At a few minutes past nine, two of Laski’s men entered the club. They were large men, each over six feet tall and weighing north of two hundred fifty pounds. The club was busy now. As they strolled through the tables on their way to the bar, they would pause for brief conversations with women. It didn’t seem to matter to them that many of the women were with other men. From the expressions on the faces of most of the women, the Ukrainians’ remarks were neither appreciated nor well received. When they got to the bar, they wedged their bodies around two young women, sitting side by side, cutting them off from the men they were with.
One of those men objected. He tapped the closest Ukrainian on the shoulder and tried to explain that the women were with them. The thug ignored him and slid his hand up the young woman’s thigh and under her short skirt. Clearly startled, she tried to push his hand away. The man who had been with her slid off his bar stool and grabbed the Ukrainian’s beefy shoulder, attempting to spin him around. The Ukrainian slapped the hand away as casually as if he were swatting a fly. The man grabbed the shoulder again and the Ukrainian slammed a huge right fist into the man’s stomach. The man stumbled backward, crashed into a table, and sagged to the floor. He didn’t move.
The club got quiet for a moment. Two bouncers appeared immediately, along with a couple of busboys. The busboys straightened the table and chairs and hauled away the broken glassware. A cocktail waitress brought a fresh round of drinks to the people who had been sitting at the table. A bouncer each grabbed an arm of the victim and dragged him out of the club. One of them looked at the Ukrainians and winked.
It was clear to Whelan that Laski’s men enjoyed special treatment at the club. It was the destination of choice for most of them on their day off and they probably spent a lot of money there. There also was the possibility that Laski either owned all or a part of the club, or paid to ensure that his men could let off steam without clashing with the club’s management.
Whelan glanced at his three companions scattered around the club. Kirkland shrugged, as if he were unimpressed. Thomas showed no emotion at all. Larsen smiled his bad smile, the cold, mirthless, menacing one. Clearly, he wanted to go over and beat the two Ukrainians within a fraction of their lives, even closer. Maybe, Whelan thought, Sven will get his wish. If not tonight, then soon.
One of the women said something to the other, and they tried to slide off their bar stools, but the Ukrainians stopped them. She pointed to the ladies’ room. The Ukrainian who had slugged the man shook his head. He held up one finger, indicating that they would have to go one at a time. The women looked at each other and spoke for a moment. One of them gathered her small purse and headed toward the ladies’ room, which was well inside the club, a long way from any exits. That was when Whelan made his move.
As the young woman moved away from the bar area, Whelan fell in behind her. “I can help you, but don’t look around,” he said. Naturally, her first instinct was to stop and turn around.
“They’re watching you. Keep walking,” he said it in a low growl. “The ladies’ room is around the corner on the right. When we’re out of their direct line of sight, we’ll stop and talk.”
When they had rounded the corner, the woman turned to face a tall, muscular man with light brown hair and incredibly blue eyes. She had seen eyes like that somewhere, but not in a human. There was something feral in the eyes, suggestive of a wild beast. A wolf, maybe? Perhaps the Ukrainians were the lesser of two evils. “What do you want with me?”
“I see your predicament and I can help.”
“Yeah? You’re pretty big, but those guys are huge.”
“Isn’t it women who say ‘size isn’t everything’?”
She raised her brows. “Are you being a smart ass?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. But I can help you. I just need you to do something for me.”
A smirk crossed her face. “Does this involve the backseat of a car in the parking lot?”
“No.”
She was impressed with his ease and confidence. “What is it you want me to do?”
Whelan reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial. “When neither of them is looking, pour this into one of their drinks. Do it fast and use all of it.”
Her eyes widened. “You want me to poison them?”
“It’s not poison. It’s a highly concentrated dose of Furosemide.”
“Fur…what?”
“Think of it as a medicine that makes you need to pee. Really pee and really soon. Just don’t let either of them see you pour it into the drink.”
“What if they don’t both look away at the same time?”
“I’ll see to it that they do. Just be ready.”
“How is all this going to help me and my friend Amber?”
