by Jon F. Merz
It dinged once and the doors slid open. Before us an office suite appeared. This one came complete with a receptionist sitting behind a glass desk that, from my perspective, offered me an ample view of her thighs and the area above that.
I smiled at her.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Thunder," she said.
I kept smiling.
"Mr. Darmov is waiting," said Viktor’s voice behind me. Spoil sport.
We moved beyond the leggy receptionist and into the office behind it. Darmov sat behind his desk on the phone and gestured for me to sit or whatever it was I did in a wheelchair. Viktor bowed out of the room.
It was then I noticed the man in the corner.
Judging by the gag in his mouth, the sweat pouring down his face, and the fact that he was kneeling with his hands bound behind his back, I didn't think his future looked too bright. I could see the perspiration stains soaking under his armpits. His eyes were wide and white, pleading with mine.
Darmov spoke Russian to someone else and for five minutes I sat trying to catch any words I could understand. But since the extent of my Russian is "please" and "thank you," I wasn’t holding out much hope. Mostly, I stared straight ahead trying to ignore the man in the corner.
Finally, Darmov hung up, spun back around and folded his hands before him on the ornate wooden desk with the slate top.
"Mr. Thunder."
"Mr. Darmov."
He smiled.
I smiled.
"I think," he said finally, "that we may have a use for someone like you in our organization."
"I’m glad to hear that."
He grinned. "Did Viktor scare you when he showed up at your office?"
"Not really."
He nodded. "You don’t seem to scare easily."
I shrugged. "If I had any doubts about being hired by you, I might have been scared."
"But you knew I’d hire you, is that it?"
"Could be."
He nodded some more. "I did some checking."
"Dig up anything interesting?"
"A few things I didn’t expect."
"Like what?"
He smiled. "They’re not important. Besides, I certainly wouldn’t want to embarrass you by bringing them up and making you explain them to me, so I won’t."
"Kind of you."
"But suffice it say that they did impress me."
"Better impressed than depressed."
He smiled. "Not everyone feels the way I do, however."
"Like Viktor," I said.
"Yes. Like Viktor. He’s been quite upset since the other night."
"We talked about it."
"Did you?"
I nodded. "Said he’d be happier with another shot at me."
"Did you agree?"
"No need. Better if I get to work for you and make you some money."
"Viktor may not like that idea."
"You running a democracy now?"
"Not at all."
"Good. Because if Viktor wants to fuck around and play footsie with me, then I will put his ass in a sling and hand it back to him with a little bow tied on top."
Darmov’s eyebrows shot up two feet and stayed there while he processed my statement. Finally, he smiled again and brought his bushy brows back down to where they belonged.
"I've always enjoyed a man who can talk the talk, Jake."
"Yeah?"
Darmov nodded over at the bound and gagged man in the corner. "No doubt you've noticed the gentleman over there."
"Be hard not to."
"Indeed."
"What's his story?"
Darmov smiled. "You know Ð I'm not all that sure yet. I mean, I know very well how his story begins. He was a promising young broker for an investment firm further up Congress Street. He was tasked with laundering some money of mine through a very reliable offshore account. He did the first job marvelously so I asked him to do more."
I didn't like where this was heading. I wasn't in much of a position to do anything, though. Besides listen.
"And then," said Darmov. "The unthinkable: he skimmed money from me."
"Skimmed?"
Darmov inclined his head. "Perhaps Ôskim' is too slight a word. Rather, he stole ten million dollars of my money."
"Ouch."
Darmov nodded. Maybe a bit too enthusiastically. "Ouch is exactly the word for it. Very painful to me. Very painful to my organization."
"And now he's here."
"Indeed."
Darmov opened his top right desk drawer and withdrew a syringe. He held it aloft until some of the sunlight filtering in through his blinds caught the amber liquid and made it glisten inside the hypodermic.
"When I was in the GRU, we used to sometimes have to do what we called an Ôevacuation.' If we suspected one of our operatives was succumbing to the decadence of the West, we would inject them with what we called Ôblissful death.' Usually it was a combination of vodka and a sedative. Injected into the veins, it made the operative resemble a staggering, incoherent drunk. We'd get them aboard a plane back to Moscow and from there, well," he smiled. "The furnace awaited them."
"Furnace?"
"In the GRU, everyone went out of the service the same way: cremation. If you'd had a nice long distinguished career, you went out once you were dead with full military honors."
"And if not?"
"Then you went out strapped down with thin wire to a sheet of plywood, fully conscious, on a slow conveyor belt that let you watch the flames first, then feel their heat as they licked at the soles of your shoes before at last burning you alive."
I swallowed. The thought of a human barbecue didn't do much for my stomach.
Darmov stood and came around the desk until he was in front of it, leaning against it. "As I said, Jake, I did some checking on you. And I liked what I saw."
"Great."
"But I've only seen what the reports said. I need a little something more. A little convincing if you will."
"Oh. Yeah?"
"Indeed." Darmov gestured over at the quaking man in the corner. "I'd very much like to see you inject that man with my own version of blissful death."
I sat there. Not moving. "What happens after I inject him?"
