Marked Man

by Jared Paul

  “Say Chip.”

  Without even realizing it Jordan planted one foot half a pace back so that he could wind up for a strike. He could incapacitate even a doorman twice as big as him with two fast, well-placed chops, but if he signaled on the radio for help things could get out of hand very quickly. Someone on the other end of the walkie-talkie answered the bouncer.

  “Yeah go ahead.”

  “One coming in.”

  The bouncer jerked his head towards the entrance and Jordan breezed past him.

  XZLENT was packed to capacity. Strobe lights and lasers swept over the crowd of upraised hands and gyrating hips as a deafening hip hop mix roared over the sound system. Each beat of the bass reverberated in Jordan’s chest so heavy he marveled that the kids dancing closest to the speakers were not keeling over in cardiac arrest. Jordan scanned through the sea of glistening pectorals and push-up bras, looking for armed guards. He counted three by the dance floor and one stationed next to the DJ booth which was raised above the floor like a dais in a medieval throne room.

  Jordan walked through the wriggling mass of humanity and made his way to the bar. Customers were milling around the bar four deep, waving hands and money in the hopes to be seen. Two bartenders in black muscle shirts worked feverishly, pouring rows of flavored vodka shots and mixing drinks that looked like they all had the word “tini” at the end of their name.

  While he was waiting to catch a bartender’s eye, a cute girl came up alongside him and said hello.

  “Hi. I’m Trina.”

  Trina had a pink mid-rift on that revealed a pierced navel, yoga pants and platform shoes. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen or possibly sixteen at the most. Thinking of Emma, Jordan tried not to look at her.

  “Hello Trina.”

  “Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”

  “No I won’t be doing that.”

  “Why not? We can just talk. Or maybe you can buy me a drink.” One of Trina’s fingers reached out to trace the line down the middle of Jordan’s chest.

  Groaning, Jordan turned and gently placed his hands on Trina’s shoulders.

  “Listen to me Trina. You seem like a nice girl so I’m going to do you a favor by warning you. You need to get out of here. Gather up all of your friends and get out of this club as soon as you can. Then you get in your car and drive straight home and hug your parents and never come back here.”

  “What do you mean? Why?”

  “There’s going to be trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “People are going to get shot. People are going to die. You’re a smart girl I can see that. You probably think that I’m joking so I want you to look in my eyes. Look in my eyes and know that I’m telling you the truth.”

  For a moment Trina looked like she was going to laugh but she did not. She searched Jordan’s eyes for sarcasm, which she seemed to expect from every human interaction in her life. When Trina did not find any her face dropped and she turned and hustled away from the bar. Jordan watched her go and thought again of Emma in the backseat of the station wagon, drawing and kicking her little pink shoes.

  When he finally flagged down a bartender Jordan ordered a gin tonic. For payment he gave him a hundred dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

  “Awesome, thanks man!”

  “Just do me one favor. Tell Petyr Zhadanov that I want to talk to him.”

  The bartender hesitated a moment but then pocketed the money and slipped out from under the bar. He went over to one of the guards by the dance floor. The guard glared in Jordan’s direction and then pushed through the crowd and disappeared through a doorway that read restricted for employees only. Jordan sipped at his drink which was disappointingly watered down considering how much he’d paid for it. A few seconds of blissful relief came at the end of the song, but then another even more obnoxious and impossibly loud beat took its place. Underneath all of the electronic wizardry, the skips and stops and starts and crashing drum lines, the song sounded vaguely like the old Motown hit I Want You Back by the Jackson Five. Jordan wondered why someone would take a work of art and take a giant shit on it. If he survived the night intact, Jordan knew that he would have a migraine in the morning that might make him wish he hadn’t.

  He had just finished his drink when a different guard approached and tapped him on the shoulder. The weapon in his hip holster was a .38.

  “You the guy that asked to see Petyr?”

  “Yeah. Tell him I’ve got a business proposition.”

