Overkill

by Dylan Rust

  “Please, Igor,” Hugo said. “I’ll find him, I promise.”

  “Get every fucking cop in the city looking for him. Do you understand?”

  Hugo bowed his head. “Yes.”

  “Good. I also have some bad news. The cop you had working with us is dead. He was killed by this gun. It belongs to Jack Spade.”

  “Lieutenant Rivers was loyal,” Hugo said. “You should not have killed him.”

  “I’m beyond playing nice,” Igor said. “I don’t care about loyalty. My only concern is killing the man who tried to kill me.”

  “Yes,” Hugo said.

  “You’re going to make sure that every man on the force believes that Jack is responsible for Rivers’s death. Understand?”

  “I’ll inform the force about Jack’s involvement in Rivers’s death.”

  “Good,” Igor said. “That should be all the inspiration you need to get the force on your side. You can leave.”

  Hugo nodded and left the room.

  As he left the room, Aleksander walked inside.

  He’d brought Igor a coffee. He placed it on a dresser. It was hot.

  Igor watched the steam rise off the lid of the coffee. He wanted to pick it up and toss it on to Aleksander’s face. If his men hadn’t lied about the man in Jimmy’s that attacked them, club security might be have been tighter. And if club security was tighter, they would have been more aware of an intruder. The idiot bouncers wouldn’t have played their little game of Russian Roulette outside. They would have just shot him.

  “No more mistakes,” Igor said.

  “I’ve talked to the men who were at Jimmy’s that night,” Aleksander said. “They said they didn’t think the guy would be a problem. The cops showed up and arrested him.”

  “They told me he was dead.”

  “That’s a figure of speech,” Aleksander said. “Dead, arrested. He was taken care of.”

  That didn’t sit well with Igor.

  He walked to the dresser and grabbed the of cup of coffee. He threw it at Aleksander. The boiling water splashed against his right man’s face.

  Aleksander cried out in pain.

  “It’s not a figure of speech. Your heart is either beating in your chest or its not. It’s black and white. And because of that mistake, we’ve got a clusterfuck of a situation on our hands,” Igor screamed at the cowering old man.

  Aleksander tried to brush the smouldering coffee of his face. He wiped the tears from his eyes. He’d expected Igor to be mad. He’d expected pain. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Igor said. “I just want results from here on out. Let’s get down to business.”

  Aleksander cleared his throat. He attempted to get up from the ground, but couldn’t. He leaned against the dresser and sat on the floor. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Sasha’s eyes on the street have found where the federal agents have set up shop. It’s in a small warehouse close by.”

  “What are going to do? Watch them?”

  “No,” Igor said. “We’re going to capture and kill the federal agents. I need you to go to the warehouse. Kill the federal agents inside. Kill them with this.”

  Igor pulled the GLOCK 17 out from his jacket. He placed it on the bed.

  “I killed Lieutenant Rivers with this. This weapon belongs to Jack.”

  “I don’t follow,” Aleksander said.

  “Jack Spade had to be working with the feds,” Igor said. “They were probably using him as an undercover agent. They wanted dirt on me. That’s why he asked to work for me. I know how these things work.”

  “Okay, but how does killing the federal agents help us? If we kill the federal agents investigating us, they’ll just open another investigation. We’ll have awoke the hornets nest.”

  “Let me finish,” Igor said. “Jack is a man with a history of violence. He’s served time in prison and the NYPD despise him. The feds won’t want the public knowing that they used an ex-con on one of their investigations. And they will be especially embarrassed if that ex-con killed the entire team of federal agents that he was supposed to be working with. They wont want the media knowing a thing about this.”

  “I see,” Aleksander said. “You’re going to frame Jack for the murder of the cop and the murder of the federal agents.”

  “Yes,” Igor said. “The bureau will have no choice but to walk away from the investigation. They’ll be spending most of their time dealing with the public outcry that this mess will create. The media will make a shitstorm out of their mistake. We will be the last thing that they are worried about. I’ve already talked to the mayor. Everything is a go. The mayor said that he might even be able to get the district attorney to sign an exemption for us. No government bureau will be able to step foot into our club without an approval from us. We just need Jack to be either killed or caught. And we need those federal agents dead.”

  Aleksander smiled. The plan was perfect. Igor was sounding more and more like his father. “I’ll get my men down to the warehouse tonight,” he said. “We’ll kill the agents inside.”

  “No more mistakes,” Igor said.

  “There won’t be any.”

  “I’ll contact our man in the New York Post,” Igor said. “He owes me a favor. He’ll love the scoop and he won’t ask too many questions.”

  Aleksander’s face was bright red and his jacket was stained with coffee, but he was laughing. “Your father would be proud,” he said.

  “I know,” Igor said.

  A breeze blew in from the open window. The room was cold. The sun had just risen. Igor and Aleksander left the room. They had a lot of work to do.

  34

  The traffic outside 26 Federal Plaza was bad. More construction on account from a new proposal by the mayor. A new hotel for lower Manhattan was in the works. Lyle Cunningworth funded it. It would be more luxurious than anything on Park Ave. and more expensive than the InterContinental Barclay.