Darmov shrugged. "Well, I won't have to kill him."
"No?"
"No." He handed me the syringe. I held it in my hands, watching the liquid jostle a bit inside. I looked over at the man who looked ready to pass out.
I handed the syringe back to Darmov. "I'm not here to become a killer."
Darmov took the syringe. "Indeed. You're not. You're here to get me babies. You're here to get me buyers." He walked over to the man and laid a hand on top of his head, tousling the man's sweaty hair with one hand.
Darmov glanced down at the man and smiled. He looked back at me. "You're here to make me money."
"Absol-"
But Darmov had already grabbed the man's head with his free hand and rammed the hypodermic into the man's left eye, shooting the syringe deeper until it must have punctured his brain. The man shuddered and a high-pitched muffled shriek filled the room. Air and snot ran out of his nose.
Darmov held the needle in there and he pressed the plunger until the hypodermic emptied. Then he yanked it out and tossed it into his wastebasket.
He looked down at the man, who had stopped moving and shrieking, and then shoved him back toward the wall. The man fell over. His left eye was a mass of running gooey blood. His right eye was open. Unfocused.
"I forgot to mention that Spetznaz commandos used a slightly different version of Ôblissful death,' to avoid the pain of capture and interrogation. It kills very quickly." He shrugged. "Sometimes I forget which is which."
I looked back at Darmov who has studying my expression. It took ever ounce of will to sit there and remain stone like. I breathed evenly, trying to still my hammering heart.
"I think," said Darmov at last, "that you will be quite a breath of fresh air in this organization."
Darmov produced a smaller bottle of vodka out of a tiny refrigerator next to his desk. "This is a special brand made by a small village in Siberia. I keep it handy for special occasions. I think this merits a glass."
He poured some into two glasses that came from the other side of his desk and handed one to me.
I hefted it, ready to drink. Damn, I needed to drink it. But he stopped me.
"We had a tradition, back when I was in the Soviet army."
I eyed him. "What kind of tradition?"
"When an officer got promoted in Spetznaz," he paused and looked at me, "I was first assigned to them, did you know?"
"I know."
He nodded. "We would go out into the woods. We would lay out our great coats Ð they were made of a hard, durable and warm gray wool that itched Ð and we would pour the vodka. Into the promoted man's glass at the bottom would rest his new stars. In Russia, it was always stars for officers. Big ones, little ones, but always stars."
He smiled, seemed almost lost in the memory. "One star would be in the first glass of vodka. The man would drink it slowly, not reaching with his lips, and slowly the star would slide toward his mouth until at last it seemed to almost kiss his lips.
"We would pin the first star and the man would shatter his glass against a rock. Then another glass, and another star, for his other epaulet. Another slow drink. Another kiss from a star. And another man promoted."
He stared into the glass of vodka for another minute and then finally looked back at me as if remembering where he was. "We shall drink this glass slow. For in a way, you are being promoted Jake Thunder. You work for me now. You enjoy things now. Different things." He hoisted his glass. "Let us drink."
We drank deep and slow. I found temporary refuge from the horror I'd just witnessed in the slow burn of the alcohol.
Darmov topped me off again with a smile. "Two epaulets, two stars, two vodkas to drink."
We drank another glass.
My throat burned but I kept drinking. At last, I emptied my glass and set it down.
Darmov looked pleased. "Don Woolery vomited it up when I gave him some."
"Boy had no class," I said, feeling the two glasses hit me.
"That," said Darmov, "is absolutely true."
"I’ve got some." My head buzzed a little.
"Do you?"
"The right amount."
"Which is?"
"Two parts grace, two parts class, and six parts bad-ass."
"Interesting formula," said Darmov grinning. Maybe he was buzzed, too.
"Sure," I said. "I add up to a perfect ten."
Darmov put the vodka away and looked at me. "So?"
"So what?"
"When are you gong to start getting me babies?"
"When do we talk money?"
"We’re talking right now."
"I need to know your prices."
"Don didn’t tell you?"
"Told me some. Not sure if that was with his fancy upfront charge you spoke of the other night."
"Thirty thousand for the babies. You earn a twenty percent commission on each one you successfully place."
"I want forty."
"Forty percent?"
"Twelve grand," I said.
"That’s ludicrous," said Darmov. "I have other costs."
"Twenty’s too low."
"I’ll go twenty-five," said Darmov. "Thirty after you’re here six months and if things work out."
"What if things don’t work out?"
Darmov grinned. "Then Viktor gets his wish."
"Guess I’ll get to work then," I said with a smile. "Can I get a lift back to my office?"
Darmov put out his hand and I shook it. "I’ll have Viktor take you back." He pushed a button on his desk and the door opened. Viktor stood there in all his glory. There was a hint of lipstick on his collar. I guessed it was from the receptionist.
Darmov looked at him and spoke some Russian. Viktor nodded, said "da," and held the door for me.
"Thanks for the opportunity," I said.
"My pleasure," said Darmov. "Just one thing, Mr. Thunder."
"Yeah?"
