White Russian

by Steven Henry

  She saw more muzzle flashes coming from between two seats about halfway back. Shifting her aim just a little above her opponent's gun, she pulled the trigger twice.

  The rifle fire stopped. Erin, half-deafened, could still hear more women screaming. She didn't know if there were other enemies. There were definitely innocents all over the place.

  “Friendly!” Webb called, coming up behind her. He'd managed to lever his paunchy body into the plane.

  “Cover me,” she said and started toward the back of the plane, checking each row as she went.

  She found six young women, all of them riding a heavy dose of drugs and panic. In the row she'd taken fire from, a man was slumped on a seat. He was one of the big, blond guys who'd been guarding Vlasov at the restaurant. She recognized the calmer one, the one Tatiana had said was Russian special forces. He still had his rifle, an AK-74, in one hand. A bullet hole had been punched through his forehead just over his left eyebrow. His eyes were wide open, staring right at her.

  Erin stared back for a second. She knew she should feel something, and figured she probably would as soon as everything was over, but right then, she was just glad he wasn't still shooting at her. She pulled the gun out of his limp fingers, laid it on the floor, and moved on to the next row.

  It was the emergency exit row, over the wing. The door was standing open. Erin, cursing, ran to the doorway.

  Peter Vlasov was on the wing, working his way toward the tip.

  “NYPD!” she shouted, taking aim. “Put your hands in the air!”

  Vlasov looked over his shoulder and made eye contact with her. In his face she saw so much fear that she almost felt sorry for him for a second. Vic had been right after all. He was a bully and, without his goons, a coward.

  “Hands up!” she shouted again.

  Vlasov started turning toward her. His left hand was in the air, but his right hand was low, inside his coat.

  Erin fired.

  Vlasov folded over and collapsed on the wing, clutching at his belly. He lay there, writhing in pain. Erin kept the gun pointed at him. To her own surprise, her hands were perfectly steady.

  “Clear behind!” Webb said.

  “Clear,” she replied.

  Webb came up beside her, pointing his revolver at the downed man. “Was he armed?” he asked.

  “I... I think so,” Erin said. The thought hit her, what if he’d just been reaching for a cell phone or something? She remembered every news story about every man who'd been holding his wallet when a cop had shot him. “He had his hand in his coat. I thought...”

  “Let's check him,” Webb said. The two detectives stepped out onto the wing, walking carefully. The aluminum was springy under their feet, the wingtip bouncing slightly with every step.

  Vlasov was in too much pain and shock to understand a word they were saying. Webb crouched in front of the wounded Russian and patted down the man's coat. He felt something, reached in, and drew out an automatic pistol. Wordlessly, he held it up for Erin to see.

  All the tension went out of Erin when she saw the gun. She leaned against the fuselage and wiped sweat from her forehead. She felt lightheaded and a little dizzy, but her hands still didn't shake.

  Airport police vehicles were closing in. There really was nothing quite like the cavalry arriving late, Erin thought sourly. Just in time to help pick up the bodies. Webb was on his phone, calling for an ambulance. Vic limped into view on the runway below the wing. He stared up at Erin. They shared a long look. Then he nodded to her.

  She nodded back.

  Chapter 17

  “Four suspects dead, two more wounded, one injured detective, and a destroyed police vehicle.” Lieutenant Andrew Keane, NYPD Internal Affairs, leaned across his desk, fingertips forming a steeple in front of him. “What are your thoughts?”

  “They're in my report, sir,” Erin said.

  Two days, mostly full of paperwork, had passed since the shootout at the airport. She and Keane were in his office on the fourth floor of Precinct 8. The youngest Lieutenant in the NYPD smiled thinly at her. Everything about him was sharp. His nose, the tilt of his eyebrows, and his eyes, so dark brown they were almost black.

  “You haven't shot anyone before, have you?” he asked.

