by Walter Marks
He put the syringe back in his pocket. “But don’t worry,” he said. “I just gave you a minimal dose. You’ll be back to normal very soon — though you may feel a bit euphoric.”
Maria tried to sit up, but Oleg shoved her down. She tried to raise herself once more, and Oleg gave her a sharp backhand crack across her face.
The sudden flash of pain jolted her into realizing how dire her situation was.
“What the hell do you want?”
“What do I want? I want you to join my other girls here in happy gainful employment. I know you promised you’d meet me tomorrow, but I had my doubts. You’re too much of an asset to risk losing you.”
“You think I’d work for you? After you…”
“If you want your family to stay alive, you’ll do what I say.”
“Look, just let me go,” she said. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“There you go with the promises again. Doris, I have the feeling you’re not completely trustworthy. My instincts are pretty good about these things.”
“Please, Oleg, I…”
He raised his hand to hit her again. She shut up.
“I always start my girls with a little personal interaction, so I can get to know them,” Oleg said. “Now, I generally use force, which I enjoy. But in your case, let’s try something else. Remember you said my name sounded romantic? Well, I do have a romantic side. So I’ll give you a choice — rape or romance. Rape is — well, it is what it is. Romance is — acting like boyfriend and girlfriend. Y’know, starting with a little make-out session, like we’re back in high school. Then letting it go further and further, until we get so hot we just have to fuck each other. How does that sound?”
Maria didn’t respond.
“So what’ll it be?” Oleg said. “Rape or romance?…Rape or romance?”
“Fuck you.”
“Look, rape is the default option if you don’t choose. And I can be a very rough customer. I’d advise you to go with romance. It’s your call.”
Maria’s mind raced as she assessed the situation. Then she spoke in a whisper. “Romance.”
Oleg smiled. “Wise choice, Doris. Now, here’s how it’ll work. We’ll act like I’ve got you in the back seat of my car…” He lay down next to her and then swung his body over hers. His weight drove her into the mattress.
“We’ll start with kissing. And I’m not talking about a peck. I mean, I’m your boyfriend and you love me, so when you kiss me it’s wet and hot, with plenty of tongue. Got that?”
Maria nodded.
She stared upward as he lowered his leering face to her. He licked his thick lips, and parted them as he approached her mouth.
Maria’s training kicked in. She clenched her teeth, tightened her neck muscles, and frowned. Then, exhaling forcefully, she lunged her head upward, smashing her forehead into Oleg’s nose. He lurched back, blood pouring from his nostrils. Maria shoved him off and leapt to her feet. Stunned from the head butt, Oleg collapsed face down onto the bed.
Maria looked around the room. She spotted the dresser, ran to it, and grabbed the pistol Oleg had left there — a Sig Sauer .45 semiautomatic. She also took Oleg’s iPhone, turned on the Record function, and stuffed it in between her breasts.
Oleg was pulling himself up when he saw Maria pointing the gun at him.
“Freeze, asshole!”
“Doris, what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m a police officer.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“I’m fucking not,” she said. “Put your hands on your head and walk over to that wall, real slow.”
“I’m bleeding.”
“Like Mick Jagger said — ‘let it bleed.’ Move it.”
When Oleg reached the wall, Maria ordered him to lean forward and walk his feet out till his body was at a forty-five-degree angle, arms spread out in front of him. Maria put the gun to his head.
“Now, I’m gonna ask you some questions. And if you don’t answer truthfully, I’ll shoot.”
“You won’t do that,” he said with bravado.
“Why not?”
“The noise would bring my men and their Kalashnikovs up here in two seconds.”
“But you’d be dead,” Maria said. “You wanna take that chance?”
“Do you?”
She removed the gun from his head.
“Smart move,” Oleg said.
Maria dragged the pistol down his back, along his trouser-covered ass crack, and inserted it between his legs. It was now pointed directly at his genitals.
“Come on, Doris,” Oleg pleaded.
“I dunno,” she said. “My trigger finger might slip and turn you into a soprano.”