"If you are fucking with me or if you ever fuck with me, I will make what happened to that stupid fool over in the corner look like a pleasant holiday compared to the pain, agony, and eventual death I will personally inflict on you."
"I wouldn’t doubt that for one second," I said and rolled out of the office with Viktor following close behind.
Chapter Fifteen
I’ve never been a gun freak.
When I was in the service, the only thing I ever cared about was how clean my weapon was and that it fired nice and straight when I pulled the trigger.
Unfortunately, the profession I’ve chosen for myself sometimes mandates the use of a gun. And I’ve had enough whacked-out idiots threaten my life enough times that I need to carry a piece on occasion.
But I’d rather rely on my wits to get me through a nasty situation.
Still, being proficient with a gun requires you to invest a certain amount of time practicing your technique. Marksmanship is a frangible skill. Stop practicing and your aim goes to hell. Weekly maintenance is the best way I’ve found to stay sharp.
There are a number of ranges around Boston, despite the idea that the city is less than gun-friendly. The Dorchester range attracts a fair majority of police officers and conservative types, so I tend to stay away from that one.
I practice at the one in Roxbury down by Egelston Square. It’s run by an old Black Panther named Les Tijana. Les lost his left arm after taking a bullet during the Watts riots and neglecting to get the wound checked out for a few days until after gangrene set in. Despite being a one-armed shot, Les can still put six rounds into a circle the size of a quarter at twenty yards with his Colt 1911.
The range is Spartan, the way the best ranges still are. I rolled in and found Les reading Malcom X for what must have been the millionth time.
He looked up from the dog-eared book as I rolled toward the counter. "Rolling Thunder, my man. What’s up?"
I grinned. Jake wasn’t Indian enough sounding for Les so he’d given me the prefix "rolling" some years back when I first started coming here. I think he liked knowing he had a genuine handicapped American Indian shooting at his range.
"Nada. You got space down at lane 9?"
He nodded. Lane 9 was built for shooters in wheelchairs. In fact, it was the only place in town that was specifically designed for us vertically-challenged folk. It was another aspect that made Les proud of his range.
I breathed deep the smell of cordite and sulfur. Cracks and splangs echoed within the confines of the range while extractor fans overhead tried to dislodge as much of the fumes as possible.
Les slipped a pair of gun shields and glasses across the counter at me and then picked up his book again.
"How many times you read that book, Les?"
He glanced up at me. "How many times you read that Kung Fu shit you always curling up with?"
"TouchŽ."
"Damned right." He went back to reading and I slid a twenty on to the counter. It disappeared faster than I could blink. One-armed or not, Les was still lightning.
I rolled down the range and pulled on the pair of gun shields to protect my larger than life ears from the constant explosions going on around me. I recognized an up-and-coming Hip Hop star that was trying full-auto with an Ingram Mac-10 and not being very successful at it. He kept pulling high and to the right and his rounds were kicking the hell out of his target’s left shoulder.
At lane nine, I stopped and put the brakes on the chair, getting myself situated. Shooting from a chair is very different than what most folks experience shooting with two working legs. First off, you can’t brace yourself up in any of those traditional shooting stances like the Weaver or Instinctive Firing. Wheelchair shooters have to brace their chair and lean forward, depending on the recoil, in order to ke
ep the rounds going where they need to go.
I hefted my bag on top of the counter top and unzipped it. I favored the Heckler & Koch USP in .40 caliber because I could still control it, and it never seemed to jam despite any amount of abuse that was heaped on it. I’d gotten familiar with it years back in the service when it first came out for Special Operations units. The one I used back then had a fitted suppressor attachment and a laser sighting system. The one I used now was a stripped down civilian version, but the thing was still a piece of engineering marvel.
I pulled on my glasses, slapped a magazine into place, chambered a round and checked the slide, and then slid the safety off. From a position I’d adapted that I called a modified low-ready position, I brought the gun up, got the back sights and then front sights aligned on the target at the end of the range and squeezed off a magazine’s worth of bullets in two-shot intervals called "double-taps."
The first magazine went quick as the vague rush of adrenaline seeped into my system. I slapped another mag home and repeated the process.
McCloskey found me while I was reloading the two magazines.
"How’d you do?"
I pushed the button that brought the target back to me and he whistled. "Nice shot groupings."
"I pulled a little low and left on the first magazine."
"First time in a week, right?"
"No excuse," I said. "I don’t have the luxury of warming up on the street."
"You are way too hard on yourself." He glanced back down toward the front door. "I don’t think Les likes me very much."
"You are way too white and way too cop to fit in here," I said.
"Good to know racial equality is just a hair’s breadth away from being a reality."
"Tell that to a lot of your co-workers."
"Don’t start," said McCloskey.
"Just stating a fact," I said. "What’s up?"
"Figured this would be a better place to meet you than at your office. Just in case you got any of Darmov’s boys following you around town."
I nodded. "Good plan. Russkies might stick out even worse than you here."
"Hey, you’re half white, Thunder."
"In here, I’m all Sitting Bull."
"Bullshit more likely." McCloskey glanced down the range again. "So, you meet with your new employer?"