“Whichever one of those guys drinks it will need to hit the men’s room very soon. I’ll deal with him in there.”
She nodded as if she understood. “And what will you do to him in there?”
Whelan smiled. “Behavior modification.”
She took the vial from his hand, nodded, and pushed open the door to the ladies’ room.
Whelan waited until a few minutes after she had returned to her seat at the bar. He walked up and said to the Ukrainians, “I can’t tell you guys how much I enjoyed seeing you belt that dweeb a while ago. I know the guy; he’s an asshole. How ‘bout I buy you a drink. What’d you say?”
Both Ukrainians sneered openly at him. The one who had slugged the man earlier said, “We don’t need you buy drinks. How you say in this country…go be lost.”
While the two thugs were staring at Whelan, the young woman poured the contents of the vial into the drink of the man nearest her. It was the man who had slugged her date.
“Okay,” Whelan said with a disarming smile, “I go be lost.”
He went directly to the men’s room, which appeared to be mostly unoccupied. There were three urinals, side by side along the wall to the left of the door, and three stalls against the wall opposite the door. To the right, three sinks and a large mirror faced the stalls. Two of the stalls appeared to be empty, but the door to the farthest one was closed. A small surveillance camera was attached high in a corner. He had noticed other cameras throughout the club.
Larsen and Thomas were dressed similarly to the club’s bouncers – gray slacks, black muscle tees, and black sport jackets. Small, rectangular brass nametags were clipped to the breast pockets of their jackets. Larsen’s said “Darren”. Thomas’s said “Karl”. They hung a sign on the door that said “Out of Order. Use Second Floor” and took up positions in front of the door to the men’s room, standing shoulder to shoulder with arms crossed and icy expressions on their faces. From that moment on, any men wanting to use the rest room quickly decided to use the one on the second level of the club. No one argued.
In a few minutes, one of the Ukrainians rose off his bar stool. “Vasyl go take the piss,” he said. “When I am coming back, we leave. Go someplace, have sex.” He leered at the two women and swaggered off toward the men’s room.
As Vasyl approached the men’s room, Thomas reached into a pants pocket and pressed the send button on his cell phone. He and Larsen removed the sign from the door and moved easily to the side. They appeared to be two bouncers having a casual conversation. As soon as the Ukrainian had entered the men’s room, the two men repositioned themselves in front of the door and rehung the sign.
Whelan got Thomas’s signal that the Ukrainian was coming and stepped to the middle urinal as if to relieve himself. Vasyl entered the room and opted for the urinal on Whelan’s left. He looked at Whelan and sneered. “So, is the go be lost guy. This where you get lost? In piss house?” He chuckled and began to relieve himself.
Whelan zipped up and turned as if to leave. As he did, he smashed his right hand into the other man’s solar plexus. Vasyl doubled over as the air was driven from his lungs. He staggered backwards, spraying urine on the wall, the urinal and himself.
Putt
ing out his right arm for balance exposed the man’s rib cage and Whelan drove a huge left hook into it, cracking several bones. Vasyl grunted and his knees started to buckle. Whelan slipped behind him. Grabbing the back of his jacket and the seat of his pants, he lifted the bulky man off the floor with ease and rammed him headfirst into the tile wall above the urinal. The Ukrainian went limp and Whelan shoved his head into the urinal, holding it there for several seconds.
Vasyl quickly realized what was happening and began to struggle, trying to get his feet under him. Whelan stomped down with his right foot on Vasyl’s right calf just below the knee. The blow ripped apart the anterior and posterior cruciate ligaments and severely damaged Vasyl’s fibular collateral ligament. His knee joint was useless. Vasyl tried to rise again, using his left leg. Whelan drove his knee into the back of the leg, damaging the semitendinosus and biceps femoris muscles. Vasyl’s injured legs collapsed and his left knee slammed into the tile floor, fracturing the patella.
The Ukrainian had both of his large hands on the rim of the urinal and, with great effort, began to push himself away from it. Whelan threw a powerful elbow strike, or empi technique, into the back of Vasyl’s neck. He collapsed with his face again submerged in the urinal. Whelan held him there until he was satisfied that the other man had ingested enough, then he slung him backwards with great force.
