Krokodil

by Dustin Stevens

  Even in the quietest of neighborhoods, people will only let things go so far. They might not react to hearing some strange noises, especially if they were at all familiar with who the Blok’s really were, but there’s no way they would sit on the sidelines and let a house fire consume them as well.

  Somebody had made the call, of that much I was certain.

  Having the getaway ride sitting on the corner, keys in the ignition, engine already warm and idling, made things much easier. Being in a country where the steering wheel was on the left and people drove on the right side of the road helped too, my only jobs being to toss the briefcase and shoulder bag onto the passenger seat, turn the thermostat from cold to cool, and drive off into the night.

  I made a point to get off of their street as fast as possible, working my way back to a major thoroughfare and putting a wide chunk of ground between us.

  After the confrontation with Pavel, I had to force my nerves to remain even. There was no way I was going to draw them back all the way to calm, not with every ending in my body on fire, my heartbeat hammering along at an absurd pace.

  No less than a handful of thoughts fought for the top position in my mind, each as powerful as the others around it. The first, and most obvious, was the fact that I had just dispatched the men responsible for the deaths of my family. It had been a long time coming, a journey addled by fear and uncertainty, but in the end it had been easier than anticipated. I’d escaped without much more than some scratches, showing up in the middle of the night, taking them where they least expected it, finding them where they felt the most secure.

  I might not have been proud of the things I’d done, but I certainly wasn’t ashamed either. It wasn’t a fight I had started, but had made sure to damn well finish.

  The second thing that I had to keep reminding myself was that I was now driving in a car registered to none other than Sergey Blok. Should the police notice it missing, or somebody put out a search for it thinking he might not have been home when the fire started, I was in trouble. Dressed in black, spotted with flour, streaked with Pavel’s blood, there was no scenario in which I wouldn’t be hauled straight into lockup and never heard from again. I had to put distance between myself and the fire, but I also had to get to my next location.

  The final thing, the part I needed to remind myself more than any other, was the fact that I wasn’t done yet. As much as I wanted to pound on the steering wheel, turn up the radio, raised my head towards the heavens and scream until my throat was hoarse, I couldn’t. I needed to keep a level head.

  I needed to remember that I wasn’t finished until Blok’s life’s work was annihilated, just the same as he had done to mine.

  Reaching across the middle console, I twisted the combination lock on the case to matching 4-5-1’s and flipped open the top. The few items inside had jostled themselves around a bit in the previous hour, but everything appeared intact, ready to play their part.

  The first item to come out was the phone, my left hand draped over the steering wheel, my right working the controls on the device. While intermittently switching my attention between the road and the mobile, I pulled up the one stored number inside and pressed send.

  “It’s late,” X said, his voice more annoyed than tired.

  I ignored the statement completely. Instead I rattled off the second address Pally had given me from memory, going slow enough he could record it, fast enough not to insult his intelligence.

  X remained silent until I was done before asking, “Okay, what’s there?”

  “Your ticket out of Russia,” I said, skimping over the details because at the moment I had none. Given everything Pally had told me about the financial transactions originating there and the dimensions of the former manufacturing warehouse, I was more than certain it was the production hub for the drug that was about to enter North America.

  Even if the Krokodil itself wasn’t made there, it could be easily inferred that something inside would tell them where to find it.

  “Yeah?” X asked, the annoyance gone, a twinge of excitement creeping in.

  “Give me thirty minutes to clear the scene,” I said, “then it’s all yours. All I ask is when you become a rock star with the Administration, you give some credit to SAC Mia Diaz in California.”

  “Mia Diaz,” X sounded out slowly, no doubt recording the name alongside the address.

  “You both helped me when you didn’t have to. Thank you.”

  This time it was his turn to ignore a statement, brushing it aside without acknowledgement. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”

  “See you soon,” I responded, flipping the phone shut and tossing it into the open briefcase beside me.

  Squeezing the wheel with both hands, I followed the road I was on back through town, headed towards the warehouse. I let the scene at Blok’s fade from memory, the familiar anger buried within rising to the surface, ready to do what I must to finish the job.

  Reaching behind me, I extracted the two Mark 23’s from my waistband and laid them across my thighs, popping the half-used magazines and changing them out for fresh. Combined that gave me twenty-four bullets, plus the knife in my pocket, to take on whatever waited inside.

  I would think it more than enough firepower for a manufacturing facility in the middle of the night but if not, at least I had taken care of the ones that mattered before meeting my end.

  Recalling the directions Pally had drilled into me, aided by five hours on the train to recite them over and over again, I pulled off the main road onto a darkened side street demarcated by a series of Russian characters starting with a K and ending in Y. I followed it for almost a mile, watching as a small residential clump slid by behind me and the land to either side opened up, trees and houses giving way to barren concrete lots.

  The warehouse I was looking for was positioned at the very end of the road, the only structure with any lights on. Just a single overhead lamp was visible in the parking lot outside, a smattering of vehicles parked beneath it. Most of the enormous building was shrouded in darkness, fluorescent bulbs apparent through a row of frosted glass encasing the top.

