The Equalizer

by Michael Sloan

  Chase Granger lay on the floor with two bullet holes in his chest.

  McCall had an instant memory of him wolfing down his cheeseburger at Bentleys, when his mandate from Control had been to work his cover as a real estate broker and get into conversation with whoever matched Robert McCall’s description. He remembered Granger’s frightened eyes looking up at him from his bed when he’d awakened him. He remembered the ingenuous determination in his voice when he’d said, “You can count on me, McCall.”

  They’d probably used a silencer; no one would have heard the gunshots. He knelt down and gently closed the young agent’s eyes. He walked back through the apartment, careful not to touch anything. He picked up the DO NOT DISTURB sign from the top of the bureau in the hallway, closed the apartment door, and hung the sign on the door handle. When he got to the lobby of the Dakota, he found it empty. He dialed Emma Marshall. She picked up on the second ring.

  “Now you’ve seen me again, you just can’t get me off your mind?”

  “Chase Granger is dead,” McCall said into his iPhone. “He’s in an apartment at the Dakota. You know where that is?”

  “Where John Lennon was killed.”

  “Seventy-second Street and Central Park West.”

  He gave her the apartment number.

  All playfulness had left her voice. She was clipped and formal and businesslike.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. He was shot twice. Control won’t want the cops to find the body of one of his agents here. Too many questions will be asked. You need to send a cleanup crew.”

  “Got it. Does his death have to do with The Company?”

  “It has to do with me. Get this done in the next half hour. I closed the apartment door and put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on it, but housekeeping has to go in there sometime.”

  “I’m on it. Are you in danger?”

  “Probably.”

  McCall hung up.

  He walked out of the Dakota onto Central Park West and his iPhone rang. He looked at the caller ID.

  It was his ex-wife.

  “Yes, Cassie,” he said into the phone.

  Cassie’s voice was calm, but he could hear the ragged emotion in it.

  “You need to meet me at the 21 Club as soon as you can get there. How far away are you?”

  “Ten minutes by cab. What’s happened?”

  “They’ve taken Scott.”

  CHAPTER 45

  The lounge of the 21 Club was jammed as usual. The maître d’ greeted McCall as warmly as if he came in there every night, not just a few times in ten years. McCall saw Cassie sitting at the same table they’d sat at before, in front of the fireplace, which had a fire roaring in it. It was cold outside and rain threatened. McCall walked across the lounge. The last time he’d been there, Chase Granger had been up at the bar in the Bar Room. McCall looked through the archway, the Goodyear Blimp catching his eye, hanging from the ceiling along with the other toys and sports memorabilia. The small tables and the bar were packed. He didn’t see any of Kirov’s enforcers.

  McCall slid into a chair beside Cassie. She was pale and her eyes glittered with anger. This was a Cassie he had not seen in a long time. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “You promised me you were out of your old life. You lied to me.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  In answer she slid her iPhone across the table. There was a text message on the LED screen. It said:

  WE HAVE YOUR SON. BE WITH MCCALL AT 7:20 TONIGHT. I WILL CALL YOU THEN.

  McCall glanced down at his watch.

  7:16 P.M.

  “Where was Scott?” he asked. “At school?”

  “He stayed after classes for orchestra practice, then went to his violin lesson. Every Wednesday evening at five o’clock. He had his lesson, but he never made it home. I got this text message in my office. What do they want?”

  “Me.”

  “Do you know who’s kidnapped our son?”

  “I have a pretty good idea. A Chechen entrepreneur named Alexei Berezovsky. He used to be an FTB agent. Our paths crossed a few times when I was working for The Company. He’s running a new assassination business. There would have been one in Prague a few nights ago.”

  “At the Summit Conference?”

  “Yes.”

  “But there wasn’t. It would have been all over the news.”

  “I stopped it.”

  “So you are back with The Company.”

  “No. It came out of a personal connection with Berezovsky’s wife.”

