by Dylan Rust
The two spies in a Russian gang would be in charge of running the ground level aspects of the operation. One would operate the street, one would operate the security of the gang’s hideout. Based on everything that had happened, Claire felt comfortable assuming that Aleksander ran the street. Sasha must have been in charge of club security. That was why Sasha had no file with the feds.
Aleksander Putzky was a tall, wide man. His face was gruff and he had a portly belly. The only thing that remained from his days as a weightlifter was his thick, round arms. It looked like they were exploding from his jacket.
“Your spy was going to kill me,” Claire said to Igor. “I was defending myself.”
“You should have let her.”
Igor snapped his fingers. His men drew their guns. They pointed them at Claire. She felt the barrels rub against her damp forehead. She was sweating.
He smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to kill you. After I found out Sasha died, I decided to keep alive.”
“Why are you keeping me alive?”
“Because I don’t want the other crime families in New York to think I am a pushover, that I easily let things go. I dwell on things. I make my enemies dwell on them, too.
“Why do you worry about what other families think?” Claire asked. “You have kompromat on almost every law maker, cop, and public figure in this damn city.”
“Yes,” Igor said. “But I want more. I don’t want to stop at New York. This is just the beginning.”
He got from his desk and walked to a picture of his father. The Bear. He looked at it. Igor didn’t look anything like Sergei. His father’s features were more masculine. Igors were more feminine. Igor looked like his mother.
“My father was ruthless,” he said. “He conquered Russia. For a brief period if time, he was the most powerful man in the country.”
“But he lost it,” Claire said.
“Shut up. He lost nothing. He died. Those fucking dogs mutilated his legacy, mutilated what could have been. I’m going to own this country like my father owned Russia. I am going to fucking murder and maim everyone and everything that stands in my way.”
Igor snapped his fingers.
“You sent Jack Spade in to kill me,” he continued. “It was you.”
Claire was feeling stronger, more confident. She knew she had nothing to lose. “You’re a criminal,” she said. “You’ve been smuggling women out of eastern Europe and using them in you dirty club to get the goods on the weak but powerful men of the city.”
“And you sent Jack Spade to my office to bring me down,” he said. “But you failed. You lost. Accept it. To help you understand, I want to show you your future.”
“What?”
Igor snapped his fingers.
Two of his men left the room.
“Speaking of Mr. Spade,” Igor said. “I’d like you to meet his sister.”
Claire turned around.
Elaine Spade was at the entrance of the room.
She looked terrible. She was dressed in dirty clothes and was being held up by two of Igor’s men. She had chains around her wrists and ankles. She looked weak, like she hadn’t eaten in days. Her skin was blotched with Rorschach test-like bruises. Her hair was shaved. Thick blue veins ran up her neck. She had a cut on her forehead. She couldn’t speak. Her mouth was gagged. Her wrists were tied behind her back.
“Look in the mirror, Agent Osgoode,” Igor said. “What do you think?”
Claire turned back to Igor. “I think you’re a sick pig.”
Igor burst out laughing. “Good,” he said. “Good. I like one with a little bit of a bite. This is what you will look like in one week. We will keep you in the cellar where you will wait until the next shipment arrives. Once it does, you’ll be put on board. My contacts in Odessa will pay a pretty penny for you. You’re a very good looking women.”
“You animal,” Claire said. “I swear to god if I ever get out of this I will bring you to justice.”
Igor’s smile disappeared. He walked up to Claire and slapped her in the face.
“You should learn some manners,” he said. “It’s impolite to be rude to your host.”
Claire hadn’t felt pain like that before. Her cheek throbbed. Did he break anything? She cracked her jaw. Maybe. “Just kill me,” she said. “Get this over with.”
Igor straightened his jacket. It was expensive. Gucci.
“No,” he said. “I want the other families to know what I did to the federal agent who tried to interfere with my business.”
Claire couldn’t hold it together. She weeped. Igor had won.
“Now lets have some fun,” Igor said. He pointed to Elaine with Jack’s gun. “I want to send her brother a message and I want you to watch.”
Claire looked at Elaine and then back to Igor. She tried to get up out of her seat, but Igor’s men held her down.
“It’s just nice to have an audience, y’know,” Igor said.
He walked to his desk and pulled out a knife and a needle.
Elaine, though weak, screamed. She tried to kick. She tried to punch. The shackles on her ankles and wrists were to tight.
Igor’s men laughed.
Igor walked up to Elaine. “Hold her steady,” he said. He pulled out the needle and jabbed it into her arm. He waited a few seconds.
Elaine’s eyes rolled to the back of her head. Her body went limp. His men had to hold her up.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to kill us,” Claire said.
“It’s propofol,” Igor said. “It’s just to make sure she doesn’t scream to loud. We can’t disturb my guests.” He winked at Claire.
Igor grabbed Elaine’s foot. He held it up.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m getting a gift for Mr. Spade,” Igor said.
“You’re insane,” Claire yelled.
Igor smiled. “I know.”
