found a line of women waiting for a bathroom.

  “Security check, step aside,” she announced, brandishing the badge and brushing past the line. Quite useful really, these things, she thought, as she entered the first open stall, where she stuffed her hat and wig in the toilet, then removed her shirt and blazer, revealing a very tight T-shirt that said “Never Forget” on the front, with an image of the towers, and on the back, over a US flag, read “These colors don’t run.” Lastly she slid down her pants, stepping out of them to reveal a pair of cutoff shorts that barely covered her bum.

  “That one’s clogged,” she said to the next woman in line as she opened the door to the stall, then stuffed her bundled clothing, along with the gun and badge, into the trash.

  “I feel dizzy,” she giggled in a high, Southern accent, weaving through the crowd, bumping off of men, who didn’t mind, and then stumbling into a cop. “Oops! Sorry officer! I just feel so ditzy. I mean dizzy!”

  He smiled and put a hand on her back. “No problem miss, let’s get you some air,” he said, and led her out to freedom.

  37

  “SURE YOU DON’T WANT us to come in with you?” Josh asked. He was turned around, talking to Joe and Yelena in back, while Liam drove. They were downtown, near Wall Street, but the quiet, dark block, a narrow gorge cut into the towering buildings of old stone that seemed to almost touch above them, was a world away from the noise and crowds that were fading as things wound down at the 9/11 memorial, right across the narrow island. They pulled up behind Cash and Juno, who had been tracking Sergey’s black Benz, which was parked down the block.

  “That’s okay,” Joe said. “It looks less suspicious if we just go in together. You wait out here and catch any rats who try to flee.” To Yelena he said, “Ready?”

  “Of course.” She held up a bikini.

  “Brilliant,” Liam said, and to Joe. “Where’s yours?”

  He frowned at Yelena who was stuffing hers back into her tote bag. “I thought they gave you something. You didn’t tell me . . .”

  She shrugged and opened the door. “You better hope. Otherwise you will be fighting one handed.”

  He got out after her and shut the door, and they walked down the street, pausing by Cash and Juno as they passed.

  “Sergey went in about an hour ago. And it’s been a cast reunion since then.”

  “Anton?” Joe asked.

  “Yup and the soldier boys we met in Jersey. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see y’all.” He frowned. “Though I know I’d feel safer if you two had guns.”

  “No place to hide it,” Joe said. “Everybody has to strip in the locker rooms. We’d never get through to the baths.” Both had also left their phones, wallets, and keys in the car.

  Cash leaned across from behind the wheel. “This banya place. Is it like the massage joints Uncle Chen runs? A rub and tug?”

  “Only if your idea of a happy ending is a big Russian dude beating you with birch branches and cracking your neck.”

  Cash shrugged. “To each his own.”

  “It’s a shvitz,” Yelena told him. “More like the Korean spa in Queens.”

  “Gotcha,” Cash said. “Well maybe I will try it sometime. If it’s still standing after tonight.”

  “You do the talking,” Joe whispered to Yelena as they walked down the steps. A young woman, blondly plump and rosy-cheeked, looked up from her phone. Yelena greeted her in Russian, and Joe paid cash for two. After a bit more back and forth, she handed over a brand-new pair of men’s swim trunks, large, baggy, and decorated with a beach scene in tropical colors—sand, sea, palm, birds. Joe paid another twenty for it and she cut off the tags. Then they were given keys and sent to separate locker rooms. They changed quickl
y and met in the hall, Yelena emerging in her stylish black bikini and holding two rolled white towels, one of which she handed to Joe. He was in his new trunks.

  “You look great,” he told her.

  “Beauty and terror?” She smiled and gave a little spin, then gestured for him to turn as well. He raised his hands as if under arrest and turned.

  “Straight to terror?” he asked.

  She laughed. “No, I like these for you. The parrot makes your ass look good.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said, and opened the inner door for her.

  They were in the banya, the Russian bathhouse, one of the oldest in the city. The signs on the wall were in Russian, Hebrew, Yiddish, and misspelled English. An underground warren, its hallways connected a series of chambers, including a restaurant, saunas, a steam room, a cold plunge, massage rooms, and, down a floor below, a large swimming pool and Jacuzzi. The overall decor was fake Roman grotto—white painted columns, patterned tiles, plaster statues of naked cherubs and demure maidens, and murals depicting pastoral antiquity—hills, sea, ruins—not a bad job on the landscapes, but the people looked like they’d been done by kids. Everything was warm, wet, dank—moisture clung to every surface and water dripped like you were in a cave. You were in a cave—deep in the bowels of the city, the old saunas built into the foundation of the building.

