“Keep smiling and don’t make a noise or a lot of people will die and you’ll be the first of them. You understand?”
Ae-Cha froze, then nodded nervously.
Koschey shepherded her forward, his stance casual despite his viselike grip on her arm, directing her toward the stairwell, smiling at her and at a passing waiter.
“Let’s go see Jonny,” he added, low and to her ear.
She nodded again, more controlled this time, as they passed another waiter and pushed through the doorway and into the stairwell.
“Quickly now,” he hissed.
She led him up to the top of the stairs and knocked on the metal door. There was no answer. She glanced at Koschey, who knocked on the door himself, mimicking her tap.
Still nothing.
He pressed the fiberglass-reinforced-plastic blade to her neck. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” she stammered. “He must have gone out.”
He pressed the blade harder as he studied her, ascertaining whether she was telling the truth. “Try harder.”
“This is his place,” she insisted. “If he’s not in there, he’s gone out.”
She was shaking too much to be lying.
He asked, “You have his number on your phone?”
Ae-Cha nodded.
“All right. Let’s go.” He herded her back toward the stairs. “And let’s hope you mean a lot to him.”
***
JONNY WAS GLAD TO have Bon along for the ride.
Bon was exactly the company he needed on the drive down to Brighton Beach. Someone who didn’t ask questions and did what he was asked. Most of the time. Plus the big guy was useful in a fight and knew how to party. Since Shin had swapped Colombian powder for formula powder—another member of the crew lost to trivial domesticity—he was no fun at all. Jonny could almost hear Shin’s teeth chattering nervously from the far seat, by the passenger window. But at least the bookworm had been useful tonight. If the van proved effective in some way, then it had to be worth something. Or maybe he’d just keep it. Ask Shin to break it down in his own time so he had a better chance of understanding it.
But first Jonny wanted to see what happened when he threw the switch with people around.
They took Van Wyck and then Belt and Shore, covering the twenty miles to Brighton Beach in less than half an hour. They followed Ocean almost to the water, then took the off-ramp back around to Brighton Beach Avenue.
Jonny knew all about the Sledgehammer. Mirminsky had a reputation for being as brutal as he was greedy. Deals with the kuvalda were always completely one-sided—honored or broken on a whim with no shame and apparently no fear of any retaliation. His guys may not have been the last ones to have Daphne—or maybe there was some kind of power play going on within Mirminsky’s crew—but either way the fat fuck had taken Daphne in the first place and was clearly up to his weasel eyes in the whole thing. Whatever the van did—if it did anything at all—was no less than the beetroot-eating bastard and his followers deserved.
It was Bon who had reminded Jonny about Mirminsky’s original bar-restaurant, Lolita, which sat at the top end of one of the streets that ran south from Brighton Beach Avenue. Atmosphère was way too hot at the moment. There were always paparazzi camped outside and Jonny had no interest in unwittingly frying the brain of a Knicks star and his reality-show starlet girlfriend, especially not since he was an avid fan. Lolita was an entirely different proposition, the clientele leaning more toward meatheads and past-their-prime platinum-blond gold diggers. Not that they’d find much gold on Brighton Beach Avenue other than what the local bratki wore around their necks.
They parked almost directly opposite the bar, which appeared to be full, even though it was midweek. Large windows on either side of the entrance gave a clear view of a crush at least seven deep facing the bar and several oversubscribed tables. A sizeable throng of customers stood outside, smoking and laughing. A small, wiry Uzbek-looking man wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, and white leather boots was keeping the hard-core nicotine addicts amused—most likely with jokes that would make Louis C.K. blush. A tall, raven-haired woman teetering on six-inch heels was flicking her tresses from side to side, desperately trying to attract the attention of a young guy in a white T-shirt and fashionably torn blue jeans, who nonetheless appeared to be more interested in the short guy’s comedy routine. The rest of the group looked like gym-ripped thugs or low-level Mafiya enforcers—guys who would never pimp, run numbers, or distribute product across more than a few city blocks.