  Jordan gave the guard his last remaining hundred dollar bill and prayed that it would be all the convincing that was needed to see the man. The guard studied Jordan closely then patted him over, searching for concealed weapons. His inspection complete, the guard said something into the walkie-talkie that got lost beneath the din, and then he led Jordan to the back towards the employees-only door.

  The cacophony was cut in half on the other side of it. Leading the way, the guard ushered Jordan through a narrow hallway, and then up a short flight of stairs. He stopped outside another door and knocked.

  “Yeah who is it?”

  “It’s Chip. I’ve got that guy out here.”

  “Come in.”

  Petyr Zhadanov was lounging back on a red leather sofa in what appeared to be an exclusive VIP room. He had pale blonde features and a sharp beak of a nose with cocaine resting on its tip. Aside from Chip and one other guard there was no one else around. Zhadanov dipped his face forward and sniffed a line from a glass mirror, then set it down on the couch next to him.

  “You vant some?” He asked in Jordan’s direction.

  “No I’m good. I don’t touch the stuff”

  Chip was standing directly behind Jordan with his burly arms crossed over his chest.

  “So who are you? What business have you?”

  “I’m a buyer. I don’t use it myself but I definitely have use for that.” He pointed at the cocaine. “My supplier got himself indicted so I need a new one. I’m looking to buy in bulk.”

  Zhadanov examined Jordan and then the second guard, standing a few faces to his left with an uzi resting comfortably in his grip.

  “Really. Zat is fascinating. So what? You just come in here and assume zat I am a big time drug dealer?”

  “I heard you were the man to see.”

  Shaking his head, Zhadanov laughed and went for the white powder again. He gasped after taking inhaling another line up his nose.

  “You know what I sink? I sink you are police.”

  Jordan could have drawn the conversation out and tried to convince Zhadanov that he really was a buyer. If it worked perhaps he could get more information on their operation but he doubted it. He wasted no time. With a sudden lurch he threw his head back as hard as he could and landed vicious blow square on Chip’s nose. He whirled around and slipped the .38 from the stunned guard’s holster and shot three times at the other guard with the uzi, hitting him twice. Jordan cringed and twisted his frame behind Chip’s as the man squeezed the trigger as he was falling, firing a string of bullets into Chip. In less than three seconds, both bodyguards were down and dead.

  Zhadanov hustled up from the couch and swung the glass mirror at Jordan, clipping his hand and knocking the gun out of it. Jordan ducked the next blow and punched him in the kidney on the way up, then caught Zhadanov’s arm and wrenched the mirror from it. He delivered four brutal punches to the kidney and then one to the bridge of Zhadanov’s nose and broke it.

  Sinking to the floor and moaning, Zhadanov whined. He would put up no further resistance.

  “Why do you do zis? What did I do?”

  “All in good time. Stand up.” Jordan twisted Zhadanov’s arm behind him and put the gun into his back. “How many more guards are there?”

  “Two.”

  Jordan twisted harder.

  “Aye aye! Ok ok there are four more.”

  Moving Zhadanov over behind the red leather couch, Jordan waited until he heard fo
otsteps. The door to the VIP room opened and Jordan shot the first guard who came charging through, dropping him instantly. Out in the club area Jordan could hear screaming and a rush of foot traffic. Slowly he pulled Zhadanov up, still keeping his body between him and the door. He pushed him out into the hallway where they met another guard who fell after Jordan fired a round through his eye.

  Zhadanov’s nose was bleeding all over the front of his crisp white shirt. With each step he yelped like a kicked puppy. Jordan shoved him aside and kicked the door to the club open and found it deserted. Drinks were spilled everywhere, abandoned in mid sip. Several pairs of high heels and platform shoes were left forever forsaken on the dance floor. Up in the elevated DJ’s booth a record was still spinning, filling the deserted club with another vile remix.

  The last two of XZLENT’s security guards apparently had chosen a different path than valor, whatever it was. Jordan told Zhadanov to push open the front door for him and when he refused to obey Jordan clapped an open-handed blow to his right ear that got him crying in earnest.