  “So you’re fucking the wife of an old Company enemy and now he wants to take revenge on your family?”

  McCall thought she was going to slap his face.

  She was fighting back her tears.

  “I was helping her,” McCall said. “Nothing more. But Berezovsky won’t believe that.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She looked away at the big lounge windows. Fat raindrops were streaming down it now. Yellow cabs pulled up outside and disgorged diners for the restaurant. McCall reached over and gripped her hand.

  “I had no idea when I met Katia that she was married, or had been married, to Alexei Berezovsky. She comes into Bentleys, the restaurant where I was working as a bartender. She was in trouble. I didn’t know about Berezovsky’s assassination mission and I wasn’t supposed to stop it.”

  She looked back at him. The tears fell now.

  “But you did.”

  “Yes.”

  “And this Chechen gangster knows that?”

  “He may suspect it, but he doesn’t know for sure. This isn’t about that. He’s also taken his wife and their teenage daughter.”

  She had not pulled his hand from hers. Now she squeezed it tighter.

  “I didn’t call the police or the FBI.”

  “Leave them out of it.”

  “So you’ll contact The Company? Someone must be in charge when Control is away. Another Control. Jason Mazer.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’d love to hear from me. I can’t bring The Company into this. I don’t work for them any longer.”

  “They owe you.”

  “Maybe, but this is something I have to do alone.”

  “Berezovsky will have armed men with him.”

  “They won’t be enough.”

  Cassie’s iPhone vibrated on the table. McCall nodded at her. She let go of his hand and picked it up.

  “This is Cassandra Blake,” she said into the phone.

  McCall could hear Alexei Berezovsky’s voice clearly, even within the noisy clamor of the 21 lounge.

  “Is your ex-husband with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please put him on.”

  Cassie handed the iPhone to McCall.

  “Let me speak to my son,” McCall said immediately.

  “He is with me and unharmed, but not able to come to the phone right now. You killed a colleague of mine in Prague.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No one else could have done it. It doesn’t matter. I have several others in my employ. I will be brief, although I don’t believe you have FBI agents sitting with you tracing this call. Put two hundred fifty thousand dollars into a sports bag. I will contact you on your cell phone with more instructions.”

  McCall gave Berezovsky his cell phone number. “It’ll take me time to get that amount of cash.”

  “I understand. You will deliver it to my location at midnight. I will call you in two hours. No police, no FBI, no Company agents. This is between the two of us. Or I will cut your son’s throat like he was a pig for slaughter.”

  “You have Katia and Natalya.…”

  “Oh, yes. I haven’t decided what to do with them yet. Perhaps we can discuss it when you’re here, since you’ve taken it upon yourself to be their white knight.”

  Berezovsky disconnected. McCall handed Cassie back her iPhone.

  “Did you hear all of that?”

&nb
sp; “Yes. Where are you going to get a quarter of a million dollars?”

  “Not a problem, but that’s just a smokescreen. A bonus for Berezovsky. Scott isn’t for ransom. Nor are his wife and daughter. They’re pawns being used to get me to him.”

  “And then he’ll kill you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll kill all of them.”

  It was not a question.

  “That would be his plan. Not going to happen.”

  “You have to take backup. What about Mickey Kostmayer? I know this man said no Company agents, but…”

  “Mickey is in Prague with Control at the Summit Conference.”

  “What about that agent who always scared the shit out of me? The one with the funny name?”

  “Granny.”

  “Yes, him.”

  “Too risky.”

  “You have to have some kind of a plan. You can’t just walk alone into the lion’s den. I remember you talking about this man a long time ago. You said he was ruthless and one notch above an animal.”

  “Not even a notch. I’m sorry, Cassie. I’m so sorry. You’re right. I should never have come back into your lives. I’ll take care of this.”

  He got up from the table. She reached up and caught his hand.

  “What will you do?”

  “Get Scott,” McCall said simply.

  “And Katia and her daughter?”

  “No one gets left behind.”