  Yelena led Joe through the restaurant where wet customers wrapped in towels ate blintzes and drank borscht. A few ogled her as they passed, but no one seemed concerned, and she turned down the hall toward the Russian-style sauna. Two big, hairy men sat on a bench outside, one in baggy trunks and a heavy gold cross, the other with a wet towel around his shoulders and another around his waist. Yelena set their rolled towels on the bench and Joe reached for the door.

  “Sozhaleyu. Zakryto,” the one with the gold chain said, standing to block Joe’s way. “Broken,” he added in English, though steam was visible through the small window in the door. Meanwhile the sitting man winked appreciatively at Yelena, who smiled back.

  Joe nodded, humbly, and turned to go, then, spinning back for momentum, slammed his right fist into gold-chain’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, leaning forward, and Joe stepped aside, grabbing his arm and tripping him in one motion. The big man slid smoothly on the wet tile and went down, knocking his head hard on the bench. Yelena, meanwhile, had moved fast, yanking the wet towel from around the sitting, leering man’s neck and whipping it across his eyes. He cursed and reached for her blindly. She eluded him easily, kicking his ankle out from under him and, as he stumbled to his knees, she looped the wet towel around his throat, pulling it tight. Grunting, he struggled, but she had her foot on his back now and gripped hard. After a few seconds, he passed out, and she let him drop. She grabbed her rolled towel and handed Joe his. He opened the door to the sauna.

  The room was like the inside of a brick pizza oven, or a deep inner VIP chamber of Hades. Raw bedrock, granite blackened with age formed one whole wall, the others were stone and brick. Staggered rows of wooden benches ran along three sides, and, in the corner, an iron furnace wheezed and growled, radiating waves of stunning heat, a red heart flaming behind the window in the furnace door. A wooden bucket with a ladle sat under a dripping faucet. Anton was laid out like a lox in a smokehouse, facedown on the top bench, close to the ceiling, while a minion scrubbed him down with soapy water. Sergey sprawled on the other top bench, and man-spread across the lower shelves, legs wide, arms out, were the three mercs, Trey, Dirk, and Baxter, slicked in sweat.

  The intense heat seemed to slow everything down, vision blurred, time melted, and it took a second for the men to react to the two new bodies in the room. First they all looked at Yelena, grinning like wolves. Then Trey looked at Joe.

  “Hey.” He opened his eyes wider. “You killed Tony!”

  Joe frowned, trying to remember. He looked to Yelena. “Who’s Tony?”

  She shrugged, then, before anyone else could move, she kicked Dirk in the chin, as Joe snatched up the wooden bucket and whacked it across Baxter’s head. Now everyone moved. Trey leapt up in a rage and came at Joe, swinging, while Sergey, thinking a bit further ahead, reached into a robe that was hanging on the wall and drew a switchblade, which he clicked open. Dirk bounced back up and dove for Yelena’s legs while the big boy who’d been sluicing down Anton turned and swung his bucket at her head.

  As Joe turned to block Sergey’s knife with his towel, Trey landed a hard right to his head, knocking him off center, then came up with a roundhouse that caught his jaw. As he spun, Joe kicked back, catching Trey behind the ankle, and elbowing him hard in the chest so that he slid on the wet floor, landing with a hard thud. He stopped Sergey’s blade with his towel, which was slashed and, stepping back, drew a combat knife, a long, evil blade that had been rolled inside the towel. He faced both men, winding the towel around his arm for defense.

  Yelena, meanwhile, having deflected the bucket, was twisting free of Dirk’s grip while striking him hard across the ear with a cupped palm, rupturing his eardrum. By now, however, the big masseur was on her, leaping down from the upper bench. She pivoted into his body as he landed on her and both went flying back against the stone wall. Then, abruptly, he stopped, his broad body pressed against hers, gasping as his eyes went wide in surprise and pain. She stared right back into them, now holding him tight, as though in a dance she was leading. She let go and he slid away, torso covered in blood. Blood dripped from the combat knife she’d had sheathed in her own towel. He dropped to the floor and the red ran into the wooden slats and away.