  Whimpering, Zhadanov pressed his hands on the glass and swung it open.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “We’re going on a ride, Petyr. Then we’re going to have a nice long chats and I’ll ask you some questions about Shirokov’s little drug running business. And each time I get an answer from you that I don’t like I’m going to break one of your fingers. When I run out of fingers I’ll move on to your toes. When I run out of toes I’ll improvise.”

  Jordan pushed Zhadanov along until they reached his Honda CRV which was the only vehicle left standing in the parking lot. So that he would not present any difficulties while Jordan was driving, he clipped Zhadanov across the face with the butt of his gun and knocked him out cold. Then he stuffed Zhadanov into the passenger’s seat, fastened his seat belt, and drove away.

  …

  Bollier got a call from the burner she bought for Jordan Ross. He sounded like he was out of breath and driving very fast. He gave her directions to a monthly storage warehouse in Borough Park along with a locker number. This was something that neither she nor Agent Clemons had set up. To what end Jordan would be using a storage facility she had no idea. After all, he had no possessions to speak of. The house and all of the items were sold at auction after his untimely death.

  By the time she arrived at the warehouse Bollier was imagining all sorts of uses Jordan might have for the space, and none of them were wholesome. She parked and paced up and down the rows of bright orange doors, looking for the number Jordan gave her. When she found the locker she put her ear against the metal then knocked politely. The door rolled up and Jordan pulled her inside. She almost screamed when she saw what Jordan had been hiding.

  Petyr Zhadanov had duct tape bound over his lips, his wrists, and his ankles. He was propped up against the wall in a sitting position like a stiff-legged action figure. Cuts and bruises were all over his face and every inch of skin as far as Bollier could see.

  “Holy shit. What did you do to him?”

  “Exactly what you wanted, detective. I asked him some questions. Hey Petey boy!”

  The lanky blond Russian flinched when Jordan spoke and tried to angle his body as far away from him as possible. He looked to Bollier, practically pleading for help. Jordan loomed over him and pointed a finger in his face. With the exception of his left thumb all of Zhadanov’s fingers appeared to be broken.

  “Petey. I’m going to take the duct tape off of your mouth now. Are you going to scream?”

  Zhadanov shook his head.

  “Are you sure? You remember what happens when you lie to me, Petey.”

  Zhadanov nodded his head so fast Bollier thought it might pop off. Jordan could have stripped the paper off of the Russian’s face with one swift yank, but he pulled slow and steady, dragging it out. Zhadanov’s eyes were watering but he kept his teeth clenched shut and did not yell even when the tape took part of his pale moustache off.

  “Alright. I’d like you to introduce you to Detective Leslie Bollier from the NYPD. Bollier, this is my good friend Petey Zhadanov.”

  “You are police?”

  Bollier answered that she was in fact.

  “You must help me. You have sworn to serve and protect. Zis man is crazy. He breaks my fingers. He breaks my toes, he sreatens to cut off my Peter. Please you must save me.”

  Coolly, Bollier walked over so that she was standing directly above him. Jordan had done quite a number on Zhadanov, no doubt.

  “Save you? Well I certainly could, but that all depends on your cooperation. If you give us something that we can use then maybe I can get you out of here. Has he been cooperative?”

  Jordan ran a hand through Zhadanov’s hair like he was a well-heeled, potty-trained pet.

  “He was a bad boy at first but he’s cleaned up his act. Petey. Tell her what you told me.”

  “Ze drugs. Yes! I know about ze drugs. Shirokov has big shipment coming in. BIG shipment. You will not believe how big.”

  “How big?”

  “Hundreds of kilos. Maybe soundands even. All coming in Wednesday night by ship.”

  “Wednesday? What the fuck that’s two days away. Wednesday?!”

  Zhadanov repeated the information as Bollier prodded him for more details. A ship that set sail from Kaliningrad was already making the trip across the Atlantic and would arrive late Wednesday night at Riis Landing. The ship would be carrying pure heroin fresh from the poppy fields of Afghanistan. Zhadanov did not know exactly how much, but he estimated the total value to be in the hundreds of millions of dollars, maybe even more.

