by Mark Nolan
On most days Cody missed his former Alpha named Stuart, but a war dog sometimes lost brothers and sisters in the fighting. Cody felt in his bones that this was where he was meant to be at this time in his life. Cody knew that his new Alpha named Jake also missed their mutual friend Stuart. That was a bond the dog and man both shared. Cody stretched out prone, rested his head on his paws, sighed and closed one eye, keeping the other eye part-way open and trained on the dock. That way he could see if anyone else decided to approach the boat. If they did, he would be ready for them.
Chapter 48
Zhukov was in his luxurious hotel room, where he exercised, drank black tea and plotted out the complex plan for his next murder. As dinner time was approaching, he went to the closet and selected some clothes. He changed into a charcoal gray suit with a tailored shirt, a silk tie, and calfskin shoes. Looking in the mirror and approving of what he saw, he then headed out for his dinner meeting wearing a pair of soft black leather gloves and pulling a small suitcase along.
A uniformed doorman saw Zhukov going out through one of the hotel’s side doors, and he said, “Good evening sir may I hail a cab for you or assist you with your bag?”
“No thank you,” Zhukov said. “My driver is picking me up.”
Zhukov handed a large bill to the man and smiled as he passed. The doorman nodded politely, surprised at the generous tip for doing nothing but being attentive. Zhukov walked two blocks away and turned down an alley between buildings. Halfway down the alley there was a row of large trash dumpsters he’d seen earlier. He entered a code into the combination lock of the suitcase, and a sizzling sound started coming from the inside. Small wisps of smoke began escaping from the zippers. He lifted the lid on a dumpster, tossed the suitcase inside and closed the lid. As he walked away, he said, “The only good evidence is destroyed evidence. That’s what I always say.”
Inside the dumpster, the suitcase continued to sizzle and smoke as another acid packet burst open and burned and melted the suitcase’s contents. Zhukov walked farther down the alley and saw a homeless-looking man step out of an alcove. The man was wearing a filthy red and black checkered flannel shirt and threadbare, dirty jeans. His hair and beard had not been washed in a long time. He was holding a rusty knife, and his hand was shaking, either from fear or the desperate need of a drink.
“Hand over your wallet and nobody gets hurt,” the man said. Then he coughed hard, and his eyes watered.
Zhukov smiled calmly at him and said, “You have it backward my friend. Somebody gets hurt and nobody hands over their wallet.”
The man’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and Zhukov leaped at him like a tiger. Zhukov’s knee crashed into the man’s groin, and he grabbed the man’s knife hand and twisted his wrist. The man dropped the knife and started to scream in pain, but Zhukov threw a controlled punch to the man’s throat and the only sound that came out was a high-pitched wheezing. The man fell to the ground, gasping for breath, with his one un-sprained hand holding his crotch.
Zhukov dropped a few twenty dollar bills next to the man and then calmly walked to the end of the alley. As he walked, he pulled and straightened each of his shirt cuffs. He saw no reason to kill the unfortunate fellow who was down on his luck. Although it would have been a simple thing to put more weight and follow through on that blow to the throat. But he only killed people he was paid vast sums of money to kill, or anyone who might make him angry. This thirsty bum had merely been a slight inconvenience, not someone who deserved his full fury and creative genius.
Looking to his left and right, Zhukov stepped out onto the street that was three blocks away from his hotel. He walked another block and hailed a cab in front of a hotel he’d never visited before. And he gave the taxi driver the address of yet another a few miles away. Once there, Zhukov called Banks and told him where his driver could pick him up. Banks said it would be a black limousine with a red ribbon tied to the antenna. Banks gave Zhukov the mobile phone number of the driver in case there was any need to talk to him. This was the worst part for Zhukov, he was at a known location and had to loiter there waiting for the car. He called the driver’s phone.
“Yes, sir?” The driver said.
“Don’t make my secret backup team kill you and your entire family and everyone in your hometown; do you understand?” Zhukov said.
“Yes sir, understood sir.”
“Good man.”
Zhukov ended the call, crossed the street and went inside a small convenience store. He picked up a newspaper and pretended to read it as he looked out the window.
The clerk of the mini market said, “This isn’t a library, friend.”
Zhukov bought the paper and then held some more money in his hand and said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait for my taxi inside here and read the paper while I’m waiting. It won’t be more than a couple of minutes. Or I could just wait outside, keep this money and later on give it to somebody else who appreciates cash.”
The man nodded and held his hand out for the money and said, “Sure, take your time.”
Minutes later Zhukov saw the car arrive and pull over. The windows were darkened, and he couldn’t see if anyone else was in the car. He called the number of the driver again and said, “Go around to the back of the hotel and park there.”
The driver started to say something, but Zhukov ended the call abruptly. He left the small store and went around the corner and down a side street, then called the number again and told the driver to leave the hotel and drive down the side street slowly with all of his windows rolled down. When the car passed by the dark doorway where Zhukov was waiting he stepped out and pointed his pistol at the driver’s face.
The driver stopped the car, and he appeared unfazed as he said, “Good evening sir. Feel free to inspect the vehicle before entering.”
