by Dylan Rust
“You were never much of a comedian,” Jack said. “You’re going to push through.”
“Don’t be silly,” Claire said. She coughed. More blood. She winced. It hurt so much. She knew her lung had been punctured by the bullet. Her lung had collapsed. Her lung had filled with blood in the absence of being to fill with air. Her body was suffering the effects of low oxygen. Her blood pressure had dropped to lethal levels and her heart was racing. She was on the verge of going into shock. She knew paramedics wouldn’t be on scene fast enough to save her. She accepted her fate.
“Claire,” Jack said. A single tear formed in his eye. He dropped and landed on her face. “Claire!” he screamed. “Claire!”
She was dead.
76
Blood.
There was lots of blood.
The office was in ruins. Tattered.
The portrait of Igor’s father was shredded to bits.
Elaine was on the ground, wheezing.
Jack stood up from Claire’s body. He closed her eyes with his fingers. He kissed her on the lips. “I promise,” he said.
He stood up.
He walked to Igor’s desk and grabbed his two X-TACs.
Jack walked up to Elaine.
She looked at him.
She saw something in his eyes. Something she hadn’t seen since Emma’s passing.
“Where’s the federal agent?” Jack asked her. “Where’s the asshole who gave you back to Igor?”
“He handed me over to Igor’s men. His boss was there. An old guy.”
Jack picked Elaine up.
He walked her to the far end of the office and placed her on the ground. She was close to the entrance. He handed her the guns.
He locked the office door shut.
He turned to Elaine.
“If anyone comes through the door, shoot them,” he said.
“Jack,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to end this.”
“What?” She looked at her brother with a worried expression, but deep down she knew what he was talking about.
Jack walked away from her and up to Igor.
The Russian gangster was still passed out from the kick to his head.
Jack picked him up and placed him on his desk.
He grabbed the bonds that the guards had strapped on his wrists and ankles from the ground. He put them on Igor.
Elaine turned away. She couldn’t look.
Jack walked to Igor’s liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink.
He drank it slowly.
He waited for Igor to wake up.
It didn’t take long.
Five minutes.
Igor was tied down.
He couldn’t move.
“What? What? What is going on?” he asked. His voice stammered and squealed.
“Do you know why I went to prison?”
“No. Fuck you! Fuck you!’ Igor spat at Jack.
Jack avoided the spit.
“I went to prison because I didn’t just kill the guy who was trying to kill me, I fucking maimed, scalped and tore him to bits.”
Igor’s eyes widened. A look of terror spread across his face. “Please,” he said. “You win. You win. Just kill me. End this.”
Jack looked at Igor. He poured himself another glass of vodka. “No,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
“You’re psychotic,” Igor shouted. “Psychotic.”
Jack shot Igor a glance.
Igor jumped.
Jack’s head lowered. Her eyes became black pockets of shadow. He looked like a fallen angel, the embodiment of vengeance and fear.
Igor peed himself.
“You killed the only person in this room who could have saved you,” Jack said. “You ended her life because you wanted to teach me a lesson.”
“I… I…”
“Shut up,” Jack said. He smashed the bottle of vodka he was drinking from. He walked up to Igor and stabbed the Russian gangster in the arm with the broken glass. He twisted it. Igor howled.
“Papa,” Igor shouted. “Papa, mama, Artem!”
Jack saw the pain in Igor’s eyes.
He saw the tears.
He saw the emptiness.
He wanted to torture him, to make him feel a pain he’d never felt, but he knew he’d get no satisfaction from it. He’d just get blood. There would be no catharsis. There would be only emptiness. He carried that emptiness with him for years.
Claire filled that void.
Her sacrifice.
He couldn’t let that be in vain.
He pulled the broken bottle of vodka out of Igor’s arm.
He picked up his GLOCK 17.
He aimed it against Igor’s head.
He pulled it back.
He couldn’t shoot the man.
He couldn’t kill him.
Igor saw Jack’s moment of weakness. He chuckled. “You can’t do it. I’m not the one that broke you. It was that bitch.” He spit. Blood and saliva poured out of his face. “You may have broken me Jack. But you will now always be broken.”
During Jack’s moment of doubt. Igor had managed to wiggle one of his hands free. There was a shard of glass stuck in his arm. With he free hand he pulled it out. And swiped at Jack’s neck.
“Die!”
Jack stepped back, but the glass caught him in the arm.
He took a step back and aimed the gun at Igor.
Igor managed to free himself from all the bonds.
He charged at Jack with the shard of glass.
Jack had no choice
It was in self defense.
He fired.
The bullet pierced through the outer layer of skin and then penetrated his skull, burrowing a 9mm hole through the frontal lobe of his brain to the cerebral cortex, where it exited through the back of his head leaving a perfectly oval exit wound.