Jonny waited as Shin squeezed between the seats and went through the narrow doorway into the rear compartment before following him through, a pair of ear protectors already slung around his neck. He kept the cabin door open so he could see the restaurant from the back.
“Get behind the wheel,” he told Bon. “In case we have to make a quick exit.”
Bon did so. He then stuffed a couple of earplugs into his ears before slipping on a crash helmet. It was the best that Shin could manage at short notice.
“All set, Pulgasari?” Jonny asked him.
Bon always smiled when people used his nickname. He loved being compared to the giant, metal-eating beast of the infamous North Korean monster movie. He whacked his helmet hard with both hands, then nodded and gave Jonny a thumbs-up. Jonny couldn’t help but laugh at Bon’s antics as he donned his own ear protectors. Bon pulled out a small case from a pocket of his cargo pants and started to chop out some lines.
The van really was the perfect cover story, Jonny thought. Who was going to question a food-delivery vehicle anywhere near shops or restaurants?
Bon snorted a couple of lines and passed the remaining powder to Jonny, who sent them up his nose with minimal fuss.
“We ready?” he asked Shin.
Shin nodded, visibly jittery, and pulled on his ear protectors.
Jonny tapped Bon’s helmet and shouted out, “Let’s do it, oppa Brooklyn–style,” mimicking Psy’s Gangnam dance moves.
Bon made a big show of counting down with his fingers, like a TV producer, then flicked the switch to On.
With Jonny still bopping to an imaginary beat, they all stared out at the restaurant.
Nothing happened.
They waited ten, fifteen seconds. Nothing. Jonny turned to Shin and gave him a “What gives” gesture. Shin grimaced back an “I don’t know.” Jonny pointed at the laptop and mouthed, “Try another setting.”
Shin highlighted another preset button on the laptop’s screen and clicked it.
Still nothing.
At least, not for the first ten seconds or so.
Then it started.
***
I COULD SEE THE small crowd outside the restaurant as we got there and pulled in.
We climbed out and were met by the SSG who’d called us moments earlier, a young agent by the name of Jaffee.
“There’s an ambulance on the way,” he told us.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.
“He’s bleeding badly. He’s got a big cut on his side,” he said, pointing to the back of his left flank. “He was walking with his friends and he just fell. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’d been stabbed.”
I muttered a curse and bolted toward the restaurant’s door, yanking my gun out and hoping we weren’t too late again. “Inside,” I told him, and Aparo as I rushed ahead. “It’s our guy. He’s here.”
42
We charged into the restaurant with one thought ringing through my head.
We’re late. We’re too damn late.
“Call Gaines,” I told Jaffee as we paused at the door, referring to his partner, the SSG who was watching the Green Dragon’s service entrance in the alley out back. “Make sure he’s got the back covered. And tell him to stay sharp.”
I quickly took in the huge room as he alerted his partner. It was still rammed with people, even this late. I tried to avoid causing a panic and held my gun down by my thigh, its barrel run
ning along my leg, minimizing its profile. It still made the patrons closest to me recoil at seeing it. I had my other hand out and flat in a stilling motion, flicking them a “Keep calm” look while trying to stay alert to anything threatening coming my way.
“He’s on post and clear,” Jaffee said.
I nodded through my concentration. It was tough to pick out any one suspect through the crowd, so I just pushed forward through the narrow aisles, heading for the swinging doors and the stairwell in the kitchen, Aparo and Jaffee close behind.
I was just going through the kitchen door when I saw them coming out of the doorway that led to the stairs: Ae-Cha, her face locked in stoic concentration, and a well-dressed guy with gelled-back hair and glasses right next to her. She didn’t look like she was having a great time, which might have had something to do with the firm grip he had on her upper arm.
Her eyes caught mine in the same instant his did.
The few seconds that followed were a blur.
***
IT WAS UNREAL, though it didn’t start out as such.