The driver moved his hands slowly and carefully as he pushed a button that popped the trunk. Zhukov looked into the car and the trunk and did a quick check underneath. He pulled out the back seat and looked underneath it before he sat down. Once he was seated, he kept his pistol barrel pressed against the back of the driver’s neck.
The driver remained calm as he asked, “Shall we go now, sir?”
Zhukov nodded at the driver in the mirror and said, “If I hear any odd noise or feel any slight bump, my finger will pull this hair trigger, and your brains will spray all over the windshield. In fact, if anything unwelcome happens to me within a week of being in contact with you, my team will hunt down and kill your entire family and everyone with the same name who lives within a thousand miles.”
“Yes, of course, sir,” the driver said. “In that case, I’ll turn off the music and try to avoid running over any potholes.”
The driver had nerves of steel. Zhukov had to give him credit for that. As they drove off into the night, Zhukov thought that the driver appeared to be from India and he spoke English with a British accent. He was dressed in an expensive suit and had a stylish haircut. Zhukov was mildly impressed with this kid. He would bet money that the man was well armed and trained to kill.
No words were spoken as they made their way into what Zhukov realized was a historic area of San Francisco known as Chinatown. When they arrived at the address of the dinner meeting, Zhukov looked up and down the street but didn’t see any restaurants, only apartments and shops.
His cell phone buzzed, and the caller ID didn’t show any number. He knew by the time on the clock that it must be Banks checking in. He didn’t much like Banks or his little group of ultra-wealthy sociopaths. But the man and the organization paid extremely well and gave him a lot of latitude to carry out his assignments, so he politely put up with them, for now.
Zhukov answered the phone by saying, “I’m here at the address but I don’t see a restaurant.”
Banks said, “It is a very private restaurant with no sign outside and no menu. It’s located in the building with the round-shaped red and gold door.”
“I see the door.”
“Are you observing me right now as I’m pointing my pistol at your driver’s head?”
“No, I simply know you well enough by now, and it was a reasonable assumption.”
Zhukov smiled, and then glanced around at windows and rooftops, looking for any possible threat. He got out of the car and nodded at the driver who then drove away. Zhukov thought that he could use a driver like that on an occasional assignment.
While Zhukov walked over toward the round red door, he spoke into his phone. “So are we having some fancy chow mein for dinner?” He couldn’t resist giving Banks a hard time.
“Hardly; come in and see for yourself.”
Zhukov ended the call and came close to the round door. He heard heavy locks unlatching, and he saw the door begin to swing slowly open on silent brass hinges. The door had a small peek-hole viewer at eye level, and a square-shaped metal plate at waist level that looked like a gun port on an armored car.
Zhukov casually crossed his arms and slipped his hand under his suit jacket and onto his pistol in its shoulder holster. He watched the empty space between the door and the frame growing wider as the door swung open. He was prepared to kill anyone and everyone inside the door if they made the slightest threatening move against him.
Chapter 49
At police headquarters, Chief Pierce explained the plan for the evening. Terrell was to go into the city’s Tenderloin area and attend a party where several drug dealers would be present. This went far beyond the drug squad’s problem. One of these gangs was murdering the competition on a weekly basis, and it was up to the homicide division to stop the killing.
“You’ll be playing the part of a man who was recently released from prison,” Pierce said. “You resemble him except he’s a lot better looking than you.”
Terrell nodded and smiled, unfazed at the typical friendly insult from his boss.
“The parole officer has the man on ice in a safe house for some fabricated violation,” Pierce said. “Nobody knows where he is. I don’t like fabricating false evidence, but as you know, it happens sometimes.”
Terrell was well aware that some cops would manufacture false evidence as a matter of routine, and railroad people they didn’t like into prison on fake charges. In this instance, however, the man was a known criminal, and he was going to be released soon by the cops. He would be told he was cleared of all charges, so have a nice day.
Terrell absorbed all of the information about his role, the hotel room he would be staying in at the busted down building, and the pistol he would be carrying.
“That’s the building they call the Heroin Hotel, right?” Terrell said.
“Right, there are drugged-out people sleeping in the halls and non-residents coming and going at all hours making drug buys. The rooftop is known as the shooting gallery. Every morning it’s littered with used needles from people shooting up drugs the night before. There is always a lot of other trash there too, condoms, underwear, empty booze bottles, you name it. Watch your step.”
“I remember when we captured a killer there last year. The place had leaky toilets, a broken elevator, mice, cockroaches and bedbugs… it was a real fleabag.”
“I’m glad you’ve seen it already, that way it won’t be such a shock to your sensitive nature.”
Terrell nodded his head, pretending to agree. He liked it when Pierce ribbed him. It reminded him of his days in the military.
“One question Chief. How come all I get to carry is a Saturday night special thirty-eight pistol while the criminals are probably carrying assault weapons like TEC-9 machine pistols converted to full-auto?”
“You have to carry a typical dime-a-dozen gang banger pistol because that’s what everybody else has. But we’ll load it up with hollow point rounds for you. At close range, those rounds can make a real big hole in somebody. They could save your life.”