  Again my breathing and heart rate leveled out as I set my gaze on the building, following the road as it wrapped around towards it, pulling to a stop just beyond the reach of the overhead lights. I killed the front lamps on the car and left the engine idling, assessing the situation before me.

  From where I sat the only clear point of entry was a set of glass double doors positioned directly in the middle of the building. In total the expansive structure looked to stretch a few hundred yards long, massive shipping doors on either end pulled shut, not looking like they had been used in some time.

  The windows along the top of the building were almost thirty feet off the ground, too high for entry under optimal conditions, which I was far from. I was armed, but otherwise I had nothing of real use, no cavalry coming for another twenty-eight minutes. My goal was to be long gone before they arrived, bypassing any extended awkward questioning, letting X and Diaz take the credit from afar.

  Three days ago I had been granted Special Consultant status, though my guess was that had since been rescinded.

  Without seeing the backside of the building, it was a fairly reasonable guess that my best, and probably only, real point of gaining access was the set of doors staring back at me, just over two hundred yards away. In an ideal world I would have liked to be able to gain entry from a point that provided me some modicum of cover, allowing me to scope out what I was walking into.

  If the last years had taught me anything though, there was no such thing as an ideal world.

  One at a time I moved the guns from my thighs to the briefcase, wedging them in place. Squeezing the wheel tight in both hands I rolled my wrists back and forth twice, bits of leather shaving off, dotting the front of my pants.

  I paused just long enough for one last deep breath before dropping the gear shift into drive, my foot slamming the accelerator towards the floor
.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The nose of the sedan burst through the first set of double doors, the metal casings twisting away over the front of the car, shearing back along the sides. Shards of glass cascaded down around the vehicle as if raining down on the roof, coating the front windshield. I could hear them pinging against the steel body, bouncing off the gleaming black paint, flying out behind me in a misshapen rooster tail.

  A moment later the nose slammed into a second set of doors, the implements flying backwards, tearing away whole and sliding across the floor, the jagged metal of their hinges screeching against the concrete. Unprepared for the second blast my head slammed forward against the wheel, my own knuckle catching me just above the left eye. Stars erupted in front of my vision as warmth dripped down over my face, the salty, metallic taste of blood seeping between my lips.

  Halfway into the room I regained my bearings, slamming on the brakes, the tires squealing as I came to a stop, the smell of burnt rubber trailing behind me. I grabbed up the guns from the seat beside me and stepped out, weapons raised at shoulder height, my head swiveling from to side.

  On either end of the enormous space I could see boxes and drums of what I assumed to be pre- and post-product, both sides stacked high, row after row aligned with neat precision. If my hunch was right it would be more than enough to get X any post he wanted, keep the streets of California safer for at least a little longer.

  In front of me heavy plastic sheeting hung from the ceiling, the same sort of makeshift sterile environment I’d seen many times before. On the opposite side of it I could see lab equipment and conveyor belts, two handfuls of people in white protective gear all staring back at me, none of them moving.

  Surprise was on my side. It was time to move.

  There was no compassion for these people, no offering them quarter, standing guard over them until backup arrived. These people, the product they created, were the reason my family was dead. It was the reason countless others had had their lives ruined, through fallen loved ones and harsh addictions. Even if these people weren’t the ones pulling the trigger, they are what called for men like Pavel.

  It was an ugly, vicious system, one they were all guilty of participating in. If I let a single one of them walk away, they would be back on the street within a year, if not sooner. That same vile substance that was stacked high beside me would find its way to some other city, would be the cause of some other law enforcement agent’s downfall.

  The mere thought of it brought vile to the back of my throat, the same familiar rage surfacing within me.

  Heavy or not, the plastic sheeting was no match for the .45 caliber bullets my guns spat, one after another in rapid succession. I started with four rounds from each, five people falling to the ground in order, red blotches blooming over their white suits. On impact each one melted to the ground, standing in complete shock at what was happening, watching without moving.

  I picked off each of the people standing directly in front of me before stepping forward, a jagged string of bullet holes scattered several feet wide across the plastic. Shoving the gun from my right hand into the back of my pants, I slid the Garra out and popped the blade release, swiping a vicious slash, connecting the bullet holes in an uneven line.

  The sheeting fell to the ground, the material slapping against the concrete as it landed in a heap. For the first time people inside began to scurry away from me, the protective covers on their shoes making them slip and fall, a tangle of shapeless white bodies trying in vain to flee.

  Using my left hand I began firing again, bullets striping the opposite side of the space, men writhing mid-air, their bodies jerking in ugly spasms, their arms flailing above their heads.

  I jammed the knife in my right hand into a finished block of Krokodil waiting on the conveyor belt to be loaded, leaving the handle sticking up at a ninety degree angle, and pulled the second gun out again.

  A small piece of me was almost disappointed by the fact that not one of the men inside stood their ground. Nobody drew a weapon and tried to return fire, or even attempted to throw a chunk of their precious product at me in an effort to slow me down. Instead they all filed towards the back corner, trying to free themselves of their plastic prison, their sterile attire making it impossible for them to gain purchase and move away fast enough.