  By then, however, Dirk was back on his feet and Anton was in motion. Cursing in Russian, Anton lifted the squeeze bottle of soap and squirted it in Yelena’s eyes. Blinded, she tried to slash out at Dirk but he slammed her hard and she skidded back, hissing like a scalded cat when her shoulder fell against the furnace door.

  Joe saw this, but was too penned in to help, fending off Sergey’s blade with his towel-wrapped arm and slashing and kicking at Trey, who was closing in. Then Baxter, who’d been stunned on the floor, reached under a bench and drew a .32, a flat automatic that he aimed up at Joe. Joe jumped. The bullet went under him and ricocheted off the stone wall, echoing in the small chamber. As he leapt over Baxter, who was crouching, Joe’s left foot connected with Trey’s chin, knocking him off balance on the soapy floor. He fell back. Sergey was lifting his arm high for a downward stab with his blade, and as Joe passed, he slashed deep across Sergey’s wrist, severing the arteries and tendon. The switchblade clattered to the floor.

  Gritting her teeth, Yelena caught the handle of the furnace and kept from falling as the door swung back, then shoved her towel into the open mouth. It caught immediately. As Dirk came at her, she flung the burning towel onto his face and he stumbled back, panicked by the flames. Anton, seizing the moment, ran from the sauna, leaving the door open, yelling in Russian for help.

  Now Joe, landing on the upper bench, spun around, kicking Baxter in the back of head, sending him sprawling, and stuffed the bucket down on Trey’s head just as he regained his feet. He hurled his blade, which arced through the humid air and struck deep into Sergey’s chest. Launching himself, Joe jumped onto Trey and knocked him forward, into the open door of the sauna. Sergey lay fallen against the furnace now, his eyes blank, his body steaming against the hot iron, but he felt nothing. He would never feel anything again. Joe pulled his knife free and grabbed Yelena, giving Baxter another hard kick in the kidneys.

  “Come on.” They pushed into the hall as Trey rolled under their feet. The two goons were gone, fleeing or maybe fetching weapons. There was no sign of Anton. “How’s the burn?” Joe asked as they hurried down the hall. Now he heard yelling from upstairs.

  “Hot,” Yelena admitted.

  “Maybe this will help,” Joe said, and they jumped into the cold plunge. A small, chest-high pool full of frigid water, it was meant to shock the system after the hot rooms and it worked, dulling Yelena’s burn slightly. Th
en, as the two goons returned and Trey came down the hall, they ducked low in the water, up against the wall of the pool where they hoped the extended concrete rim would hide them from view.

  “You see where they went?” Trey asked the goons. Baxter and Dirk were following behind him from the sauna. The goons shook their heads. One now had a gun, the other a bat.

  “Okay,” Trey said. “Let’s check everything. Spread out.”

  Joe and Yelena remained motionless, careful not to splash, heads still under the rim of the pool, breathing slow with their bodies still submerged in the water. It was very cold. Joe could feel his fingers and toes going numb. Finally, the men moved.

  “Now,” Yelena whispered, and they crawled up onto the floor. They ducked into the closest door, the steam room. Joe’s towel was shredded from Sergey’s blade and soaked from the cold water. He tore it into strips and tied them around Yelena’s arm while she kept an eye on the glass door. They were in a tiled box with benches and vents on the floor for steam. Joe climbed to the thermostat and stuffed the remains of his wet, ragged towel around it. The cold water triggered the mechanism and the room began to fill with thick clouds of hissing steam. Soon he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. Yelena was invisible beside him. Then the door opened.

  When Anton made it out onto the street, he couldn’t believe his luck. He’d fled crazily through the banya, sending his men back to fight, and huffing up the stairs. He even had time to grab his robe, which contained his wallet and keys. He pulled it on now as he hit the sidewalk, tasting the fresh (or at least city-scented) air, seeing the night sky (or at least the city’s lamplit ceiling), feeling the flow of normal life around him, and he realized, putting a hand in a pocket, even his cigarettes were there. He was alive and dying for a smoke. That’s when a car door opened, blocking his path.