  Assistant director Edward rolled his eyes.

  The sounds of the taxis honking and his two incompetent agents droning on about what had happened the night before were making him feel sick. He’d had enough.

  “Stop with the bullshit,” he said. “Just tell me what the fuck happened?”

  Claire tried to clear her head, tried to think. The sounds of the machinery outside reverberated through her head. Her mind felt as if it was being dug up, not the street below. She wanted to speak, but couldn’t.

  Tom broke the silence.

  “We have no idea, sir.”

  “What the hell do you mean? Your van was attacked. Your associate is in the hospital. And the man you had go undercover is now wanted by the police for the murder of a missing cop. What the fuck is going on?”

  “I’m not sure,” Tom said.

  “You’re not sure?” Edward said. “You’re not sure? This is unbelievable.”

  Edward rubbed his temple.

  “I’m sorry…” Claire said. “This is my fault.”

  “You’re sorry,” Edward said. “For fucks sake, Agent Osgoode!” He slammed his fist on the table. “Do you realize what you’ve just done. You’ve compromised the integrity of the entire fucking bureau. If the media gets a hold of this, then you are fucked. I’m fucked. And to think this all happened after the first big night on your investigation. This doesn’t happen. This is a colossal fuck up.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

  “Clearly.”

  “Agent Vasiliev is on the mend,” she said. “We handed the information we had on Jack to the NYPD. They are looking for him now.”

  “I never wanted to bring the ex-con into this investigation, sir,” Tom said. “I just want to put that out there.”

  “For fucks sake,” Edward said. “Your ass is on the line, too, Agent Dunce. You got your associate shot with your little hero act out on the street. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Tom lowered his head. He fumbled through his pock
ets for a pack of gum.

  “Something happened in the club,” Claire said. “Igor…”

  “Fuck Igor,” the assistant director said. “Fuck the investigation. No one in the office believed in this investigation. You had a pretty thin connection to Igor and the dead man on Shooter’s Island. As I see it, the investigation is over. Everything has changed. We’re in crisis management mode now.”

  “But the women?” Claire said.

  “But what? I don’t care about those missing street workers and drug addicts from Europe. The bureau’s integrity is at stake. My legacy at stake. What don’t you get about that?”

  Claire wanted to throw up. She deserved this. She’d trustred Jack too much. She should have listened to those around her. She shouldn’t have trusted her gut.

  “For all we know,” Edward said. “Jack used us to get back at the missing cop. Maybe they knew each other?”

  “I just don’t see that as plausible,” Claire said.

  “I don’t care what you think is plausible,” Edward said. “The NYPD seem pretty fucking convinced that he’s the man who killed the cop. They have Spade’s clothes drenched in blood and his gun. Plausible? They have proof! They have more damn proof than you had when you started this investigation.”

  “It’s all so strange,” Claire said.

  “I don’t care.”

  “But Jack’s sister,” she said.

  “What about her?”

  “Jack said Igor has her. That’s why he agreed to help.”

  “Didn’t the men you sent to question her not say that she was a heroin user? Jack leveraged your stupidity. She’s probably not missing. And if she is, she’s probably not in Igor’s clutches.”

  Claire and Tom were embarrassed. Their careers were over. For Claire, it meant that she’d be back in analytics, punching financial numbers on suspected targets and looking at spreadsheets all day. She’d never see the field again.

  For Tom, it meant he’d have to go back to Santa Monica and work at his father’s law firm. He was hoping for a different avenue into the political space. It’d be a setback, but a minor one. Still, he didn’t like being embarrassed. He didn’t like taking shots to his ego.

  “You’re both dismissed,” Edward said. “Until this matter is resolved, I suggest you both stay out of the office. If I so much as hear about you looking into the case, I am going to have you both arrested.”

  He didn’t even look at them when he said it.

  Both Tom and Claire left the office and made their way back to their cubicles.

  They both felt the eyes of the other agents on them as they walked through the narrow alleyways of the office. While their investigation was top-secret and on a need-to-know basis, word spread in the bureau. Every one knew that they were working with Jack Spade, the man whose face was all over the papers.

  Claire sat down at her desk. She slouched back in her chair and stared at her phone.

  She wanted a distraction.

  She wanted to think about anything other than Jack and Igor and the missing women.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” Tom said. “I shouldn’t have got out of the van.”

  It was the first nice thing Tom had said to Claire in weeks.

  “It’s alright,’ she said. “At least it can’t get any worse? The investigation is over. Or, at least, my role in it is.”

  “Stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop whining,” he said.

  “So you’re just okay with all of this?”

  “I’m still processing it. I’m still trying to figure out how I can turn this around.”

  “So it benefits you?”

  “Alright,” he said. “I’m a careerist, you got me!”

  Claire rubbed her brow.

  “Agent Vasiliev is in the hospital because of us,” Tom said.

  “Because of you.”

  “Okay. Sure, I take the blame for it.”

  “So what do you want to do?” she said. “We have strict orders to do nothing. I don’t know if we’re ever going to be allowed back in here again.”

  “How about we go out for drinks? Get silly drunk. Black out drunk. Drink so much that we forget we were even part of this investigation.”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Come on,” Tom said.