Igor dropped.
The Grekovitch Gang was no more.
77
There were two young boys scrubbing the 77th. They were wiping the graffiti off the brick. They’’d been caught spray painting the building last week. They were good kids. They’d just made some bad decisions. They were now learning that there were consequences for their actions.
Captain John Meyer smiled when he saw them. He walked into the precinct holding a copy of the day’s paper and a coffee. A donut was sticking out of his mouth.
It was warm outside. Warmer than his wife had said it would be. She handed him his long coat when he left the house. He was sweating. He didn’t need to look at his pits to know they were stained.
He walked past reception.
“Morning, Nancy,” he said, while still maintaining his bite on the donut.
Nancy nodded.
“Morning, captain.”
He walked past her and toward his office.
She dug her face back in her latest romance novel. She was getting to the juicy part. She liked those parts.
John’s secretary greeted him and grabbed his coat and coffee.
He took a bite of his donut and looked at the paper.
“Is this what D’Angelo and O’Malley wanted to see me about?” John pointed at the front page of the paper.
“Yes,” she said. “They’re in your office. They’re waiting for you.”
John rolled his eyes.
He marched to his office and opened the door. His secretary followed him. She placed his coffee on the table and hung his coat up ion the rack.
The body odor from both detectives was pungent. They must’ve been sitting in his office for more than an hour.
John sat down.
He dunked his donut into his coffee and took a bite of soggy pasty. “What is it?” he said while chewing.
O’Malley shifted to the edge of his seat, and said, “You know that club The Dacha House. The one that the mayor and the commissioner had told us was a no-go zone. The one that they said was clean.”
John swallowed his donut. He looke
d at both detectives and nodded. He’d heard all about the club. He knew it well. “What about it?”
“We found women,” O’Malley said. “Dozens and dozens of women. They were in cages. They were hungry.”
D’Angelo chimed in saying, “They were really hungry. When they saw the donut I was holding, they stuck their hands out of their cages. I’ve never seen so many pretty, skinny clamouring for a donut like that.”
John rubbed his brow. “What are you guys talking about? Women? The Dacha House? What about the mayor? The commissioner?”
“That’s the thing,” O’Malley said. “We’ve got oodles and oodles of evidence. We’ve got footage of the mayor engaging in sexual activities with minors. We’ve got the NYPD commissioner doing worse.”
“Worse?” John said.
“Worse,” D’Angelo emphasized.
“How did you get the footage? How did you find these women? What’s going on?” John was growing impatient. He’d been captain to O’Malley and D’Angelo for years. He’d never seen them like energetic. He’d never seen them care about their work.
“Jack Spade,’ O’Malley said.
John Meyer’s demeanour changed. “What do you mean: Jack Spade?”
“Jack Spade called us from inside The Dacha House,” O’Malley said. “He told us what he found. He has the evidence and proof that he didn’t that cop or those federal agents. It was all the work of Igor Grekovitch. It was…”
John cut O’Malley off. “Jack Spade the cop killer?”
“He didn’t kill no cop,” D’Angelo said. “He didn’t. He showed us the video of Mr. Igro Grekovitch himself shooting the cop with Jack’s gun. I saw this morning. An hour ago. I kid you not.”
“Jesus,” John said. “What the fuck happened last night?”
“Jack is in the interrogation room waiting for you,” O’Malley said. “He turned himself him in with all the evidence. He handed himself over. He says he wants to talk. He says he’s got a proposition for you.”
“What?”
“He’s here,” D’Angelo said. “He said he wants to talk to you. He said you know him.”
“I do.”
John dismissed both detectives. He had a lot to process. What they had just told him was overwhelming. He couldn’t fully comprehend it. He felt dizzy.
He finished his donut and coffee and read the rest of the story in the paper.
The Dacha House was raided.
Dozens of missing girls had been found.
Igor Grekovitch was dead along with about fifty of his men.
There was a shootout.
The reporters didn’t know much. Details were still sketchy.
The commissioner hadn’t provided any quotes yet. The mayor was in Jamaica.
John got up from his desk and made his way to the interrogation rooms.
He walked past O’Malley and D’Angelo’s desks. The two hardworking detectives were asleep. He rolled his eyes.
He swiped his keycard and opened the door to the interrogation room.
There he was.
“Jack Spade.”
“John.”
78
The two former colleagues looked at each other. They were testing each other out. Looking for their weaknesses, looking for their angles.
“You spoke to O’Malley and D’Angelo?” Jack said.
“Yes,” John said. “They gave me the run down.”
“And?”
“Last night, you were the most wanted man in the city, now you’re a hero? How does that happen?”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “A crooked commissioner and a corrupt mayor is a start.”
