by Jared Paul
“Go now! We have him!” Shirokov yelled and the boat took off.
Sniper bullets cut into the water harmlessly, falling short as the vessel sped away. Once he was sure that they were safely out of range, Shirokov lit a cigar and waved good bye to the Sing Sing Correctional Facility forever.
“Bon Voyage, Charlie Browns!”
After they sank an overzealous Coast Guard boat they were in the clear. Luka piloted the vessel. When he asked Shirokov where to go he replied with a question.
“Tell me. Has any of you gentlemen been to Connecticut?”
Chapter Twelve
All was peaceful at the Walsh cabin for a couple short days.
Shannon and the suspended Detective Bollier passed the day indoors for the most part, making up for lost time. During the day the suspended Agent Clemons and Jordan Ross sat out on the deck, sun tanning while they schemed ways to find Jordan’s sister and implode Shirokov’s vast criminal enterprise. In the evenings they drank beer and played gin rummy with meat on the grill. The antipathy between them had evaporated in the August sizzle.
Without his white shirt and black tie buttoning him up Agent Clemons turned out to have a maverick streak and a wicked sense of humor. He kept on working even with the suspension, or maybe in spite of it. Agent Clemons earned Jordan’s respect as he worked the angles, culled sources, and called in favors even though it could irreparably destroy his career if he was found out.
After a few days together on the deck Agent Clemons saw Jordan Ross in a new light as well. He was no longer a mindless Scotch Irish hooligan, or a dull instrument. His keenness to kill Russians was balanced by a demure streak forged in the Army. For a man that had lost his wife and kid Jordan was in fact remarkably level headed.
One night when they were almost out of beer Agent Clemons asked him about the accident. Jordan told the story lucidly. He admitted his memory was suspect due to the concussion and the traumatic nature of the events, but Jordan remembered a great level of detail. The picture his daughter Emma had been drawing just before the SUV hit. The argument with his wife Sarah about his swearing and her always complaining of being too warm. As hard as it must have been for him, Agent Clemons was struck by how lovingly he recalled them. Jordan still remembered the good times with his family when they were alive. During the course of his career in the FBI Agent Clemons had dealt with many people who had lost loved ones to violence, and he had never seen anyone preserve their happy memories as well as Jordan Ross.
When he was finished Agent Clemons asked the truly difficult question.
“So what will you do once they’re all dead or locked up?”
Jordan tipped his beer back until there was nothing left in the bottle. He burped.
“The hell if I know. Maybe I’ll take your job.”
They shared a laugh and called it a night.
...
The next morning the hard-won peace in the cabin was shattered when Shannon discovered the .22 in the medicine cabinet. She flipped out. Jordan and Agent Clemons were in the study reading when Shannon burst in and clapped the gun on her father’s desk.
“What is this?”
Jordan looked from the gun to Shannon.
“Are you asking literally?”
“You KNOW what I mean stop treating me like a baby. What’s it doing in my house?”
Jordan felt tempted to tell the doctor that if she wanted to be treated like an adult then she would have to start behaving like one, but he did not.
“It’s for protection.”
“From what? I thought this was over. Leslie told me they were all in jail, but I come back here and I find you two hiding out and then there’s a gun hidden in the medicine cabinet next to the dental floss. I went grabbing for the floss but I found this. Don’t you realize that I could have been shot?”
In an attempt to save Jordan Agent Clemons broke in.
“Shannon, the safety’s on. There’s no way that you could have been shot. And I doubt that you would have put it in your mouth believing it was floss.”
“Don’t! Don’t make fun of me you know I don’t like it.”
“I didn’t mean too, Shannon. Look, why don’t you sit down and we can all talk about this? Where is Leslie anyway?”
“She’s taking a nap and I don’t feel like talking about this. I want it out of my house. I don’t like guns. I don’t feel safe around them. Did you know that you are 39 times more likely to shoot a family member than an intruder if you have one laying around like this? Did you? There aren’t any more are there?”
Agent Clemons and Jordan looked at each other for a split second and then broke the eye contact before she could notice.
“One or two,” Jordan answered her.
“More than one gun in my house?!”
The absurdity of the argument struck Agent Clemons in the chest and he let his carefully cultivated polite veneer slip.
“Don’t be ridiculous Shannon there were at least four hunting rifles here already.”
“THAT’S DIFFERENT. Those are for hunting. Hunt. Ing. Handguns are for killing people, not animals. I don’t want them here. I don’t feel safe.”
Jordan scooted forward in the armchair and folded his newspaper up. He did it the same way he had seen his father do a hundred times before he was about to explain some other concept that he and Mary were still grasping with as children; the birds and the bees, or gravity, or how all those atom bombs were necessary to keep them safe from the Soviets.
“Look. I understand you’re upset. I just think you need to sit down and talk to us before you make any rash decisions. You should know what’s going on first.”