Vasyl slid across the tile floor, stopping near the stall with the closed door. As he lay there choking and gasping, the door to the stall opened and Kirkland stepped out.
Vasyl rolled his eyes toward the newcomer, hoping it was someone who would help him. Instead, Kirkland dropped down, driving a knee into the pit of Vasyl’s stomach and quickly bouncing up and back. Vasyl’s head shot forward and he vomited urine, booze, and remnants of an earlier dinner. His head fell back onto the tile floor with a cracking sound and he lay there groaning. His eyes rolled around in his head as it slowly wagged back and forth.
Kirkland knelt beside him and pulled a small instrument from his jacket. It looked like a trident with the center prong longer than the ones on either side. It was a tjabang, the smaller Indonesian version of the Okinowan sai. Like many farm tools commonly used in Asia, it had become a weapon used in the martial arts. A tjabang typically is blunt, but Kirkland had sharpened the middle prong on this one to a very fine point.
Whelan joined Kirkland on the other side of the felled Ukrainian. Vasyl rolled his eyes toward Whelan. “Why you are doing this?” he gasped.
“It’s simple. You have information about a plan to kidnap the family of an FBI agent. Give it up or we’re going to kill you. It’s a matter of seconds, understand?”
Vasyl shook his head. “Some one coming through door soon.”
“Guess again. There are two more men just like us on the other side of the door.”
Vasyl looked around the room and his eyes stopped on the surveillance camera. Emboldened, he shook his head again. “If I tell you, they will kill me.”
“Forget ‘they’. We’re going to kill you here and now. And it will be more painful than anything you can imagine.” He glanced up at the camera and said, “If that thing was working, someone would have arrived by now.” He nodded to Kirkland, who slid the point of the tjabang through the skin under Vasyl’s chin and into the geniohyoid muscle behind it.
With Kirkland kneeling on his right arm and Whelan on his left, Vasyl could only clench his fists against the pain. His eyes opened as wide and as round as they could and tears rolled out of their corners. A strange high-pitched sound burbled from his throat.
Whelan nodded again and Kirkland slid the point of the tjabang deeper, piercing the muscle just below the tongue. “Talk to me quickly, while you still have a tongue.”
Vasyl nodded his head gingerly to avoid driving the tjabang any deeper. Kirkland looked at Whelan, who nodded. The tjabang slid out, leaving a small round hole from which a steady stream of blood oozed.
“The FBI agent. What is the plan?”
Vasyl swallowed carefully. The room was cold, but he was beginning to sweat heavily. “I am not knowing much about this. I am not big shot yet.”
“What do you know?”
“Is to happen tomorrow. In afternoon. When kids are coming home from school. That is all I am knowing.”
Whelan looked at Kirkland. “Time to go,” he said.
Kirkland motioned with his head in Vasyl’s direction.
Whelan glanced at the Ukrainian. “He abuses women. Kill him.”
“No!” Vasyl’s voice was not much more than a croak. “I tell you all I know. You promise I live.”
“You took too long,” Whelan said.
Kirkland placed the point of the tjabang on Vasyl’s chest, a little left of center, and shoved down with force. The tip penetrated the Ukrainian’s jacket and shirt, pierced his skin and muscle tissue, and slid between the third and fourth ribs into his heart. When Kirkland yanked it out, Vasyl’s dying heart pumped geysers of blood through the hole. They fell back onto his chest. Each geyser was smaller than the last until there barely was a trickle.
Kirkland wiped the tjabang on Vasyl’s jacket and slid it back into its place of concealment beneath his own coat. The two men exited the room. Outside, they and Larsen and Thomas each strolled off in different directions, leaving the club quickly, but individually.
The two women at the bar watched them leave. The other Ukrainian climbed off his barstool and said, “Vasyl gone too long.” He headed toward the men’s room.