“You’d risk your life to do that?”
“You’re right. That would be stupid.”
She removed the gun from his groin. “Don’t move,” Maria said. She crossed to the bed, picked up a pillow, and went back to Oleg.
“Spread ’em a little more, baby,” she said. She jammed the pillow between his legs and inserted the gun so the pillow would muffle the sound of a gunshot.
“Now, are you ready to answer questions?”
“About what?”
“You’ll find out when I ask them.”
“Anything I tell you would be coerced,” Oleg said. “It wouldn’t stand up in court.”
“Oleg, you’ve got a house full of girls right next door — victims of sex trafficking, some underage. Will that stand up in court?”
“I’ve got a good lawyer,” he said. “And believe me, none of those girls will testify against me. Also, since you’re not recording this conversation, I’ll just deny we had it.”
“That’s true,” Maria went on. “But humor me. Here’s question number one: Did you kill Teresa Ramírez?”
“Who?”
“That kind of answer will make you a eunuch. And as a child molester with no balls, you’ll be ripe fruit in Leavenworth. Now answer truthfully or…can you imagine the pain in your package?”
“Okay, okay…” Oleg said. “Teresa ran away and we caught up with her.”
“At the Residencia.”
“How did you…?”
“Then you shot her and dumped her body in the Sound. How did you get a boat?”
“We forced a boat owner to take us out.”
“Question number two: Did you sell Rosario Santiago to Sanford Richman?”
“It was a rental. He promised to treat her good.”
“That’s human slavery, you immoral prick. Don’t you understand that?”
Oleg didn’t reply.
“Question three,” Maria said. “Did you kill Ann Richman?”
“Who?”
“Sanford Richman’s wife. Did you kill her?”
“Why would I kill her?” Oleg said. “I don’t even know her.”
“We know her husband hired you to have her killed.”
“Bullshit,” Oleg shouted. “You think I’m in the assassination business? I’ve done a lot of shit in my life, but whacking people for money is not one of them.”
“That’s real ethical of you.”
“We only kill our enemies. Not people we don’t know!”
Maria was silent for a few moments. Oleg actually seemed to be telling the truth.
“You only kill your enemies,” Maria said. “But you have no problem killing these girls who work for you?”
“That’s business.”
Maria tried to control the fury building inside her. “You’re okay with taking their lives, destroying their dignity, forcing them into sexual slavery just so you can make obscene profits?”
“Lemme tell you something,” Oleg said. “These girls are illegals with no employment skills and no future. I’m giving them a chance to earn money with the only assets these bitches got — their pussies!”
Maria pulled the trigger. There was a muffled thud as a 45. caliber slug pierced Oleg’s pants, tore through his scrotum, and ripped into his test
icles.
The only sound from the shot was a dull thud.
Oleg let out a bloodcurdling howl of pain.
A sudden calm swept over Maria. Justice was done, her rage exorcised.
“Quit screeching or I’ll finish you off,” she said.
Oleg stifled himself and started moaning in agony. His blood was now seeping through the pillow.
Maria realized Oleg’s loud scream could alert his men in the house. She checked the magazine of the Sig Sauer. There were seven bullets left — not much of a defense against AK-47s.
She took a position crouching behind the bed, facing the door. Holding the gun in a two-handed grip, she planted her elbows on the mattress and waited.
CHAPTER 70
Maria heard footsteps clumping up the wooden stairway to the garage. The doorknob turned a few times, the door rattled, and then she heard a sharp click-click-click.
Her body tensed and she gripped the gun firmly.
The door flew open and there stood Jericho. In one hand he held his pistol, in the other — a credit card.
“Maria! Jesus Christ, don’t shoot,” he yelled.
“My God, Jericho.”
“I heard a scream,” Jericho said. “What’s goin’ on?”
She stood up and indicated Oleg lying on the floor, bloody and moaning. “He tried to rape me,” she said. “But I got his gun and shot him.”
“What’s with the pillow?”
