by Phoef Sutton
He walked across the vast expanse of the top floor of the warehouse on Almadero Street. Nothing but exposed pipes and whitewashed windows, just a few pieces of furniture: a Barcalounger and flat-screen TV attached to the wall to make it homier. It was one of Ivankov’s safe houses. He had dozens of them around town, and he kept them as austere as possible, to make them more threatening to his people. No reason to make them feel comfortable anytime, anywhere.
No reason to make Trask’s daughter feel comfortable either. He stopped in front of a dog crate, a wire cage that came about up to his belt buckle, so that he had to bend down to look inside. Amelia Trask was in there, curled up like one of the pit bulls he used to raise for dog fights. She raised her head and met his gaze. But she wasn’t scared, not the way she should have been. She looked angry instead.
He flicked the switch on the cattle prod and stuck it between the wires of the cage, right into her flank. She let out a howling scream of pain. That was a little better. But there was still too much anger behind the pain. He’d have to break her of that.
The cell phone rang again. He yanked it from his pocket. “What do you want? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“We’re here, damn it!” The angry man on the other end of the line must be Rush.
Ivankov chuckled. “You’re too late.”
“You want something? We’re here.”
“Do you have it?”
A pause on the line, then Rush said, “Of course.”
“The last man who lied to me has to have his mom wipe his ass for him.”
“My mother’s dead.”
“My condolences. Take the freight elevator to the top floor. I’ll be there.”
“And Amelia Trask?”
“She’ll be waiting for you.” Ivankov hung up and smiled at Amelia.
“How ’bout that, sucka? Your boyfriend’s coming to rescue you.”
“Kiss my ass!” Amelia snapped.
“Show respect!” he howled back, and he stuck the cattle prod through the cage, zapping her again until she screamed. Kneeling down on the concrete floor, he peered in at her. She was afraid. That was better, he thought with a smile.
“I’m gonna wreck you,” he said.
The rumbling sound of the freight elevator climbing to the top floor started to drown him out. Ivankov stood up irritated, then called out an order. “Here they come! Get ready!”
The three henchmen waited: Semyon, Sergei, and Danzig. They raised their Gewehr 36-C assault rifles and took aim at the elevator door.
The elevator rose and ground to a stop behind the wooden slats of the sliding door.
There was a pause.
Then the doors split apart and a Pontiac GTO crashed through them and sped out into the middle of the room.
TWENTY-FIVE
Five minutes earlier:
My mother’s dead,” Rush said into the phone. “My condolences,” Ivankov replied. “Take the freight elevator up to the top floor. I’ll be there.”
“And Amelia Trask?”
“She’ll be waiting for you.”
And he hung up.
Rush looked across the garage and saw a huge freight elevator waiting for him with its sliding door open like an angry mouth.
He turned and looked out at the GTO, parked on the street.
The wooden slat doors of the old freight elevator splintered from the impact as the GTO crashed through them and the car charged into the warehouse like a bull released from a pen.
Ivankov’s men scrambled. Sergei dived out of the way as the car wheeled around the room. Danzig collected himself and let loose a barrage from his Gewehr that pelted the side of the Pontiac. Guzman rolled down the side window and fired his Beretta.
Semyon opened fire from the other side of the room as Danzig dove for cover. Bullets struck the outside of the car and smashed the windshield into spider webs. Rush was glad he’d installed the bulletproof glass, but those bullets really were screwing up the paint job. This car was going to be a total loss.
Guzman leaned out the window, still firing, just as Rush saw the big hairy man, who must have been Ivankov, pick up a Mossberg 590 riot shotgun. A mean piece of work, both the man and the gun. Rush threw the car in reverse and planted his foot on the accelerator, smashing into Danzig on the way, throwing him across the room.
Rush slammed on the brakes and put the car in drive, wheels skidding on the concrete floor, steering the GTO right for Ivankov.