  By the time I reached the far end of the homemade lab, a litany of bodies lay in my wake. Blood spatter coated the polished concrete floor, dripping from open wounds, seeping into the powder piled everywhere.

  Leaving the bodies untouched I passed through the flaps comprising a narrow doorway at the back end of the space. A dull throbbing settled in behind my left eye, a trickle of blood continuing to drip down my face. I could feel the adrenaline ebbing within me, knowing I needed to finish the job and move on fast.

  A series of black skid marks striped the floor outside the plastic, the telltale signs of forklifts at work. Swinging my gaze in a wide arc I spotted two of them parked side-by-side in the corner, silent, no operators nearby. The boxes of product and raw materials on either end meant their services were never far from being needed, their operators close at hand.

  My arms hung at a forty-five degree angle from my shoulders, the barrels of the guns pointed at the ground, the elongated noses extending almost to my knees. The thumping in my head grew in intensity as my heart rate increased, my shoulders bunched up tight, walking heel-to-toe, watching for any sign of movement.

  There was not a single sound as I walked back the length of the lab, past dozens of yards of clear plastic, past my own makeshift door into their facility, an uneven gaping hole. One quick glance inside told me that nobody had survived the first purge, their bodies remaining where fallen, their positions as misshapen as the moment they’d been hit.

  Sweat bathed my skin beneath the heavy knit shirt and slacks, a sheen of moisture visible on the backs of my hands. Droplets worked their way down my forehead as I inched forward, mixing with the blood, the taste of salt heavy on my lips, stinging my eyes.

  One at a time I ignored each of these things, my attention settling on a string of offices imbedded on the left half of the warehouse, opposite of the direction I had taken after crashing through the front door. Added as an afterthought to the larger structure, they were no more than eight or nine feet tall, an even, flat ceiling extended across the length of them.

  Glass windows lined the entire expanse, blinds left open along most of them, doors drawn shut. In my mind I thought back to the transactions Pally had tracked across the globe, most likely originating in these rooms, actions performed by pencil pushers in shirt sleeves working nine-to-five, now long gone for the day.

  To most of the offices I gave no more than a passing acknowledgement. The probability of anybody being inside them was negligible at most, more likely non-existent. Illicit drug trade or not, a warehouse is a warehouse. The white collar workers go home at quitting time, the real muscle to the operation is on hand all night long.

  Bypassing the dark and shuttered windows, I set my course for the dull glow of neon red extending from the only open door in the place. It showed itself by protruding an uneven trapezoid out into the warehouse, sides formed by the edges of the door, bottom extending out before fading away at some indeterminate point.

  I’d been on enough worksites the world over to know the telltale indicators of a soda machine when I saw one. Judging by the forklifts sitting idle on the opposite side of the building, their operators had either cut out a side door or were hunkered down inside this room. If they were gone, I didn’t have the time or the inclination to chase them around their home city in the dark. If not, they were soon to meet the same end as their coworkers.

  Raising the guns from hanging at an angle to almost parallel to the ground, I circled wide towards the break room door and entered directly through it, my silhouette framed by the doorway. There was no point in trying to hide myself or slide in around the side of the frame. If anybody was waiting
inside with a weapon, they would have opened fire by now.

  Weapons raised I entered to find a rectangular room a little longer than it was wide. A soda machine rested against the back wall, a vending machine stocked with candies and chips beside it. Counters extended out on either side, various odds and ends strewn about.

  Plastic silverware, napkins, condiment packets.

  The remainder of the room was filled with round tables, silver bases holding them upright, brown plastic chairs with slits in the backs surrounding them. Nowhere was there anything breathing, the room empty.

  A sigh passed over my lips as the guns dipped a bit lower. I turned and walked back out into the warehouse, stopping just past the edge of the room, watching. Nothing throughout the entire space moved, the competing scents of fertilizer, sawdust, ammonia in the air, a hint of blood laced in around the edges.

  Curling my arms towards the base of my spine, I began to stow my weapons when a low sound drew my attention to the left. Even, persistent, it was just audible, muffled. Keeping the Mark 23’s at the ready, I crouched into a shooter’s stance and inched towards the origin of it, the noise growing stronger as I went.

  It took less than a minute to find the source of it, a metal door in the far corner of the cavernous room. Painted white, it was even set with concrete blocks on either side of it colored the same hue. A heavy metal padlock clasped the door shut, the surface of it vibrating just slightly, in tune with the banging on the opposite side.

  The sound was too loud, too steady, to be caused by anything random. The room looked like a basic storage shed, but something falling over inside would not make the banging noise that now met my ears. Whatever is was was alive, and not pleased with its situation.

  For the briefest of moments, I considered leaving whoever was behind the door trapped inside. X and the sweeper team would find them soon enough, having someone alive and breathing they could lean on for information. Depending on how they worked them, a veritable bastion of useful intel could be gleaned.