“I…I’m using it to stop the bleeding,” she said.
Jericho knew that wasn’t true. He’d heard Oleg scream when he approached the garage — but no gunshots. Maria must’ve used the pillow to muffle the sound. Jesus, he thought, she castrated the bastard with bullets.
“Listen,” Maria said. “We better get ready. His men’ll be coming up from the house.”
“Right,” Jericho said. He closed the front door, leaving it slightly ajar. He heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a shout in Russian. He ran to Oleg, turned him over, and propped him against the wall. A man entered armed with an automatic weapon. It was Oleg’s driver — Yevgeny Something-or-other.
Jericho pulled out his Glock and put it to Oleg’s head.
“Drop your rifle,” Jericho yelled. “Or your boss gets it.”
“Do what he says,” Oleg said, grunting through his pain. Yevgeny followed his command.
Jericho took out his handcuffs and gave them to Maria. “Lock him to the Bowflex.”
She shoved Oleg’s Sig Sauer in the back of her jeans and motioned the man over to the machine. She pushed him backwards, yanked his hands behind him, and cuffed him to the Bowflex’s vertical support bar. Then she patted him down.
“He’s clean.”
“Okay,” Jericho said. “Now we’ve got to get ready for the rest of Oleg’s men. How many guys did Rosario say were in the house?”
“I dunno. Six, I think.”
“So — that leaves five more.”
“But we can’t be sure.”
Jericho nodded.
He went to the bench press rig and pulled a round, thick iron plate off the cross bar. It was about twenty inches in diameter, weighed twenty-five pounds, and had a hole in its center.
As he carried it to the door, Maria said, “What are you doing?
“You’ll see.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get ready to take my place if I get hit or go down. For now get out of the line of fire and keep your gun ready.”
Jericho picked up the AK-47. He was familiar with the weapon, having fired one at the NYPD-SWAT firing range. He noticed rust and dirt on the magazine, indicating the rifle hadn’t been properly maintained. But then, he thought, these guys ain’t exactly combat soldiers.
Maria pulled out Oleg’s Sig Sauer and sat down in an armchair.
Jericho opened the door a crack and lay down along the wall next to it. He pushed the gun’s barrel through the center hole in the cast-iron weight-plate, making it an effective (he hoped) shield.
He knew the AK had a standard thirty-round magazine. It was semiautomatic — one trigger pull for every shot. So he could run out of bullets quickly if he wasn’t careful. He had no reloads.
Maria looked over at Oleg. Lying against the wall, the big man was a mess. Blood from his broken nose had clotted on his lips and jaw, and drained onto his black cashmere sweater. His knees were drawn up, his hands pressed on his groin, trying to staunch the bleeding and ease the pain. The sounds he made now were weak whimpers. He looked up at Maria, eyes blazing with hatred. “Bitch!” he croaked.
Jericho suddenly realized he’d overlooked something — the element of surprise. “Maria,” he called out. “Turn off the lights. There’s a wall switch to your right.”
She did so and the room was in shadows. She went back to the armchair and kept Oleg’s gun pointed at the door, covering Jericho.
Peeking through the crack in the door, the detective could see very little. He heard men’s voices and knew they were approaching the garage stairway.
In the darkness he could see a Maglite beam flashing as the men came closer. They were yelling in Russian; he only understood “da.”
Jericho hunkered down behind the cast-iron plate. With his right hand around the rifle’s pistol grip, his thumb pulled the safety lever down to “off.”
Peering over the edge of the plate, he could make out the Russians starting to climb the stairway. He waited till the first man was at point blank range, then he opened fire.
He got off seven shots. He heard screams and the sound of bodies falling. Then semiautomatic rifle fire rang out and bullets clanged against the iron plate. Above him, a spray of bullets shattered the wooden door.
He returned fire, shooting down at the stairway. After about a dozen shots, the rifle jammed. Shit! He figured a spent casing got stuck while ejecting, but he wasn’t sure. Anyway, it was too dark for him to fix it.
