Marked Man

by Jared Paul

  “Da?”

  “Il est le pakhan appelant!”

  The look on Shirokov’s face changed abruptly from sad resignation to startled disbelief.

  “Est-ce vrai?”

  “Oui!”

  For a quiet and tense moment Shirokov swept a glance around the warehouse, regarding each of his men suspiciously, as if they might be hiding something. Up on the scaffold all of the Russians had stopped their rounds and stood watching. Leonid and the other men on the ground floor froze as well. A forklift driver in the corner cut the engine to his machine and sat idly.

  Shirokov walked into position directly under the machine gun man and made a motion for him to toss his cell phone down. Hesitantly, as if the phone were a precious and delicate gem, the Russian leaned over the rail and let the phone slide from his hand. Shirokov snatched it out of midair and slowly brought it to his ear. He listened for a second and answered in English.

  “Hello?”

  Bollier could not hear a voice on the other end. Either the volume on the speaker was turned too low or whoever was calling had a mild manner of speaking. The air had gotten so thick in the warehouse that Bollier could almost feel it as she breathed, some invisible but tangible presence filling her throat.

  Still holding the flaying knife, Shirokov caressed the ivory handle with his thumb and forefinger, a nervous gesture, entirely unconscious Bollier suspected.

  “No. Give me one minute,” Shirokov brought the phone down and pressed it against his chest. He turned to Bollier and almost apologetically excused himself to take the call. “Excuse me if you please, detective. I am afraid I must take this in private.”

  Briskly Shirokov walked away to the far side of the main floor towards an exit sign that hung over a door. He opened it and disappeared into wherever it led. The Russians milling around all broke into a chorus of chaotic whispers. Bollier tried her best to listen and translate in her head but she was still groggy from both the chloroform and vomiting up everything in her stomach at the parking garage. Recalling the events leading up to the warehouse, Bollier was struck by the audacity of it. Abducting an active homicide detective from the parking garage next to an FBI field office was so bold, so reckless, so utterly, unthinkably stupid that in a way it was actually genius. Bollier’s grandfather had been a captain in the British Special Air Service when he met her grandmother in Bretagne. His prize possession was a service medallion of a dagger bracketed by wings, with the phrase WHO DARES WINS written below the blade. When he died he passed the medallion down to his favorite granddaughter, Leslie, who kept it tucked away in a safe deposit box at the bank.

  These Russians certainly had daring to spare and yet this seemingly random telephone call had scared them to the bones. What was going on?

  …

  Vladimir Shirokov stepped through the doorway and found himself in a dimly lit stairwell. He did not like the way that the sound of his steps echoed up through the chamber. He did not want any of his words to be overheard, so he began climbing upward. When he reached the upper floor Shirokov found an empty room that had been a foreman’s office in a former life. Rusty filing cabinets and a single wooden desk were the only furnishings. Once he made sure that he was alone Shirokov locked himself in and took the call.

  “Pakhan?”

  “Vlade. Are you alone?”

  The voice on the other end of the line was calm, deceptively serene. Never once since Shirokov had the ink of the rose burned into his chest had he heard the voice rise in anger. It was measured and even always.

  “Yes.”

  “I am speaking to you from long distance as you know so I will make this short. You are holding a woman in our Staten Island location. A detective woman named Bollier.”

  A shadow passed over Shirokov’s face and he was grateful that none of his men were around to see it.

  “How do you know this?”

  “You will let this woman go.”

  Anger was rising to the surface. Shirokov prided himself on maintaining a cool, collected veneer even when he flew into homicidal rages, especially when he flew into homicidal rages. But this meek and mellow voice somehow always managed to crack the ice. Shirokov dared to repeat himself.

  “How do you know I am holding this woman? Who is telling you this?”

  “Vlade…” the voice warned, almost turning sharp for a second, “you will let this woman go. Already you have drawn much attention to yourself while chasing this army man, too much attention. There are more important considerations than this. You are to release this woman unharmed and return her to any location which she so desires. Understood?”