  Erin felt a twinge of irritation at his mind games. He knew the answer as well as she did. He knew everything in her file. “I've shot two other men, sir,” she said. “One during the art gallery heist, the other at Frankie Fergus’s bar.”

  Keane was still smiling. “You know what I mean, Detective. This is the first time you've killed anyone.”

  “Yeah,” Erin said.

  “Are you handling it okay? You sleeping all right?”

  “I've had my psych eval,” she said. Which you also know, asshole, she thought but didn't say.

  “Of course,” Keane said, glancing at her personnel file where it lay on his desktop. “I just have a few questions for you.”

  Erin waited for him to ask them.

  “Why didn't you let the airport police handle things at JFK?”

  “It was our job,” Erin said. “I wanted to see it through.”

  “You'd been in a gunfight just a few hours before,” he said. “You nearly got killed. Your car was annihilated. Hadn't you done enough for one night?”

  “I've never asked other officers to pick up my slack,” Erin said.

  Keane's smile turned into a grin. “I agree,” he said. “In fact, looking at your file, one could get the impression that the opposite is true. Now, looking at your actions in the Brighton Beach shooting, I don't think there's anything you need to worry about. You were taking fire before you even got out of your car. CSU is still working the angles on the scene, trying to figure out whose bullets killed Paul Ivanov, yours or Detective Neshenko's, but it hardly matters. In any case, you used entirely appropriate force given the situation. I believe you will be receiving a commendation for valor.

  “Now, with respect to the airport, how did you know where to go?”

  “A tip from one of my CIs.”

  “Which one?”

  “Sir,” Erin said carefully, “if I toss his name around, he won't be very confidential.”

  “You don't trust my discretion?” Keane asked, raising one of his eyebrows.

  “He wouldn't,” Erin said. “He deals with a lot of underworld types. If word gets out that he gave a tip to a cop, his life might be in danger.”

  “I see,” Keane said. “And I admire your personal loyalty. It's a scarce commodity these days, and refreshing to encounter. I'll be talking with Detective Neshenko, of course, about any reckless endangerment he may have perpetrated by, ah, parking a car in front of a moving jet aircraft.”

  “They were about to take off,” Erin said. “We had to stop them. Vic—Detective Neshenko—just did what he thought he had to do.”

  “Personal loyalty,” Keane said again. “Don't worry, Detective. This isn't a headhunting expedition. We just have to perform our due diligence. After all, someone may look through these files someday. We don't want them to think there was some sort of departmental coverup, do we?”

  “Just ask the rest of your questions,” Erin said, adding “sir,” as an afterthought.

  “Have it your way, Detective. Why did you climb onto an airplane you knew contained armed men who were perfectly willing to shoot at police?”

  That was an easy one. “The girl,” she said. “If they had one girl on board, there were probably others. Vlasov had killed witnesses in the past. I thought their best chance for survival was if we went in right away.”

  “What were you thinking at that moment?”

  “Honestly, sir?” Erin said. “I was wishing I had a backup piece of my own, so I didn't need to borrow Vic's. I wasn't used to the Sig-Sauer. I was hoping I didn't miss.”

  He actually laughed at that. “I suppose you'll be carrying a backup gun from now on.”

  “Absolutely.” Erin wasn't laughing.

  “Did you want
to kill Vlasov?”

  The question came out of nowhere. “What?”

  “It's a simple question,” Keane said, but his eyes had narrowed and hardened. “You knew he was a pimp, a kidnapper, a rapist, and a murderer. When you had him in your sights on the wing of that airplane, did you want to kill him?”

  Erin thought it over. Those dark eyes drilled into her. She wondered what the right answer was. Then she thought, the hell with it, and told him the truth.

  “I wanted to take him in,” she said. “I wanted to slap the cuffs on him and see the look on his face when the cell door slammed shut behind him. I wanted to swing it extra-hard, make it really echo, so he knew for damn sure he was never getting out. I didn't want to shoot him dead. That would’ve been too easy. For both of us.”