Ivankov dived to one side and the car missed him. Scrambling to his feet, he ran toward where Amelia was still crouching in her little cage. He opened the door and dragged her out, betting that Rush wouldn’t plow into them both.
Rush did a three-sixty and spun around till the car was pointed straight at Ivankov again. He gunned the motor. He was playing chicken. But both Rush and Ivankov knew who had the upper hand.
An impact shattered the side window and Rush turned to see Semyon firing at him.
Guzman leaned out the window and took a shot at him. Semyon fired again, got lucky, and hit Guzman in the right forearm. The gun flew out of Guzman’s hand and he fell back in the seat, crying out in pain.
The GTO took off, Rush at the wheel, barreling straight at Ivankov. At the last minute, Rush spun a 180 and tried to take out Semyon. Sergei was laying down steady fire with another Gewehr, and Semyon jumped into the elevator for safety.
Unfortunately, the elevator had returned to the ground floor. Semyon sounded surprised all the way down.
Rush spun the GTO around and spotted Ivankov again.
He had the shotgun pointed at Amelia’s head. “Get out of the car!” he shouted.
Rush sat behind the wheel, staring at Ivankov. Ivankov stared right back at him. Neither blinked.
Rush looked over at Guzman, who was slumped in the passenger seat, clutching his bleeding arm. He sighed. They had no other options. Rush turned off the engine.
“Take the keys and drop them out the window,” Ivankov said.
Rush took the keys and dropped them out the window.
“Get out!” Ivankov said.
Rush opened the car door, stepped out, and slammed it shut behind him. Guzman got out of the car, too, although in his case it was more like a fall. He kicked the door shut and slid to the concrete floor.
Ivankov smiled, victorious. He swung the shotgun around and fired at Rush.
A rubber bullet hit Rush square in the chest, and he fell back from the impact.
Ivankov smiled and turned to his surviving henchmen.
“String him up!” he said.
TWENTY-SIX
Donleavy hesitated before ringing Stanley Trask’s doorbell. Their parting had been final, irrevocable, and, to be honest, rather insulting to Donleavy. She’d told herself, as she walked away, that if Trask ever called her again, she’d tell the bastard to fuck off and hang up on him.
But when she’d returned to the office and her secretary said there was a call from Stanley Trask, she took it. A girl had to make a living.
“Yes,” she said, with just enough edge to her voice to let Trask know she wasn’t happy.
“Victoria.…”
“Yes, what is it?” Nobody called Donleavy by her first name.
“I…I may have been too hasty.” Trask’s voice sounded odd. Was he actually afraid?
“What’s the matter?”
“Just…can you get down here? Right away?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
The call cut off. She grabbed her keys and headed back to his house. On the way, she called Trask repeatedly on his cell phone, on his house phone, on his business line. She got no answer.
Still, when she reached his door, she hesitated. Why? Was it that Trask had made her eat shit and now was bringing her back for more? Or was it just that she didn’t want to see his ugly fish face again?
She rang the doorbell. And waited. She rang again. And waited.
Her cop instincts kicked in. She drew her Smith and Wess
on from her holster and tried the door.
It was unlocked.
She threw the door open walked in, gun at the ready. No one there. She searched the house.
No one anywhere.
Until she got to the gym.
The maid was lying in a pool of blood by the elliptical machine. Her breathing was raspy, and the crack in the back of her skull was bleeding profusely.
Donleavy called 911. She lifted the maid’s head and put her jacket under it. Next to the maid, a heavy kettle bell lay on its side, the bottom of it flecked with blood.
The maid’s eyes drifted open.
“Do you know who did this to you?” Donleavy asked.
The maid shook her head, feebly. Even that movement was too much for her and she cried out in pain. Donleavy held her steady.
“It’s all right. The ambulance is on its way.”
“What about Mr. Trask? Is he all right?” she asked.
“Yeah, he’s fine,” Donleavy lied.
Whoever had hit her on the head must have taken him. Trask was gone.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When it came back to him, Rush’s vision was foggy and blurred, like he was looking at everything through a smeared pane of glass. His breathing was hard and ragged and labored. He felt pain in every muscle.