  Shirokov crept up to a filmy window next to one of the filing cabinets and glanced outside. He heard the horn of a ferry bellow out as the vessel departed from the Bay street dock. Hudson Bay was hidden beneath a blanket of impenetrable fog. He searched the horizon, eyes flitting from gray shore to bleak sky, seeking an answer to the unfathomable reach of the voice and finding none. With some effort, he swallowed his pride.

  “Yes pakhan, understood.”

  The call ended. Just for morbid curiosity’s sake, Shirokov punched the keypad and brought up the recent call log. Restricted was the only information available for the last incoming call. Shirokov slid the smart phone shut and cussed.

  “Mne pohui.”

  …

  Bollier’s sense of time was distorted by the lack of natural light in the warehouse. How long had she been unconscious after the Russians slipped the hood over her face? How long ago was it that Shirokov went off to answer the mysterious phone call? Five minutes? Ten? She did not have any inkling. The Russians to man had lit up cigarettes when their boss departed and Bollier was considering asking one of them for a smoke. Since she was unlikely to get out of this alive, Bollier figured she might as well partake in the nicotine even though it would mean surrendering a hard-earned seven years of sobriety. The warehouse was an enclosed space and she was getting the tar in her lungs anyway. Bollier was about to ask Leonid when Shirokov returned.

  “Detective Bollier!” Her name echoed through the cavernous room. Shirokov gave the machine gun man his phone back and started rolling up his sleeves.

  “You must accept my apology. There has been a terrible misunderstanding. This is quite embarrassing really. Leonid! Untie the detective, can you not see she is bound?”

  The fat meaty hands of Leonid worked at the knots binding Bollier to the chair. When she felt the restraints on her wrists snap off, Bollier brought her hands around and massaged them to get the blood flowing again.

  “What is this?”

  “Like I said, a great misunderstanding. Entirely my mistake. You are to be freed immediately and I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience. Is there somewhere that my men can take you? Some appointment you must keep?”

  Bollier studied Shirokov’s face. He looked buoyant and playful again, like all was right with the world and he had not just threatened to slice her face into ribbons. Like he could just let a cop go after kidnapping them. Bollier could not make sense of it. Her head was spinning.

  “You do not believe me, I know. But I assure you that no harm will come your way. Consider me your complimentary taxi service. Anywhere in the five boroughs that you would wish to go my men will take you there.”

  Whatever sick game that Shirokov was playing Bollier did not know but had no intention of going along with it. After Leonid freed her feet she backed away several paces, waiting for the other shoe to drop, or a piano.

  “I can see that you are confused detective. Shall we just say we return you to where we found you?”

  “The parking garage?”

  Shirokov smiled and clapped his hands together twice like he was a genie granting a wish.

  “The parking garage! Excellent choice. Gentlemen, if you please.”

  Fists raised, and glaring defiantly at her captors, detective Bollier readied herself to go down swinging. Several of them surrounded and subdued her, but not before she got
three or four solid punches in. As they were holding her down one of the Russians held a silk embroidered handkerchief up to her nose and Bollier smelled the chloroform again and the world went back to black.

  Hours later, or perhaps it was eons, Bollier woke up in the driver’s seat of her car, head resting on the steering wheel. She was back in the parking garage in Queens. Dusk had passed and she wept.

  Chapter Seven

  Jordan’s restlessness grew while recuperating at the cabin in Connecticut. Shannon was certainly more congenial company than the empty bottles of bourbon he’d grown accustomed to, but not being active was beginning to drive him up the wall. During their texas hold ‘em marathons Jordan’s legs bounced and jittered for hours on end. He never even noticed the kicking until Shannon pointed it out. Jordan said sorry and managed to cut it out for five minutes before it started up again. The restless legs got worse on days when he wasn’t getting any hands. Whenever he was dealt a pocket pair or a high Ace the rocking of the table stopped. Shannon noticed this but was too polite, and too cut throat to let on that she had discovered such a glaring tell.