“But don’t you think these druggies expect me to be heavily armed or else I look like I’m a pussy or an outsider? I should have a serious weapon on me.”
“Look, I understand that gang types expect you to show your manhood with your firepower. But I don’t want to risk having them take a Mac-10 or something similar away from you that they might use to shoot at our people in the future.”
Terrell was insulted now, and he said, “Nobody can take my weapon away from me unless they kill me first.”
“And you being killed is a very real possibility,” Pierce said. “This is a dangerous assignment.”
“Which is exactly why I need a serious weapon.”
“You can carry a Saturday night special in your pocket like every other criminal. That is the most common weapon. In spite of all the publicity about assault weapons, a plain old cheap handgun is what almost all criminals use, day in and day out. You know that’s true.”
Terrell just sat there listening and not liking it.
The Chief said, “There are plenty of those cheap pistols in the locker, so go check one out. If one of the criminals says anything about your crappy gun, cuss him out and say you just got out of prison and are looking to buy a better weapon.”
Terrell nodded resignedly. As a former military man and now a cop, he was accustomed to carrying top quality government issued weapons that had serious firepower. But tonight he would be armed with a piece of junk that could misfire or jam when he needed it to work.
Day to day on the job, Terrell carried one of the standard side arms issued by the SFPD, the SIG Sauer P229.
The SIG P229 was manufactured in Exeter, New Hampshire in the USA, and it truly lived up to its “To-Hell-and-Back-Reliability” claims. It was super reliable, accurate and concealable. It fit his hand like a glove and was the best damn pistol he’d ever fired. His firearms instructor called it “the Cadillac of pistols” and that’s exactly what he thought too. Plenty of Special Forces teams all over the world used SIG pistols.
“Yes Sir Chief,” Terrell said. “I’ll go sign out the Saturday night special pistol now and get to work on my disguise.”
As Terrell walked down the hallway, he mumbled profane complaints that he wished he could say to the Chief but never would.
Chapter 50
In Chinatown, Zhukov watched as the red door quietly opened to reveal a large, muscular Chinese man standing there. The man was impeccably dressed in a well-tailored suit and tie. He bowed silently at the guest, gesturing with his big calloused hands and a tilt of his head to please come in.
Zhukov gave the man a quick appraising glance and saw someone who could easily kill you with his bare fists. The Chinese man had a very handsome face except for a nose that had obviously been broken at least once and maybe twice. He was not as massive as a Japanese sumo wrestler, but he seemed even more dangerous, like a crouching tiger.
The man returned the same kind of respectful glance at Zhukov and smiled a formally polite smile in recognition of a fellow member of the private club that all violent killers belong to. With the understanding of the potential for high-level deadly force having passed between them, the two men entered a beautiful foyer, and the man closed the door. Zhukov slowly stepped up a wide red-carpeted stairway with shiny brass handrails on both sides. At the top of the stairs, he saw a reception area with a large crystal chandelier above. On each side was a pair of four-foot tall painted porcelain vases that featured pastoral scenes from China’s five thousand years of history.
A breathtakingly attractive Chinese woman with a face like royalty stood there wearing an embroidered silk dress and gown in the ancient traditional Hanfu clothing style of the Han nobility. She bowed her head and greeted Zhukov in the Mandarin language. Her musical voice sounded like she was reciting poetry, and although Zhukov didn’t understand a word, it was clear that she was inviting him to go with her.
The woman moved with the grace of a ballerina as she led the way through the roo
m with Zhukov following behind her. They passed some very low tables that were about the height of a coffee table, where very well-dressed and wealthy Chinese guests sat on flat pillows on the floor.
Zhukov was taken to a corner where he saw Banks seated on a pillow and waiting for his arrival. It was apparent there were not going to be any chairs provided for him or anyone else, only seats on the floor. He was intrigued, and he decided that if Banks was content to sit on the kind of pad you’d see on a hardwood chair, he was too. Plucking at the creases in his expensive slacks at mid-thigh, Zhukov squatted down on a pillow across the low table from his current employer.
“Thank you for getting here a few minutes early,” Banks said. “If you are late to this dinner, they don’t open the door, and you lose your hard-to-get reservation and high-priced prepayment. Once per evening, Monday through Saturday, every guest at this restaurant is served the same meal, all at the same time. I am told it is quite a delicious feast.”
“I’ll take your word for it, you being the food expert,” Zhukov said.
Another unusually intriguing looking Chinese woman approached the table. She appeared as if she’d stepped out of a thousand-year-old painting of a warrior princess. This woman was a waitress, who placed a small porcelain cup of clear liquid in front of each of the guests, bowed her graceful head and retreated.
Banks picked up the small shot glass shaped white cup and said, “This is a strong alcoholic drink to begin the meal and promote digestion. It is called baijiu and is distilled from sorghum grain. The Chinese usually share toasts at feasts and fine meals such as this.”
Banks raised his cup and said, “After I say the toast, the custom is to tap the bottom of your cup on the table and then drink the shot in one gulp.”
Zhukov raised his cup in the same manner.
“Gānbēi,” Banks said. “In translation, that means dry glass, or what we would refer to as bottoms up.”