And then there was the fact that someone was punching him repeatedly in the kidneys.
Rush tried to shake his head, hoping that might clear his vision, but his head weighed too much to shake. As he drifted further into consciousness, he became aware that his arms were chained to a rusted pipe over his head and that something was tied to his face. A pair of goggles and a respirator—the kind worn by men working in hazardous environments.
“Good, you’re awake,” Ivankov said.
Ivankov was standing in front of him, holding a limp sock filled with something. Rush tried to move toward him and realized that his feet were tied, too—bound tightly together with his own belt.
Rush looked around. A couple of the Russians were sitting on the floor, nursing their wounds. Amelia was crouching in a small wire crate, stuffed in there like an animal. But she still had her clothes on. Rush took that as a good sign. Guzman was chained to the same pipe as Rush, bleeding from the bullet hole in his arm and, blessedly, unconscious. And Rush? He couldn’t see himself, but he guessed he didn’t look much better.
He did notice that no one else was wearing a respirator, so that told him there hadn’t been a gas leak. No, the respirator was on him for another reason.
Ivankov walked up to Rush and tapped on his face mask with the butt end of a lit cigarette.
“Where is it?” Ivankov asked.
Rush didn’t respond.
Ivankov held up the sock, which drooped over his fist. It looked like a blackjack.
“You know what this is?” Ivankov said. “It’s a sock filled with dirt. In the Russian prisons, you had to make do.”
He stepped around to Rush’s back, swung the sock back, and struck him hard on the kidneys. Rush groaned.
“Where’s the flash drive?” Ivankov asked.
“What flash drive?” Rush said, his voice muffled by the respirator.
Ivankov struck again, harder this time. “Where is it?”
Rush twisted wildly against the bonds. “I don’t know,” he lied.
Ivankov hit him again. “Where is it?”
“Did you check your pockets?” Rush asked. “Lots of times, when I misplace things—”
The sock, again. Harder.
“I’m talking about the flash drive that has all of Trask’s books on it,” Ivankov said. “The real books. The ones that incriminate me. Tell me where it is.”
Rush felt faint from pain. He nodded his head toward Guzman. “Ask him. I thought he was the one you wanted.”
Guzman hung from the pipe, unconscious. Or pretending to be.
“Oh, I did want him,” Ivankov said. “I’ll get to him. But I don’t want him to tell me anything. I just want him to feel pain. You have to tell me something. Where is it? The bitch told me she gave it to you,” Ivankov said looking over to Amelia. Her eyes were wide.
“I had to give it to him!” she said. “He made me! He tortured me!”
Rush didn’t blame Amelia for lying. In a few minutes, he’d be telling Ivankov anything he wanted to hear.
Ivankov laughed. “Torture. That word gets thrown around a lot these days.” He reached out to the valve on Rush’s respirator and turned it, cutting off his air. “Let me tell you what torture is,” Ivankov whispered.
Rush started to panic as he tried to suck in oxygen and got nothing.
“It’s not humiliation,” Ivankov went on. “That’s just embarrassment. That’s fucking life. No, torture is pain. Crippling, destructive pain. And along with it, the hope that somehow, some way, you just might survive. Hope is the real torture.”
Rush began to struggle, to twist on his chain.
Ivankov watched with great interest while Rush’s face turned red and then blue.
As Rush bucked against the restraints, tiny pinpoints of blood began to appear in the whites of his eyes. His body shuddered and he passed out.
Darkness….
The darkness was quiet and comforting and oh so still. It felt so good to rest. It would be good to rest forever.…
Then it started again. The THUD, THUD, THUD—the dull pain in his kidneys. He had thought he’d left pain behind.
Rush experienced wrenching pain as the respirator was ripped from his head, and then all-encompassing agony as his lungs spasmed and filled with air. It felt like a hundred knives were being plunged into his chest from within.
Rush opened his eyes. Ivankov was standing in front of him, holding the respirator.