“Is everything alright in here?”
The two men had never been more relieved to see Bollier. She’d snuck into the study while everyone was absorbed in the squabble. Doctor Walsh turned, hands on her hips and shot an accusing glare at her on-again and off-again and on-again in an endless loop girlfriend.
“You. Did you know that Jordan brought guns? He’s hiding them all over the house!”
“Yes I knew, Shannon.”
Bollier said it calmly. This tack flustered Shannon. She was expecting for Bollier to raise her voice, deny everything, and try to talk her down. Nothing seemed to upset her more than wanting an argument and not getting one. Jordan’s parents were the same way; it was just another wrinkle in that broad, diverse landscape of stubborn-assed Irish sentiments.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re ok with this. That’s it. I want to know what’s going on. If you’re going to hide out in my family’s cabin and use it as your… your… own glorified personal gun rack then I have a right to know why.”
This was unfortunate. Jordan had hoped that during their trysts Bollier would have won Shannon over, clearly she’d just distracted her and avoided the topic entirely. For a minute nobody said anything and then Shannon threatened to throw them all out unless someone told her what was going on. In the end Bollier finally got her to lower her voice, sit down, have a drink and hear them out. It took some time, but Jordan thought that near the end of the story Shannon was coming around.
But Shannon had either gotten smarter or more cynical. She saw straight through the play, into the marrow.
“You don’t even care. This isn’t about us, you’re just using me for my cabin,” she hissed at Bollier with an acid that surprised Jordan. Shannon got up and stormed from the room.
“Shannon. No. Calm on, it’s not like that. Shannon!” Bollier tried to get her to stop but it was no use. Eventually she followed her out into the living room, where Shannon found the glock over the mantle. Then she found the other .38 by the tea. Bollier trailed after Shannon, begging her to understand as she visited each room in the house, rummaging through drawers and closets until all of the guns were found. She put them all together on a pile in on the kitchen table and then called her guests in.
“Attention everyone. I have found all of your oh so
cleverly hidden weapons. They’re all here on the table. If these aren’t out of my house in 15 minutes then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Eyeing the stockpile of weapons, Jordan noticed that she’d missed the Kalishnikov underneath the pool table. Bollier tried to touch Shannon’s shoulder but she pushed her away.
“I am not joking. I want these guns gone. And you. You! I should have known better. You always have to be sneaky about what you want. If you just had asked me HEY I’m running for my life can I use your cabin I would have let you, but NO you’ve got to pretend that you still love me and. I’m tired of your mindfuck games. When you showed up in my office all I wanted was to, but. No.”
Shannon’s monologue was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing. She pointed a finger at her three guests.
“That’s probably old man Reed. I’ll get it. You three don’t go anywhere. I am not done with you yet. And get rid of those guns.”
When Shannon left to answer the door the three musketeers gathered around the table smothered with guns. Bollier spoke.
“She always does this. Always has to be so dramatic.”
“You need to get a leash on that little…” Agent Clemons said.
“Bitch. She’s a little bitch, Kyle it’s ok you can say it.” Bollier finished for him. “Don’t worry. We’ll put these in the Jeep for now out of her sight, I’ll calm her down, and by dinner time it will be like nothing even happened.”
A shotgun blast echoed from the living room.
Terror seized the trio by the throats. Instantly they started scooping the weapons off the table. Bollier got ahold of an Uzi and a glock, Agent Clemons scored a .38 and a .22 and Jordan got the M4 rifle and a .38. The three of them checked the weapons and then rushed into the living room, which had been repainted since their last visit only a minute ago.
Shannon was lying in the open doorway. Standing outside on the path was a familiar tubby, Kenny Rogers looking man with a shotgun.
Jordan’s eyes grew wide and he screamed the name of his child’s killer.
“ASKOKOV!”
He charged straight for the doorframe, firing in such a blind rage that he missed badly with every single shot. Askokov scurried out of Jordan’s line of sight and took shelter behind a wide tree in the front yard. Jordan squeezed off two rounds at him and then dived back inside just in time to avoid a hailstorm of bullets that would have cut him down.
Jordan landed next to Shannon, who was bleeding out onto the parquet floor. She hiccupped a mouthful of blood.
Agent Clemons and Detective Bollier rolled the couch over and took cover behind it. The windows were shot out in short order by the Russians, so they returned fire in fits and spurts, ducking back down every other second to avoid being hit. Bollier was a solid markswoman, but she had never used an Uzi before. It felt wild and unwieldy in her hands like an angry cat clawing to get free. She sprayed at the trees but did not have a realistic hope to hit a Russian. Agent Clemons did his best with the two small handguns but the men outside were much more heavily harmed.
In order to survive they needed their vigilante. Bollier yelled over the eruptions of gunfire.