He cut off Elaine’s big toe with the knife.
One of his men bandaged up Elaine’s foot. They couldn’t let her bleed too much. She had just been given a lot of sedative. They didn’t want to risk her heart stopping.
Igor held up the bloody piece of flesh and bone in his hand.
“Haha,” he said. “What do you think of this Agent Osgoode? Will this upset your man in prison?”
“If Jack ever gets out of there, he’s going to find you and he’s going to kill you,” Claire said.
Igor laughed. He threw the dismembered toe at Claire. It hit her in the face and the fell on the floor. He picked it up and looked at it and admired it.
“He’s not getting out of Rikers,” he said. “I own this city. I can’t be stopped. The warden is a good friend of mine.” Igor walked up to Claire with a new needle.
“Don’t,” she said. “Please.”
“I was going to kill you,” he said. “But you are beautiful. You’ll be able to fetch me quite a bit from Europe.”
He stabbed Claire in the arm with the needle.
He world went black.
Igor’s men picked Claire’s unconscious body up.
“Put her in the cellar under the club,” Igor said. “Leave the sister here. Tie her up and leave her on the wall.”
57
One week later…
There was nothing but black. For a week, there was nothing but black. Jack kept his sanity by closing his eyes. It was the only way he could trick the mind into believing that the darkness was normal.
During his first stay in Rikers, he earned a handful of visits to solitary. Beating the shit of scumbags in prison did not endear Jack to the guards or the inmates. The guards thought it best to keep Jack separated from the inmate population as often as they could. Solitary was an easy way to do this.
The dark, underground dwelling in the prison could mess with your mind.
No natural light penetrated its walls. It was three floors below the surface, and there was only one hall light in the corridor that separated the six solitary cells.
Jack knew that if he stayed down in solitary for too long, his mental health would decline. He’d lose control of his body and start having hallucinations. He wouldn’t be able to combat it, either. He was mentally strong, but he wasn’t dumb.
Anything could be broken, if it was pushed far enough.
The only benefit to the trip was that it gave time for his body to heal. The injuries he’d succumbed from the fall from The Dacha Houses window were no longer a problem. Physically, he felt great.
To keep his sanity, he focused on the cell and his senses.
Every now and then he heard the pipes rattle or hear the cackles from an inmate four cells away. Twice a day, the guards would visit. They’d rattle their batons against the steel walls, stirring the senses of those inside. They did their best to break the inmates, to make them lose consciousness and hope.
The guards would come down with the food. Once in the morning, once at night. It was this meal schedule that helped Jack recognize what day it was, what time it was. The meals didn’t help make this distinction. They were the same morning and night. Mashed potatoes, mixed with slimy vegetables and rock hard ground beef. The guards would slide the meal on a plate under a small steel slip at the base of the door. As they’d lift it open, the cell would light up from the lone light in the hallway. Jack was careful not to open his eyes when they would do that. If he did, he’d be blinded.
It was these meals that allowed him to recognize what day it was.
When he wasn’t being fed, his mind focused on one thing.
Igor Grekovitch.
Jack thought of the different ways he’d take Igor down once he got out of Rikers.
It wasn’t a matter if. It was a matter of when.
He would get the fuck out there.
He had to.
Once he was out of solitary, once the guards put him back in a regular cell, he’d figure out a way. He had two options: shoot his way out or sneak out. He preferred the latter, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He’d do what he’d have to.
During his first stay in Rikers, Jack stayed far away from the regular prison population. His status as an ex-cop was well known amongst the inmates. The guards made sure that Jack was well protected whenever he was out on the yard. But even then, the odd inmate would take their chances. They’d run at Jack with whatever makeshift weapon they could create. As long as it was sharp and pointy, it’d do.
Jack knew Worley would not give him the same treatment. He knew he would not be protected.
He was on the ground in his solitary cell.
His ass hurt from the hard concrete floor, his back from the wall. His ribs and shoulder throbbed with pain. He needed painkillers. He needed a drink. His bare feet were moist. His orange jumpsuit was grimy.
He needed to sleep.
He controlled his breathing and emptied his thoughts.
The space in his mind that had been preoccupied with Igor was now an empty void.
He slept.
He dreamed.
His was inside a coffin. The walls were concrete, just like his cell. But he was hot. Burning. He choked. The coffin filled with smoke. The concrete broke apart. Bullet holes, casting lines of light that cut like jigsaws on the skin they touched. He tried to break free, but he couldn’t.
The coffin descended deeper into the flames.
It disintegrated.
But instead of feeling heat, he felt cold. He stood up from the ground. He looked at his hands. He was holding two guns. Two X-TAC Combat Elites. On his back was shotgun.
He could hear laughing.
The flames disappeared.
He was on the docks, the sun was rising. The Manhattan skyline was on the other side of the water.
He walked toward the light.
Someone was there.
A girl?
He walked toward her. She was standing on the edge of the dock.
It was Emma.
She was crying. The closer he got to her the more her skin flaked away.
He ran.
Time was running out.