  Cassie’s attitude toward him had undergone a significant change. She stood up and moved into his arms. He held her close.

  “If anyone can do this, it’s you,” she whispered. “Bring our son home alive.”

  “I will.”

  McCall left her standing there and walked through the lounge and out past the painted jockeys into the rain. He looked back through one of the lounge windows. Cassie was already talking on her cell phone. Probably to her husband, Tom Blake.

  McCall hailed a cab and gave the cabbie an address.

  * * *

  William Littman shook McCall’s hand as he stepped into the deserted Chase Bank building on Madison Avenue just below Central Park. Littman was tall and athletic, probably in his mid-fifties, not a shred of gray in his brown hair, tanned and fit and looking like he spent all of his non-banking hours in the Hamptons. Which he did. McCall was carrying an empty black Adidas sports bag. He and Littman walked across the echoing marble main floor.

  “It’s good to see you again, Mr. McCall,” Littman said. “How many years has it been?”

  “Probably too many. But I’m living again in Manhattan, so you’ll be seeing more of me.”

  “Are you still married to that gorgeous assistant district attorney?”

  “No, but she’s still as gorgeous.”

  “And how old is your son now?”

  “Fifteen. I appreciate your opening up for me after hours, Bill.”

  “No problem at all. I was here working late anyway. Do you still work for the government?”

  “Retired.”

  “Took it early, eh?”

  “It seemed like the thing to do.”

  They rode an elevator down to the vault and safe-deposit box room. Littman had McCall sign an index card, do a retina scan, which came up positive, then used a master key to turn the lock in one of the big safe-deposit boxes. McCall had the matching key on his key ring. Littman pulled out the box and he and McCall carried it to an oak table in the center of the room.

  “Heavy,” Littman commented.

  McCall didn’t respond.

  “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Do you have security here tonight?”

  “Two security officers. Every night. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  Littman left him alone.

  McCall set the empty Adidas sports bag on the table. He opened the safe-deposit box. Inside were envelopes with bank notes in them in series of hundred-dollar bills, ten thousand to a wrapped bundle. He took out $250,000 and put the envelopes into the sports bag. Inside the box were several handguns, wrapped in cloth, with ammo clips. He unwrapped a Sig Sauer P238 Rosewood handgun with a Rosewood custom grip and a stainless-steel slide with a tribal pattern. He slid an ammo magazine into it and put it into the pocket of his jacket. He took three more ammo mags and dropped them into the sports bag. He unwrapped a Beretta Px4 Storm 9 mm sub-compact with ammo magazines and dropped them into the sports bag. He picked up an M16A4 rifle with a Picatinny rail system and Knight’s Armament Company M5 RAS hand guard. He slipped a three-position telescopic sight onto the rail. He put the rifle into the sports bag along with six thirty-round magazines of 5.56 cartridges. He unwrapped a Korean SJ-600 Revolver tear gas shell launcher and six 38 mm tear gas shells and dropped them all into the sports bag. There was a German HK69 40 mm grenade launcher with a retractable shoulder stock, short-range rear sight and various kinds of low-velocity ammo, but he left that in the box. Overkill. Too big a risk of collateral damage.

  McCall zipped up the sports bag. He closed the lid on the safe-deposit box and rang the bell on the side of the steel door leading to the room. Three minutes later William Littman appeared. They returned the large box to its slot and McCall put his key in the lock and then Littman did the same. McCall picked up the Adidas sports bag. It was heavy. He shook Littman’s hand.

  The banker smiled an enigmatic smile.

  “Good hunting,” Littman said.

  McCall was never sure whether the banker was just guessing at the kind of work he did—or used to do—or if he knew and found it all very exciting.

  McCall just nodded.

  He walked out of the bank and got the call on his iPhone as he walked down Madison Avenue, heading toward the Plaza Hotel. There was no caller ID.

  McCall said, “Yes.”