  One day nearly three weeks into his sojourn in the country Jordan had accumulated a considerable chip lead on Shannon. He was growing giddy, eager to earn what would be his fifth win out of some twenty games. Jordan rapped his fingers on the green felt and nodded along like a song was playing that only he could hear. His legs danced and rocked beneath the table and he uncharacteristically folded several hands in a row without any complaints, letting Shannon steal a blind here and there and waiting to spring a trap with a big hand.

  When Jordan dealt himself a queen and an ace the jittering in his legs came to an abrupt stop. Shannon felt the reassuring seismic activity stop and glanced at her opponent. Jordan was exhibiting an impressively stoic face even though she knew he had to have a keeper; at least he had improved in that regard.

  Jordan made a modest raise before the flop and Shannon considered for a long time before calling with her pair of twos. A queen, an ace, and a two came out. Jordan made another modest raise and Shannon another modest call. On the turn he checked, hoping to feign weakness and trick Shannon into a raise. Shannon paused for a long time and doubled the size of the pot. Jordan instantly jumped and re-raised her all in and Shannon called.

  “I’ve got you know. Finally. I’ve got you!”

  When Shannon overturned her twos, Jordan’s face sank into his socks.

  The last card was a nine of diamonds, no help. Shannon scooped up the piles of Monopoly money from the center of the table, a thin smirk playing on the edge of her lips. Jordan still had a little bit left but her stack outnumbered his by nearly eleven to one. He threw up his hands and stormed from the room, then

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out for a walk.”

  “You’re not supposed to…”

  “Oh write a fucking letter why don’t you? I’m going out.”

  Jordan threw on a tweed hunting jacket and a pair of wool boots and walked out into the crisp, open air for the first time in weeks. The chill took him by surprise but it was invigorating all the same. With no map and possess no knowledge of the local geography, Jordan decided to strike out in one direction away from the cabin and keep going until something blocked his path. After walking for just a little while Jordan felt his wind going but he pushed on, basking in the sun’s glare reflecting off of the snow. The biting cold made him wish that he’d at least taken the time to find gloves and a hat but it was too late for that.

  Walking through a clearing of pine trees, Jordan heard a rustling of leaves to his right and turned to see a male buck darting off through a snow bank. At first he was scared by the sudden movement but Jordan relaxed as the deer bounded away, graceful strides carrying him towards the sunset. He glanced back over the hills and figured he had gone about a half mile straight west from the cabin. Jordan walked a little further until he came across a steel ladder affixed to the trunk of a wide, sturdy chestnut tree. On a whim Jordan climbed up the ladder and found a seat made out of wire mesh at the top; a hunter’s perch. Gingerly Jordan raised himself up, turned around and settled into the chair, which offered a commanding view of a rippling creek and a scattered pile of pinecones.

  For a while Jordan just sat peaceably in the tree stand watching the shadows of naked tree branches crawl across the snow. He had a thought that it would be a beautiful place just to come and sit in the summer, with green all around. Jordan had never been hunting but was not fundamentally opposed to the idea. When it was all finished, when Sarah and Emma were avenged and the last breath in the last Russian’s body exhaled, Jordan decided that he would take up the sport as a hobby.

  Jordan had been resting in the hunter’s roost for a while when he heard the crunching of footsteps in the snow approaching.

  A burly man wearing an orange vest and a camouflage hat was plodding along at a leisurely pace. Two dead pheasants were swinging upside down from a game hook he carried. He laid the birds down at the base of the tree stand, then began going up the rungs one at a time, going slow as he carried a shotgun with one arm and climbed with the other.

  Not wanting to scare the old man Jordan called down.

  “Hello.”

  The hunter looked up and squinted through a thick pair of glasses that were fitted to his face with a retainer decorated with Coca Cola polar bears. He stopped climbing and stared up at the stranger in his perch, mouth hanging open to collect the cold, arid wind.