She was only a yard away. He could make it.
He couldn’t.
He held her.
She was bone. Her face was a skull.
But she spoke.
“Igor,” she said. “Igor.”
“What?” Jack said. He pulled the shotgun off his back. He looked around.
“Your badge…” Her voice grew faint. “Pick up your badge…”
“What?” Jack said.
He lost his grip. He didn’t know where she was. The bones weren’t there.
His uncle appeared.
The blade.
“Tony!” Jack shouted.
“Don’t listen to the girl,” Tony said. “Don’t listen to a thing.”
“Tony!”
“You know what you are, Jack. You’re a killer. You’re just a killer. You’re just like me.”
Jack punched at his uncle but he hit nothing but air. He was an apparition. His fist went through the figure of his uncle which caused his uncle to disappear in a puff of smoke.
Jack looked around.
The dock was empty. The sun risen.
He looked into the light.
It was bright.
He couldn’t see a thing.
He was awake.
He was sweating. The dream was over.
He rubbed his head. What the hell was that? His dreams were never that vivid.
The door to his cell opened. The steel creaked as it slid along the ground. It sounded like the howling of a ghost. Light from the lone lamp of the hall shot into the cell.
He opened his eyes and felt the burn. His time in solitary was done.
The guards footsteps sounded like sledgehammers hitting the the ground. The vibrations of each step on the concrete floor reverberated through Jack’s body. He could feel them in his bones.
“Did Worley miss me?” He hadn’t spoken in days. His tongue, lips, and teeth felt strange.
The officers said nothing. They just picked him up.
It took a second for Jack’s leg muscles to kick in. He felt dizzy. His heart pounded. He felt the rush of blood to his head. He saw stars.
The two guards carried him into an elevator and took him up two floors.
“Worley wants to to see you?” one of them said.
Jack’s eyes focused. The two guards were pudgy. They were wearing beige outfits and were equipped with electric batons. If he tried anything, those batons had enough volts to make him vomit what little food he had in his stomach.
“Worley?” Jack said. “The fat fuck who runs this joint?”
The two guards giggled.
“Who’s Tony?” one of them said. “You were screaming the name Tony when we approached the cell.”
The dream?
Emma. Pick up the badge. The Blade. Killer. The light.
“Just a bad dream,” Jack said. “Nothing more.”
The guards giggled.
The elevator dinged. They were on the fifth floor. The two officers didn’t carry Jack out. They pushed him instead. His first few steps were hard. He felt his calves tremor. He stabilized himself and took a few steps. He stumbled but maintained his balance.
One of the guards kicked the back of his legs. He didn’t see which one it was. He collapsed on to the ground.
His face smacked against the hard ceramic floor.
The guards picked him up. They brought him into Worley’s office.
Jack was groggy. The smack to the head hurt.
Inside, Worley was holding a knife and was sitting at his cluttered desk.
The guards put away their electric batons.
They sat Jack on a chair across from Worley.
“Good morning, Mr. Spade,” Worley said.
58
The office was lifeless. It was comprised of puke green walls and a small wooden desk that had a black crust on its surface. The room smelled like used gym socks.
Worley lea
ned back on a swivel chair that was too small for his wide ass. Giant clumps of fat hung off each side. He licked his small, moist lips. He looked at Jack the same way he looked at a piece of raw meat. The only thing he didn’t have was a fork and knife.
Jack stared into the fat man’s eyes.
“You cheated,” Worley said.
“What?”
“You cheated in the poker game. That three of a kind you played at The Dacha House. That was impossible.”
“Is that what you think?” Jack rolled his eyes. “I didn’t cheat.”
“I don’t believe you!”
Worley slammed his fist down on his desk. Papers flew in all directions, revealing more black crust. It looked like food, neglected, smushed down, and grown hard. “You cheated. I know you did. You had to be up to something.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “What do you think I did?”
“I think you paid off the dealer,” Worley said. “Or you snuck some cards up your sleeve.”
“Is this why you brought me up here?” .
“I’m on to your tricks!”
“Believe whatever you want,” Jack said. “I didn’t cheat.”
“Fuck you.”
The two guards grabbed their electric batons from their belt and turned them on. They both struck Jack in unison.
Jack was still disoriented from solitary. He wasn’t at the top of his game. The electrical volts sent shocks through his body. It hurt, but it could’ve been worse. He managed to keep his food down. In a way, the shock woke him up.
Jack shook his head. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I did. Just give me a second.”
The officers were about to strike Jack again, but Worley stopped them. “Don’t. I want to hear this.”
“I won the game at the Dacha House…” Jack said. He paused. “Because you fucking suck at poker.”
Worley screamed. The officers hit Jack again.
“Well, I’ve got a new game for you to play, Mr. Spade,” Worley said. He stood up. His fat jiggled as he rose.
The correctional officers didn’t hit Jack again. They walked away from him, positioning themselves by the entrance to the office. They locked the door. Their black boots squeaked as they shifted along the tile. It’d been recently mopped. It was still wet.