The first minute or so after Bon had first flicked the switch was notable for nothing more interesting than the Uzbek grabbing his head as though he’d just gotten a migraine and the tall woman almost toppling to the ground and falling into the arms of the younger guy.
Bon had burst into hysterical laughter at that, but then, in Jonny’s experience, Bon had a pretty low entertainment threshold.
Jonny tried to process what he was seeing.
“What the hell’s going on?” he shouted to Shin.
“I don’t know,” Shin answered. “But it’s messing them up.”
Jonny watched in fascination as the crowd took on a confused, lethargic stance. Some of them sat down and stared out, others looked around as if they were lost. Jonny wondered if Sokolov’s aim at the exchange hadn’t been some kind of disorientation, and though it was interesting, it wasn’t the kind of damage he had in mind. After a moment of watching the crowd squirm with discomfort, he turned to Shin.
“Try another one,” he yelled to Shin.
Shin hit the second setting.
Nothing happened at first, then one by one, the people outside Lolita were clutching their stomachs and curling up with pain. Jonny watched in rapt attention as a woman dry-retched like a demented cat trying to heave up a mammoth hairball. It was beyond freaky. After a few moments, he tore his attention away and excitedly told Shin, “Another one.”
Shin hit the third preset.
Then things got interesting.
The crowd outside the restaurant looked like they were coming out of their discomfort. They were straightening up, talking to each other curiously, clearly mystified by what had happened. Then an argument started between the young guy in the ripped jeans and the wiry Uzbek. The ripped guy poked the Uzbek in the chest, the Uzbek pushed him back—then the ripped guy unleashed a ferocious right hook out of the blue onto the head of the wiry Uzbek.
Next to them, the dark-haired woman had launched herself at the shorter man’s attacker, raking two sets of nails down his face and driving a knee full-force into the poor bastard’s groin.
Other fights were brewing quickly, and within two heartbeats they escalated wildly. A bald, middle-aged pimp stubbed out his cigarette on the tall woman’s back while her nails were still embedded in the young guy’s face. At the same time, a huge steroid-bodied thug had swung a lump-hammer fist into the stomach of the tattoo-necked guy standing next to him.
Jonny already had one leg swung over the seats from the back of the van as he clambered into the front seat for a better view, more than happy with the preset for the time being. On the bench next to him, Bon was clapping in delight and laughing uncontrollably, while in the back, Shin was watching it all through the open doorway in silent terror.
Lightning-fast, Neck Tattoo pulled out a knife and jabbed it into the big lug’s kidney. Meanwhile the young guy had managed to fight off the woman and land a vicious kick between her legs. She collapsed to the ground, her screams so loud that Jonny could hear them—albeit faintly—through the ear protectors.
Her screams were muffled completely by the long-haired guy, who came crashing through the left-hand window and landed directly on top of her, blood pouring from a deep gash in his face.
Jonny couldn’t believe his eyes.
***
I SWUNG MY GUN up just as I shouted, “Everybody down!” as loud as I could.
Ivan was just as fast. He had his gun out before I’d even finished the second word, his arm pivoting up like it was on a spring release and locking onto us without overshooting by a single degree.
In that split second, I couldn’t shoot. Not with Ae-Cha there. And he knew it. I also knew he wasn’t prone to qualms or partial to having a chitchat before he started firing, so I dove to the right while shouting out my warning and took cover behind a food-prep counter just as the first bullet whizzed past me and plowed into the back of a heavily laden waiter who had paused to let me through before delivering his platter. I heard the rattle of his tray’s contents crashing through the swinging doors and the first panicked shrieks from inside the restaurant just as two other rounds pounded the side of the unit behind which I was crouched.
The kitchen staff freaked out and scrambled for cover as our shooter rapidly moved on to his other targets. Pots and plates were crashing to the ground as I turned and saw Jaffee take one in the shoulder by the base of his neck as he was darting to safety. I couldn’t see Aparo anywhere, then I heard him yell, “Everyone stay down!” followed by “Sean, you okay?”