  “Alright. We’ll have people there. If what you’re saying is true…”

  “You’re going to need army, miss police woman. Zis not dime bag in park. Hundreds of million, perhaps billions of dollars. Shirokov will have at least dozen armed men.”

  “Right. If what you’re saying is true then we’ll talk about getting you testifying in court and going into witness protection. If you’re lying to us though… I’m going to let him do whatever he wants to you. Whatever. He. Wants.”

  Zhadanov made a flurry of promises that he was telling the truth, that he may be a bad man, but that he was not a liar and that she would see. Then he pleaded with her not to leave him alone with Jordan Ross again, he begged, but she would not hear of it.

  “I’m going to call Clemons and we will have a team there. As soon as I can confirm one way or another I’m going to give you a call. Don’t let him out of your sight until then. Do you have everything you need?”

  Under a tarp in the warehouse locker Jordan had a week’s worth of bottled water, cans of baked beans, and bags of potato chips that would see him and his captive through. Bollier left the warehouse and dialed Agent Clemons at his FBI office right away. The phone rang. The phone rang again. After several more rings the answering machine picked up and Bollier screamed a recording demanding that Agent Clemons answer the phone immediately. When Clemons picked up she practically accosted him.

  “Hello?”

  “Jesus how long does it take you to answer your phone?”

  “Woah. What is it? What’s wrong.”

  “I have some news. Are you sitting down?’

  …

  The first big rain of the season came on the Wednesday night when Special Agent Clemons and detective Bollier were staked out on the roof of a dry dock facility overlooking Riis Landing. Already Bollier could feel the rain soaking into her socks and felt a slight tickle in the back of her throat. Catching a cold would be a small price to pay if it meant catching Shirokov’s men red-handed with an enormous shipment of heroin. But if Zhadanov’s information was wrong or he had lied she just might tell Jordan Ross to wait until she got to the warehouse so she could extract some personal pleasure.

  Several black SUVs were parked along the dock. No one had gotten out yet, whether because of the rain or because the boat had not come in yet Bollier did not know. Two SWAT teams were hiding aroun
d the corner waiting for word from the feds to move in. With so little time to prepare for the sting, Agent Clemons had been forced to play every card available to him. He called in every favor, twisted every arm and stepped on every shoe he could find to get as many bodies out to Riis Landing as possible. Agent Clemons did his best to convince a judge to sign a warrant but the best he could get was a promise to sign one after the fact if they actually found something.

  She was an idealist in a past life. Coming up in the academy detective Bollier could not stand to hear of cases when cops played fast and dirty, but years of watching the Russians operate had changed her worldview. You had to break the rules to beat them, and everyone in the know understood this. As long as the bad guys got locked up nobody asked how the sausage got made. And fuck them if they did, but this was pushing it.

  Next to her Agent Clemons rolled over onto his side and peeked at his watch.

  “I really hope your boy comes through, detective.”

  He had been on edge ever since Bollier had called him to relay Zhadanov’s information. Normally for an operation of this size the FBI would spend weeks of time on surveillance, corroborate the story with several more sources then carefully plan the bust, down to the tiniest last detail. Since they could not be sure who to trust in the NYPD, Agent Clemons had cobbled together a haphazard strike team made up of DEA agents, FBI, Customs and Coast Guard folks. All of them had promised to follow Agent Clemons’ lead, but they all had their own bosses to answer too. The source was untested. No one could verify Zhadanov’s claims in time for the sting. Nobody knew how many people would be on the boat, where the drugs were, or how much. The number of things that could go wrong was almost incalculable.

  “Me too.”

  Agent Clemons brushed at his nose which was growing red from the cold.

  “If there’s no boat my ass is going to be hanging out in the wind. I can’t even believe I let you talk me into this. We don’t even have a warrant for fuck’s sake.”

  “He who dares wins.”

  “Yeah, but even if we win tonight we could lose. Assuming that everything goes well, what happens when a judge asks how we got our information? You really want Zhadanov spilling his guts in front of a Kings County jury? Any lawyer worth their salt is going to get the case tossed if they find out that we let a crazed vigilante torture it out of him. Then we’ll have our own trial to deal with.”