  “Who’s that up there?”

  “Is this your hunting thing?”

  “Is it my hunting thing? No sir, this is my tree stand. Now who may I ask are you and what are you doing on my property?”

  Easing down, the hunter descended the first few rungs and stood on the solid ground again.

  “My name’s Earl. I’m staying with some friends of mine in the cabin about a half mile that way,” Jordan pointed in the vague direction of where he’d come from, “do you know the Reeds?”

  Spitting a splash of tobacco juice into the snow, the hunter nodded, one eyebrow raised up at the stranger.

  “Put it this way. I KNEW Mr. Reed. Can’t say as I care much for his children and some of the uh, unconventional lifestyle choices that they’ve made. What’s your connection with them?”

  “I’m just staying with them on sabbatical for a while.”

  “Sabbatical, I think I’ve heard of that. Isn’t that some sort of a Jew holiday?”

  Jordan stifled a laugh and shook his head. His breath was getting more visible the lower the sun was. It was getting past time that he returned to Shannon and the cabin. He had already ventured too much by showing his face out in public, a potentially lethal misstep. The hunter was not going to run around crowing to everyone about the stranger named Earl that he met on his land, but it was not a risk worth taking anyway. Jordan could practically hear detective Bollier’s signature sharp reproaches in his head. What in the hell were you thinking, Corporal? Do you have some kind of a death wish?

  “No just a vacation. I didn’t realize I was on your land. I’ll come on down and get home. I was just enjoying the view for a while.”

  The hunter waited until Jordan was back down on his level before resuming the conversation.

  “Yeah it’s as pleasant a way to pass the time I can think of, sitting up there looking at the good lord’s work, waiting for a meal to come flying by. I don’t mind you taking your sabbatical out here and enjoying the view you just gave me a scare.”

  “Understood.”

  Jordan reached out to shake his hand and the hunter noticed it was almost frostbitten.

  “What did you forget to bring gloves?”

  “I guess I did.”

  Without hearing a word of protest, the hunter went rummaging into his bag and produced a pair of mittens, then handed them over to Jordan.

  “I would give you a hat too but I’m afraid I don’t have one to spare. Now just go on home and you bring these mittens back to
me another day. My name is Jasper Williams. You ask the Reeds and they’ll tell you where to find my place. It’s just on the other side of that ridge. Alright?”

  “Alright thanks.”

  Red faced and shivering, Jordan hiked back to the cabin. When he had covered about half the distance Jordan heard the echo of a shotgun blast. A family of quail came out of their cover in a nearby maple tree and flew away from the source of the sound. Shannon was sautéing a frying pan of sausages, peppers and onions when he came in, stamping the snow from his boots.

  “You were gone a while.”

  “Yeah. I know that I’m not supposed to go out but I was going to go postal if I stayed in this cabin for one more minute. Man that smells delicious.”

  “It’ll be done in a few minutes. And it’s okay I’m not your mother. Frankly I’m surprised that you lasted this long without going crazy and running outside. What’s the deal with that anyway? Are you a vampire?”

  Jordan wondered exactly how much Bollier had told her cheating partner about him. Something told him that if Shannon knew the kind of jeopardy he’d put her in by going for his little stroll through the woods that she wouldn’t be quite so nonchalant about it. He hoped to throw her off the scent by making it out to be nothing at all.

  “No I’m not a vampire, not yet. It’s just a precaution. No big deal really. You want me to fix some more of that garlic bread from the other day?”

  “Mmm yes. Please do.”

  Shannon was swimming a back stroke through a tall tumbler of her departed father’s finest twenty year scotch and abruptly forgot all about Jordan’s curfew.

  Later that evening when they were drinking by the fire Jordan slipped up and mentioned the hunter.

  “So I met your neighbor out there earlier when I went for a walk.”

  “Neighbor… well there’s only one so I have to assume it was old Mr. Williams.”

  Shannon’s face curled into a sneer as she spoke the name.