“Corporal! A little help here!”
Jordan was still on the ground, watching in shock as Shannon seeped away into the nooks and crannies in the wood.
“MISTER ROSS!”
The detective’s desperate plea shook him. Jordan scrambled over to the couch and tried to fire the M4 but it jammed. He needed more firepower.
“I’ll be right back. I promise I’ll be right back.”
Jordan ran from the living room to the basement stairs to retrieve the AK-47, leaving Bollier and Agent Clemons behind to fend for themselves. But once Jordan got to the basement he’d forgotten where he put it. Knowing that Shannon was beyond medicine had hit Jordan with the weight of an anvil. Knowing that it was Askokov, Anton Askokov in the flesh made it completely surreal. Jordan stumbled around desperately trying to remember. Where was the gun? Where was it? God damnit where was that gun?
On the upstairs floor Agent Clemons caught a glimpse of a familiar face peeking out from one of the trees. He jumped down to reload.
“Say Les.”
“Yeah?”
“The one behind the third tree on the left. He look familiar to you?”
Bollier leapt up, fired a shot and crouched back in one motion. She replied that she was too busy trying not to get killed to play name that face. But on her next trip up to shoot she saw the same thing.
“Holy shit Kyle!”
“So I’m not just seeing things.”
“Holy shit!” She repeated. “That’s him. How did he?”
“I don’t know.”
Judging from the destruction, there were at least four Russians out in the yard firing into the cabin. The walls were beginning to splinter and holes were punching through everywhere. Soon the couch would be shredded and there would be nowhere left to hide, perhaps nowhere left in the world. The time they had to get up and return fire got shorter and shorter as the Russians closed in.
They ran out of ammo at the same time. Detective Bollier squeezed her eyes shut and reached for Agent Clemons’ hand beneath the sofa.
She was racking her fear-filled brain for some sentimental way to say good-bye when Jordan Ross sprinted into the living room, bearing an AK-47 and the rest of the guns from the kitchen table. He tossed them the new weapons and then stood upright by the window. Jordan let out a powerful roar as he unloaded the assault rifle at the advancing Russians. One of them went down in a second, slain by a shot right through the breastplate.
The other Russians hurried back behind their trees for cover. They’d brought a dozen decent guns with them, but nothing that could compete with a Kalishnikov. As Jordan sprayed the front lawn with bullets they backed away further and finally made a break for it.
Jordan Ross was besieged by some ancient God of war spirit that had taken over his body. He ran for the door, reloaded the weapon and shouted at the fleeing enemy.
“Mommy said fuck sticks you fucking Russian motherfuckerrrrrrrrrrs!”
The four of them raced for a black Ford Flex up the road and threw themselves in. Jordan laughed gleefully as they peeled out. He came back inside to find Agent Clemons and Bollier kneeling over Shannon’s body.
“We need to catch them. Come on Kyle, get the Jeep.”
Agent Clemons got up and went to get his car keys but it was like Detective Bollier didn’t even hear him. Her hand was hovering over Shannon’s face, quivering.
“Les. I’m sorry about this but we have to go. They’re getting away.”
Bollier blinked and held a hand over her mouth to stifle the cry. Her body shook. Jordan got to his knees and held her. The adrenaline had kept Bollier going during the firefight, now that it was over she had to deal with the dead.
“Detective. There will be plenty of time to grieve. We have to catch them now.”
He tried to shake her, he tried to snap fingers in her face, but Bollier did not budge. When Jordan realized what had happened he gave up hope of convincing her. He’d seen it before in SF, sometimes men were crippled by grief. A buddy is standing next to you one minute and the next minute he’s a puff of red mist and you just couldn’t will your limbs to move. Even if she wanted to, Bollier could not move a muscle. She was paralyzed.
Agent Clemons hurried back into the living room, dangling the car keys from his thumb.
“It’s time to go. Now. Is she coming?”
“She’s not going anywhere. It’s just us.”
“Is she ok?”
“No. But there’s nothing we can do. Just leave her.”
The former Corporal and his partner rushed into the garage and got into the Jeep. As they jetted up the driveway Agent Clemons informed him that Vladimir Shirokov was with them. Jordan was already driving dangerously fast, but at that news he began speeding like a demon.
…
Pride was more
treacherous than all of the knives, guns, and missiles on the planet. Shirokov knew it was a miracle he had escaped with his life.
It was a stupid thing to take one last shot at the Army man before fleeing the country. Shirokov had escaped Sing Sing completely unscathed, and then because his pride was wounded he had charged right back into the lion’s jaws. Now Luka was bleeding all over the interior of the Ford. One of the Army man’s bullets had struck him in the thigh, severing an artery. Anton Askokov was in the back seat trying to make a tourniquet out of the ripped pieces of his shirt but Shirokov knew that his lieutenant was done for.