He threw the AK aside and took out his Glock. The enemy fire had stopped.
Jericho looked through the hole in the weight-plate. He could see a shape crouched on the stair, moving up slowly toward him. He rose, shot three times through the bullet-ridden opening in the door, and dropped back down behind his shield. His fire was returned from the stairway. He had no idea how many men he was fighting, or how many were killed or injured.
The Glock had a six-round capacity magazine, which meant he had three bullets left. I’m in deep shit!
Suddenly there was a fusillade of shots — bullets pounding his iron shield and further ripping apart the door. Jericho waited till the shooting stopped, jumped up, and fired twice through the opening in the door. He heard a shout of pain and knew he’d hit one of them.
The light from a flashlight struck his face. The man carrying it was charging up the stairs. Jericho fired and missed. He squeezed the trigger again but he was out of ammo. The man kicked the door open, knocking Jericho over on his back. The man loomed over him, flashlight in one hand, AK in the other.
Blinded momentarily by the light, Jericho grabbed the cast-iron weight-plate and heaved it up at his adversary. It was a feckless gesture and the weight clanged harmlessly down the wooden steps. The man laughed and pointed his weapon at Jericho’s head.
“Do-svidanya, vrag!” he shouted. The second before the gun went off, Jericho thought of Katie.
Two shots rang out. The Russian’s head was blown apart. He collapsed to the ground.
Jericho had thought he was done for. For a moment he was stunned, then he pulled himself together. “Great shot, Maria,” he yelled back at her.
He grabbed the dead man’s AK and waited. After a few minutes he picked up the flashlight, stepped over the dead Russian, and cautiously opened the door. He scanned the area. There were four dead bodies lying in grotesque positions on the stairway. On the ground was another corpse, covered in blood. Beyond them he saw nobody. It seemed to be all clear.
He turned and shined his light on Maria. She was sitting quietly in the armc
hair with the empty gun in her hand.
“God, Maria. You saved my life.”
She said nothing.
“Maria. You okay?”
When Jericho got closer he saw that her eyes were closed, her face in peaceful repose. But she wasn’t breathing. In her neck a large hypodermic needle jutted from her carotid artery. He dashed to her and yanked out the syringe. It was labeled 100cc propofol. Maria’s head flopped forward. He felt the other side of her neck for a pulse. Nothing.
Jericho ran to the light switch and flicked it on. Returning to Maria, he saw Oleg lying on the floor next to her, his mouth agape. Clearly he had bled out.
Jericho took the gun from Maria’s hand and gently lowered her to the floor. He began CPR. At his first chest compression he felt a hard object between her breasts. He pulled out an iPhone. It was set in “record” mode.
He quickly turned it off, stuck it in his pocket, and resumed resuscitation. For five minutes he rhythmically pumped, pumped, pumped and blew into her mouth. Finally he stopped, knowing it was futile.
Oleg’s driver laughed and called out from the Bowflex machine. “Oleg, bull of a man,” Yevgeny said. “Sneak up on lady when she busy shooting. Really gave her the needle! Ha-ha-ha!”
Yevegeny continued laughing — loud, mocking. In a fury, Jericho picked up Oleg’s pistol and pointed it at the driver. He was a nanosecond away from pulling the trigger when he caught himself.
In that moment he understood Maria’s vengeful act. It wasn’t right, but it was human.
Grief overwhelmed him. He turned away and for the first time ever in the line of duty, he wept.
CHAPTER 71
Jericho used the Maglite to light his way from the garage to the main house. Figuring the girls were held in a locked room, he’d taken Oleg’s keys from his dresser. He also carried one of the Russian rifles. Its magazine was half full.
He approached the house cautiously. It was a deteriorating three-story Victorian, the front porch decorated with fanciful hand-carved latticework; a “gingerbread house” prison for female sex slaves. Dim light shone through a stained glass window in the front door. Surveying the house, Jericho saw that the windows were covered with plywood panels. He turned off the flashlight and kept his AK ready.