They reassembled at their car, a gray Jeep Liberty, parked on a side street about a block from the club. Stensen was waiting for them. He handed Whelan a hard drive he’d removed from the surveillance equipment in the club’s office. “You guys do nice work,” he said. “It was fun watching you.”
51 Frederick, Maryland
The Christie residence was on a well-landscaped side street not far from the historic district in Frederick, Maryland. It was a two-story, red brick house with a gabled slate roof and windows framed with dark wooden shutters. A flat, built-up roof extended over a small portico on the ground level, supported by six white, smooth tapered pillars. Four low, wide, semi-circular steps rose from the entrance path up to the portico. The yard was well kept, with an abundance of shrubbery and flowers. A black wrought iron fence stretched across the front of the property, interrupted by two posts made of red brick that framed the gate. The path from the gate to the front steps was laid with brick pavers in a herringbone pattern. A sapphire metallic Chrysler minivan was parked in the single car garage at the rear of the driveway. The garage doors were open, giving a view of the interior where gardening tools and lawn equipment were neatly stowed.
It was just after two o’clock on a hot, muggy afternoon in late August. School had started for the Christie children that week. Pedestrian and motor vehicle traffic on the street was almost nonexistent at that time of day, as a white service van turned onto the street a block away. It rolled up to the Christie residence and stopped at the curb. On the side of the van, in blue letters, it said “Washington Gas Company”. Below, “Frederick Gas Division” was printed in smaller letters, along with a phone number and a stylized blue flame.
Two men climbed out from the front of the van. Each wore dark blue pants and work shirts of a lighter blue that stretched tightly over their muscular frames. The back of the shirts carried the same company information as the sides of the van. Each wore a blue ball cap with the blue flame logo above the bill. Both wore sunglasses and carried tool bags. One of the men was black. There was a name stitched in navy blue thread on the flap over the left breast pocket of his shirt. It said “Ike”. He was carrying a clipboard. The other man was white. “Will” was stitched on the flap above his shirt pocket.
The men opened the gate, walked up the brick pathway and steps, and rang the doorbell. After a few moments, an attractive woman in her early forties with short dark hair and the trim body of someone dedicated to a workout routine opened the door a few inches. It was s
ecured by a swing type door guard, the kind often used on hotel room doors. She looked at the two men for a moment. “Yes?”
Quentin Thomas pretended to look at his clipboard and said, “Mrs. Christie? We’re with the gas company and—”
“And you expect me to let you in the house,” she said. “I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen. You may be legitimate, but my husband, who is with the FBI,” she purposely said the three letters slowly and carefully, “told me that the gas leak ploy is the oldest one in the book.”
Thomas shook his head. “I’m sure it is, ma’am, but we don’t need to enter the house. We’re just checking the gas lines in the neighborhood, and didn’t want you to be alarmed when you saw two men poking around in your back yard.”
“That’s fine. Do what you have to do.”
Thomas smiled and held up the clipboard. “Thank you. If you don’t mind, please sign this form acknowledging that we were here. It’s part of the company’s customer service policy.” He handed the clipboard to her through the narrow space. As she reached for it, Thomas moved to hand her the ballpoint pen he was holding in his other hand.
She looked up to grasp the pen, and he pressed its cap. A thin stream of odorless, invisible gas shot from the tip and struck her in the face. Deborah Christie’s eyes opened wide in shock, then rolled back in her head. She crumpled, unconscious, to the thick carpet behind the door.
“That stuff acts fast,” said Larsen. He leaned easily into the door and, despite being anchored by two screws each two inches long, the base of the door guard easily ripped free from the jamb. The door swung open. The two men quickly entered and shut it behind them.
Larsen scooped Mrs. Christie up and carried her over to a sofa. He bound her wrists behind her back with a plastic cable tie from his tool bag. Then he bound her ankles and stretched a piece of duct tape over her mouth. Thomas pulled a walkie-talkie from his pants pocket and activated the send signal. “One down, two to go,” he said.
Outside, Stensen, who had remained in the service van, drove away from the house to a small commercial area a few blocks away. He parked and waited for the next communication.
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 26