  Claire ignored him. She turned toward her computer and opened up her email. She started deleting old messages. It was a mindless enough task, but it helped clear her head. She just wanted Tom to disappear before he started to chew gum.

  Tom sighed.

  Claire didn’t notice him leave. She didn’t care. She figured she’d be sent back to DC in a week or so. She’d hopefully never have to see his face again. She continued to delete spammy emails when she got a notification.

  An email.

  From a reporter at the New York Post.

  It’s subject line: Jack Spade’s Connection to The FBI?

  She stopped.

  No.

  It couldn’t be.

  She read the email and shot up from the desk. Her heart palpitated. Her vision went black. She cried out for Tom. “Tom!” She was having a panic attack.

  Tom was ten cubicles away. He stopped, turned around and was stunned by how sudden Claire’s skin had turned white. She looked like death.

  “What?”

  “I could use that drink.”

  He smiled. “Why the change of mind?”

  “Look,” she said.

  He walked up to her cubicle and read the email.

  “Fuck,” he said aloud. “That’s going to make life difficult.”

  The reporter wanted a quote on a story he was preparing. The reporter hadn’t published anything yet. It was all about Jack working undercover with the FBI. The reporters names was Clive Hopkins.

  35

  The Dillinger Tavern was in Midtown Manhattan, just a few blocks directly south of Central Park. It was the go-to spot for federal agents to drown their sorrows. The walls inside were lined with mugshots of convicts and criminals from Great Depression-era America; Outlaws, public enemies, scoundrels. Many of the faces on the walls were caught by federal agents.

  The owner figured that’s why the feds liked the bar so much. It reminded them of a time when the bureau was still in its infancy, still making mistakes. It helped soften whatever blow they were facing. Baby Face Nelson, Pretty Boy Floyd, Machine Gun Kelly and Alvin Karpis’s mugshots were hung along the dimly lit, wooden walls. Their faces looked down on the sorrowful, depressed and anxious bodies within.

  Each booth was an escape. You wouldn’t know who was in the booth next to you and it was usually loud enough that the conversation happening next to you would sound like white noise.

  Tom picked a booth that had portraits of Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker.

  He thought it was funny. He said the two dead bank robbers reminded him of him and her.

  Claire didn’t like the joke.

  She still felt sick. She might’ve well been a bank robber for all she cared. She felt as if her body had been shot up by a thousand bureau bullets, even if those bullets were just words from the assistant director’s mouth.

  She needed alcohol.

  The waiter appeared, holding two old fashioned drinks.

  Claire grabbed her’s from the waiter’s hand before it hit the table and downed it in one gulp.

  “Whoa!” Tom said. “Where have you been this investigation? She’ll take another.”

  The waiter nodded, then disappeared.

  Claire hung her head down on the table. She wanted the alcohol to kick in. She wanted to feel her blood thin and the her brain crackle.

  She wanted to forget about Jack.

  “Did you hear the news?”

  “What now,” Claire said.

  “The NYPD are saying that Jack killed the missing cop point blank. Shot him in the head. Brains were splattered everywhere. The description is vivid. It’s gross. You’ll love it.”

 
Claire gagged.

  “Stop,” she said. “Stop.”

  “They still haven’t caught him. The bastard is on the run. Fuck. He knows our names. What if he comes for us next?”

  “Stop!”

  Claire grabbed Tom’s drink and downed it.

  “Hey!”

  “I told you to stop.”

  “That was my drink.”

  The waiter showed up with Claire’s new drink. She grabbed it from his hand and drank it.

  “Fuck,” Tom said. “You should slow down. You’re going to make yourself sick. You’re not going to feel well in the morning.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I’ll order you some food. That will help.”

  “None of this makes any sense,” Claire said. “There was no way Jack knew the missing cop would be in the club. And even if he did, where was the missing cop? What the fuck is going on?”

  “The NYPD statement says that he was in one of The Dacha House’s rooms. He was probably there on a week long bender. I’m not saying the missing cop was a saint, but it all checks out. Jack most likely saw him and something inside of him clicked. It’s just like his manslaughter charge. He’s a fucking animal. He just kinda snaps. You want nachos?”

  “That’s a stretch,” she said. “Igor has his sister.”

  “We don’t know that. Jack told you that, right? Nachos?”

  “You didn’t see him in the cell. He was telling me the truth. The look on his face. There was no way he was lying.”

  “Nachos it is.”

  “And he killed the cop? Why would he do that? He’d been working as a vigilante. He’d been protecting people. Doing the cops dirty work for them. Why’d he suddenly become a killer? A cold blooded killer.”

  “Well, we don’t know,” Tom said. “Maybe he wasn’t the Brooklyn Vigilante after all. We might have been wrong about that. I’m going to order some wings, too. Maybe a burger, as well.”

  “No,” Claire said. “No. That doesn’t check out. He is the Brooklyn Vigilante.”

  “Maybe I’ll just order the nachos, I’m watching my diet. My belt size is not what it used to be.”

  “Can you stop talking about food!? For fucks sake!”

  Tom hadn’t heard Claire like this. He reached for his pack of gum. He pulled it out and placed it on the table.