  “Have you spoken to the hospital about him?” Keane asked.

  “Yeah. They say he'll live.”

  “Yes, I've read the medical report,” Keane said. “They had to resection his bowel and pump him full of antibiotics to stop sepsis from setting in. He may be carrying a colostomy bag around Sing-Sing with him.” The Lieutenant's eyes lost some of their hardness, taking on a hint of amusement. “Lots of people talk about tearing someone a new asshole, Detective. You're the first one I know of who's actually done it.”

  “I was aiming center mass,” Erin said. “I overcompensated for the recoil and hit low. Unfamiliar gun, like I said.” She was a little ashamed of the shot. Gut-shooting a man was a hell of a lousy thing to do, even to a bastard like Vlasov.

  “Your commanding officer, Lieutenant Webb, clearly heard you order Vlasov to put his hands up twice before you fired,” Keane said. “It's highly unusual for an officer to be involved in two shootings in the same night. You understand the need for scrutiny, I'm sure.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Keane stood up. So did Erin. The Lieutenant extended his hand across his desk. Surprised, Erin took it and shook.

  “Good work, Detective,” he said. “I knew you had excellent potential. I'm glad to see you filling your appointed role with such...” He paused, searching for the word. “Zeal,” he finished.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said.

  “You're a credit to the force, O'Reilly,” he said. “I'll continue to watch your career development with great interest. And enjoy the remainder of your administrative leave. As much as you can, that is. I suspect you're already itching to get back on active duty.”

  “Yes, sir,” Erin said and got out of there.

  Why was everyone so concerned with how she was feeling? Erin felt fine. Like Vic had said about himself, she'd done what she had to do. It hadn't been fun. It wasn't something she looked forward to doing again. But she'd keep strapping on her gun and her shield.

  Her dad called the night after the incident. The NYPD hadn't released the names of any of the detectives involved, but Sean O'Reilly had a lot of friends in the department, and someone had passed him the word.

  Erin was on her couch, one beer in her stomach, another in her hand, watching more reruns of “24.” When her phone lit up with her parents' number, she almost didn't answer it. But that would just make her folks worry more.

  “O'Reilly,” she said.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Sean said. “How's it going?”

  He'd always be a cop. He was leading with an open question, trying to get her to give up information without letting on what he already knew. “I think you know, Dad,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sergeant Malcolm,” Erin said. “Desk officer at Precinct 8. You and he used to work together when he was in Queens.”

  “You really are a natural detective, kiddo. Yeah, Brendan called me. I know about the thing in Brooklyn. I know you're not hurt.” He paused. “Not physically. I dunno. We hear all this stuff about this PTSD these days, you know... the emotional thing.”

  “Dad,” Erin said. “Don't pretend to be a psych guy. You're no good at it.”

  “Hey,” he said. “I just want you to know I'm here for you. I know how it gets out there.”

  “Shot many guys, have you?” The words popped out of her without any planning.

  “You know I haven't,” he said. “That's not the point.”

  “That's exactly the point,” she said. She was suddenly angry, and she didn't even know why. “That's why you're calling me right now. You're worrying about your little girl 'cause she just shot three guys. Two of them are dead and the third's in intensive care. You know what, Dad? I carry a gun. I'm a cop. And every day I go out there, I know maybe I'm gonna have to use it. Didn't you realize that when I put on the shield?”

  “Of course I know that!” Sean snapped. “I knew you might, I just hoped you'd never have to!”

  There was a silence that stretched out long enough for both of them to think about what they'd just said. Then her dad said, much quieter, “I know other guys who've had to shoot suspects. It's never a good thing, never the way they wanted it to go. Killing's not supposed to be easy, Erin. We're not supposed to be okay with it. It's the worst thing people can do to each other.”

  Erin thought about Tatiana and some of the things the Russian girl had said. She wasn't sure that was true.