  Berezovsky’s voice echoed over the iPhone. “City Hall train station. Not in use for a decade. The number six Lexington Avenue local subway train goes to Brooklyn Bridge, which is the last stop, then uses a loop through the old City Hall station to go back. The train doesn’t stop. Sometimes the driver will open the doors so passengers can look out at the old station. Rather magnificent architecture. A few steps from City Hall on the street is an old entrance to the station, no longer in use, except for maintenance. There’s a gate across it. Tonight it is not locked. You can enter there. Go down the stairs and you’ll be in the old station. At midnight. Come alone, McCall.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  McCall broke the connection.

  He would be there, but he wouldn’t be using the old City Hall entrance.

  * * *

  She was in some kind of a storage room. There was a strong smell of disinfectant. She’d seen a mop in a metal bucket against a corner and metal shelves stocked with cleaning items and paint cans and paper towels. There was no light. The darkness pressed in on her from all sides and made her want to scream. She suppressed the urge, but she couldn’t control her anxiety attacks. They shuddered through her; she was acutely aware of her breathing. The isolation didn’t bother her; she was used to being alone. It was the thought that no one would ever come back for her. That she would die alone in this black hole. Pretty soon she would start to scream, she knew that.

  She heard a key turn in a lock and a blast of colder air reached her as the door to the storage room was opened. A swathe of light fell across her. She was sitting cross-legged with her back up against one of the sets of shelves. She had on a sweatshirt with Lea Michele and the late Cory Monteith on it, singing a duet. She wore pale blue jeans ripped in several places and a pair of Nike pink and gray Dual Fusion shoes. One of the men who’d grabbed her outside of school, far enough away from the other students and their parents for no one to see, came in with a plastic Starbucks venti cup. He was the man who’d sat in her attic prison room after they’d abducted her from Washington Park. He was about five-eight, kind of cute, with curly black hair. He was wearing a dark suit with a gold watch chain pr
otruding from a pocket. She’d seen him at the Dolls club a few times. She thought his name was Kuzbec. She remembered a man calling to him from an alcove just beside the dance floor. A man she despised, because she knew he was the one who had wanted her mother to become a prostitute. She wasn’t certain of his name, but he was arrogant and his eyes hooded like a snake’s and she had always stayed away from him at the club.

  Kuzbec came over and crouched down in front of her. She almost recoiled from the stench of his body odor. He had never been this close to her before. Even when he’d been her watcher in the attic room he had always kept his distance. At least when she’d been awake. But now he was up close and she nearly gagged.

  It triggered a sense memory buried deep in her mind.

  Cold air, her breath pluming in the night. Walking along a deserted New York street. Someone grabbing her, throwing her to the ground, pinning her to the cement with one hand across her breasts. The assailant had unbuckled her jeans and pulled them down, pulled down her panties, dragged her over onto her stomach, and entered her from behind. She could feel the thrust of him inside her, the nausea it had caused, one hand on her back holding her down, the other over her mouth to stop her screaming. He’d raped her, then turned her over and hit her in the face. She’d rolled onto her side and vomited and heard running footsteps and people shouting. She’d gulped in air and then arms were lifting her up. She had pulled up her panties and jeans and buckled her belt with shaking fingers.

  She didn’t know who had come along to rescue her. Some good Samaritans who’d seen the assault from far off. A couple, in their thirties, the man white, the girl black. One of them had called 911 on their cell phone. They’d told her she was in the wrong neighborhood. She should not have been walking on her own. The police said the same thing when they arrived. She had been inviting an assault. It was her fault.

  She couldn’t give them a description. She hadn’t seen her attacker’s face. He hadn’t been heavyset or tall. But he’d been very strong.

  And he’d smelled.

  She hadn’t told the police that, because she hadn’t remembered. It had all happened so fast. But now that memory flooded over her in disgusting waves as she breathed in the air around Kuzbec’s body. Her eyes opened wide as she looked into his kind face. She had not been mugged by some gang member in a New York street.