“It felt like dying, didn’t it?” Ivankov said with a smirk.
“Made a nice change,” Rush tried to mumble. He wasn’t sure if the remark was audible, but it made him feel better to try to say it.
“I could do it again,” Ivankov said. “Or this.”
Ivankov recommenced beating Rush’s kidneys.
“I can do this all night. You’ll be pissing blood for a month. If you ever piss again. Dead men don’t piss, eh?”
Rush gritted his teeth. He refused to cry out. Not crying out was the one way he had of maintaining control over the situation. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
“You think you’re strong enough to take this?” Ivankov said. “You’re not.”
He twisted Rush around on his chain to see Guzman hanging next to him, bloody and unconscious.
“He wasn’t.”
Ivankov twisted Rush back to face him. “You know why I wanted him? Because he did me a favor. Favor that bit me in the ass. Now look at him!” Ivankov’s breath tasted hot and fetid in Rush’s mouth.
“My grandfather used to carry an anvil around on his back in the old country. Just for fun. The Ministry of Internal Affairs took him. They broke him. They made him their bitch.”
“Otvali!” Rush said and spit in Ivankov’s mouth. Otvali meant “piss off” in Russian. Rush was getting tired of all this.
Ivankov struck him again with the blackjack.
“Where did you learn Russian?” he asked.
“Vor v zakone,” Rush said. From the Thieves’ World.
Ivankov’s eyes widened. “What do you know about the Thieves’ World?”
“More than you, sucka!” Rush spat. “Look at my heart.”
Ivankov considered...then ripped the T-shirt off Rush’s chest. His ribs had an ugly purple and yellow bruise from the impact of the rubber bullet, but that wasn’t what made Ivankov take a sharp breath. It was the tattoo beneath it that shocked him. The elaborate tat covered Caleb Rush’s entire chest and was executed with homemade precision in needle and ink instead of an electronic machine. It depicted a grinning skull with a knife in its jaws, tears falling from the empty eye sockets, manacles hanging from the blade. Behind it all, rising like a mushroom cloud of destruction, w
as the onion dome of Saint Sophia Cathedral in Kiev, cracked and bleeding like a boxer who’d taken too many blows to the head.
Ivankov didn’t say a word. He pulled a Ka-Bar knife from his boot, as if to defend himself from the ghastly image.
“Who carved this on you?”
“My father,” Rush said. “Blaz Kusinko.”
He might as well have said his father was Jesus Christ. “I should cut this off your skin,” Ivankov said.
Rush’s eyes locked with his. “I’d thank you for that.”
Ivankov laughed. He turned to his henchmen, who were sitting against the wall, happy to let Ivankov torture away so they could rest.
“Blaz Kusinko!” Ivankov said to them. “Sergei, Danzig, have you ever heard of him?”
They didn’t know how they were supposed to react. One nodded and one shook his head. One of them had to be right.
Ivankov was disgusted. “Punks today. They have no respect for history. He was one of the founding fathers! The first boss of Brighton Beach. In the seventies. Ancient history, I suppose. Came straight from the gulag, thank you Perestroika. Those were the days. Started the Russian mob here in America. And you know how he died? Peacefully. In bed. With one of his whores.” He cocked an eye toward Rush. “Was your mother one of his whores?”
Rush just stared at him.
“Look!” Ivankov laughed. “Look how proud he is! His mother must have been a good whore!”
The Russian strutted around Rush like a runway model.
“That’s how I’m going to die too,” Ivankov said. “Not in prison for some pissant white-collar crime! Not because I hooked up with her crazy family.” Ivankov spit in Amelia’s direction.
Rush started laughing. “You invested in GlobalInterLink?”
That struck a nerve. Ivankov stamped his foot like an angry three-year-old. “I did not! I just wanted to put my money somewhere safe. So I could retire with dignity. And then this one.…” He socked Guzman’s unconscious body like a punching bag. “He introduced me to the fucking Trasks!”