“Still in one piece!” I yelled back as I gripped the gun in two hands while pumping air into my lungs, debating when to stick my head out from behind the counter and risk having Ivan carve me that third eye he seemed to relish.
“Jaffee’s down,” Aparo rasped.
“I saw,” I shot back over the pandemonium of screaming and fleeing patrons coming from the restaurant.
“I’m calling it in,” he said.
We needed an EMS team here pronto, but backup wouldn’t help with Ivan. This was going down right now, fast. I felt shackled. There was no point in me swinging out firing—I wasn’t going to risk hitting Ae-Cha, and all I’d be doing is presenting Ivan with my non-Kevlar-balaclavaed self.
I heard noise from their direction, and risked a peek to see the shooter hustling Ae-Cha toward the exit. I lined up a shot, desperately looking for just a couple of clear inches of any part him—head, shoulder, arm—any flesh of his that I could hit to unravel his tight hold of the situation, but he was being too careful to give me even that. I only got about three seconds to find that shot before his eyes spun back toward me, saw me, and his gun came back up and spat another careful volley of rounds at me, hammering the counters in front of and behind me a split second after I dived for cover.
I had war drums going off in my ears, and my breaths were coming in short and fast. I caught a glimpse of Aparo behind another counter, where he was tending to Jaffee. Frustration burned through his face, mirroring mine. I gestured to ask about Jaffee, he nodded positively. Then the ruckus from the other end of the kitchen got more intense and I gritted my teeth and I swung back out, my Hi-Power choked by a two-handed grip.
Then Ivan was at the back exit, Ae-Cha still shielding him from my aim. He saw me and let off a couple more shots before disappearing out the door and pulling her out behind him.
I sprang up and rushed the exit, flying down the aisle past huddled, cowering kitchen staff and dodging pots and spilled food all over the tiled floor. My heart spiked as I heard two shots before I even reached the door. I burst through it just as Ivan was tearing down the alley in Gaines’s Bureau sedan, with Ae-Cha next to him.
The SSG himself was lying on the ground, bent in permanent repose in front of a Dumpster with a big green dragon stenciled on it, a small dark hole in his forehead.
43
Call him,” Koschey ordered Ae-Cha.
He kep
t checking the rearview mirror of his Yukon while he drove on without a particular destination. He’d quickly swapped cars less than three blocks from the restaurant, dumping the Bureau car and hustling Ae-Cha into the SUV he’d left there. It had been a calculated gamble that had paid off. Bureau cars and police cruisers had trackers on them, complications he preferred to avoid if given the choice.
He didn’t know where Jonny was at the moment, but his mind was already thinking ahead, evaluating possible venues for what he was planning. He selected a couple of options as Ae-Cha pulled out her iPhone and called Jonny.
***
JONNY WAS HAVING TROUBLE processing the astonishing sight he was witnessing.
Lolita had descended into a mad frenzy of extreme, unbridled violence. The huge thug—seemingly oblivious to the knife wound in his side—had beaten Neck Tattoo’s face to a bloody purple mess and had started pounding the back of his head into the sidewalk.
A table had smashed through the right-hand window, followed by two young guys trading blows with broken bottles.
The long-haired guy had staggered to his feet only to be knocked down again by the Uzbek. The two of them were rolling around on the ground—a blur of gouging, biting, and punching.
The tall woman had removed her heels, dragged herself upright, and begun to rain down stiletto blows on the pimp’s bald head, which already looked like a ball of vanilla ice cream covered in raspberry sauce. Then a miniskirted woman wearing a cheap fur coat emerged from the bar, took a snub-nose from her purse, and shot the young guy in the stomach at point-blank range.
Bon was ecstatic—reveling in the kind of sustained excitement he usually reserved for watching Chan-wook Park’s vengeance trilogy back-to-back. He was laughing hysterically and pounding away at the steering wheel.
Jonny was mesmerized, but not by the blood and the violence. He was already thinking about all the things he could do with this technology at his disposal. Then he noticed Bon’s pounding of the wheel—the big man was now really having a go at it.
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