  “The thing that bothers them the most,” Sean went on, “is wondering if they'd done something just a little bit different, could the day have ended without anyone on a slab at the morgue? It eats them up. And it's a stupid question.”

  “Is it?” she replied. “Dad, these guys could've given up. Or we could've held back at the airport. Backup was on the way. Once we stopped the plane, we could've waited for a negotiator, talked them down. I almost got myself killed, Dad, and I blew a guy's brains out.”

  “Stop it, Erin,” her dad said, in the same tone of voice he'd used when she was acting out as a teenager. “The review board's gonna ask those questions, because that's their job. Your job was to bring in some dangerous guys and rescue some really unlucky young women. You did your job. The bad guys made their choice. You're right, they could've given up. But they didn't. That's not on you.”

  To Erin's surprise, she felt tears forming. She cursed herself for her lack of self-control, but her eyes kept leaking. “They were gonna kill Vic, Dad,” she said. “And Tatiana, and all those other girls. I couldn't let them.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “I'm sorry it happened. But I am so proud of you, kiddo.”

  “Thanks, Daddy,” Erin said, a word she hadn't used in years.

  “Anyway, I had to call,” he said gruffly. He cleared his throat. “Your mother was worried about you. You know how she gets.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Erin said.

  “Well, don't be a stranger,” he said. “Call anytime. And Mary says to be sure to check in on your brothers, especially Tommy. She worries even more about him.”

  “Sure thing, Dad.”

  “Goodnight, Erin.”

  “'Night, Dad.”

  Erin went downstairs from Internal Affairs to the Major Crimes office. A meeting with IA was one hell of a way to start the day, but she felt like it had gone reasonably well. Now all she had in front of her was another day of modified assignment, riding her desk.

  She and a very bored Rolf had been wading through forms and reports for about half an hour when the elevator dinged and Vic limped onto the floor. He'd taken the previous two days off. The official story was that he was recuperating from his injuries, but Erin didn't believe it. Vic was a play-through-the-pain kind of guy. He was dealing with what had happened, and from the look on his face, he wasn't done dealing with it yet. He looked tired, beat up.

  “Hey, Vic,” she said. “Still standing?”

  “Hey,” he said without much enthusiasm, sinking into his chair.

  They had the office to themselves. Webb was meeting with Captain Holliday, and Jones was down in Evidence dealing with the enormous pile of crap the CSU guys had brought in from the restaurant and apartments above.

  “How's the arm and leg?” she asked.
/>
  “Fine.”

  Erin thought it over, then decided to bite the bullet. “The DA's office decided not to press charges on Tatiana,” she said.

  “I know. The ADA talked to me,” he said, staring straight ahead at his black computer monitor.

  Of course he had, Erin realized. Vic was the cop who'd been attacked. “I maybe shouldn't have busted her in the first place,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I should've seen the trap. Like you did.”

  “You couldn't have known she was working for them.”

  “You did,” Vic repeated.

  “Lucky guess,” she said.

  He did look at her then. “I don't think so. You know, I thought... she got me. Like maybe we had something.”

  “She tried to protect you,” Erin said. “She was scared to death, and she still took a chance, warning you.”

  “Last minute,” he said. “Shit.”

  They sat in silence for a couple of minutes.

  “You know,” Erin said, “one of the perks of being a cop they never tell you at the academy.”

  “What's that?” Vic said, not really listening.

  “The way it really spices up your love life.”

  Vic didn't react at first. Then he actually managed a smile. “Paid vacations, too. All you gotta do is catch a couple bullets, they send you straight home.”

  “Or shoot a few off,” she added. “Plus, we get to mix with high society.”

  “Every day's an adventure,” he said.

  Erin smiled back at him. “We're okay,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  The elevator bell rang again. They looked up. The doors slid open to reveal Natalie Markov. She was wearing a classy black dress with a black hat angled on her head. She paused, took a deep breath, and walked toward them.

  Erin stood up. Vic didn't.

  “Ms. Markov,” Erin said. “What can we do for you?”