“You expect me to believe that,” John said.
“You can look at the footage yourself,” Jack said. “You should make up your mind after that.”
John smirked. “You haven’t changed one bit,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
John laughed. He relaxed. “I knew you would never be able to stay away from the force.”
Jack nodded. “You were right.”
“You were always a cop.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes,” Jack said. “I want back on the force. I want to be a detective again.”
“And why should I help you? I still am not convinced you’re not the cop killer. The papers said you killed Lieutenant Rivers.”
“Watch the video,” Jack said. “Watch the video that I handed over.”
“Okay,” John said. “But you didn’t like playing by the rules. Why is now different? I was your partner remember. You were the one who broke all the rules. I was the one who reigned you in. You wouldn’t have lasted nearly as long if it wasn’t for me.”
“I know.”
“And you want to be a cop? You want your badge back?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve realized a few things…” Jack’s voice trailed off.
“And what are those things?”
“That no matter what I do, that no matter how hard I try, the only way to make sure that the city is safe, that the city is clean, is by doing it the right way. The legal way.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Like I said, I’ve changed.”
John looked Jack up and down. He smiled. “If what you are saying is true, if you have the evidence you say you do, you’re back on. But the first hint of a mistake, the first sign that you’ve broke a rule, you’re off the force. You understand.”
Jack nodded.
“Welcome back on the force, Jack Spade.”
79
Two weeks later…
The waters were calm. Oleksii Borachev looked at his watch. He was well ahead of schedule. He was relaxed. He was calm. He nodded to his first officer to give up control. He felt comfortable knowing that the tug would safely glide the RSC Tundra into port.
Everything happened as planned. Everything happened as it had before.
It was daytime. The sun was out. He could see Dock 7C from the wheelhouse.
The city seemed different.
The thaw had set in.
The waters were more natural. There was an optimism in the air.
The men were on the dock. They were waiting, just as they had on his first visit.
It was a different job, however. Very different. He wasn’t dropping off any containers and he wasn’t picking up any women.
The Tundra was called to pick up one man.
But the pay was good and Oleksii liked it when the pay was good.
The Tundra came to a stop and the man boarded.
It took less than ten minutes.
The tug with the Port Authority insignia pulled them out back onto the Hudson and Oleksii ordered the first officer to turn on the engines.
Unlike his first trip to New York, there were no murders this time on Dock 7C.
It was smooth sailing.
To celebrate, Oleksii pulled the flask of vodka out of his jacket. He took two quick swigs.
He was happy.
He closed his eyes and told his first officer to wake him when they were past Newfoundland.
***
Aleksander Putzky had a knack for survival.
He’d spent the last two weeks in a motel.
He was waiting out the investigation.
The NYPD were no longer in the Grekovitch gang’s pocket.
No one was in the Grekovitch gang’s pocket.
The gang was done.
Over.
The first thing he did after leaving Igor’s office during that awful night was order a ship for himself. He knew that it would take the Port Authority and coast guard time to put all the pieces together. They wouldn’t be able to stop the ship registered to Loscovitch Logistics without an informal and lengthy investigation.
If there was one thing Aleksander loved about
America it was bureaucracy.
He nodded to the men on the ship and made his way down to his cabin.
He was looking forward to his return to Ukraine.
He was looking forward to his return to Russia.
It had been too long.
The cabin was small, but he didn’t mind.
Aleksander liked the simple things.
He stuffed his bag with all his belongings under his bed and walked to the messroom. He needed a drink.
He walked to the messroom and opened the door.
The room was empty.
He didn’t mind.
He didn’t want to talk to any of the crew anyway.
They’d ask too many questions and he was too old of man.
He rummaged through the liquor cabinet and fridge.
He found some vodka.
The good kind.
Russian Standard.
He opened the bottle.
He poured himself a glass.
He shot it back.
“Where are you going?”
A voice.
A familiar voice.
Not a friendly one.
Aleksander turned around.
A man, a silhouette, a shadow.
He walked into the light.
It was him.
Aleksander stumbled backward.
“You… you…”
“It’s me.”
Jack held up his X-TAC. He aimed it Aleksander’s head.
“How did you find me?”
Jack walked toward the old Russian gangster.
“Did you really think it was that hard?”
“I read in the papers… you… you’re a cop now.”
Jack pulled a bullet into the chamber of his gun.
“You can’t kill me. That would be against the law.”
“You helped Sergei and Igor Grekovitch for years,” Jack said. “Where are you going? Back to Russia? Back home?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve managed to get away your whole life…” Jack walked up to Aleksander. “But not today.” He smacked Aleksander in the head with the butt of his gun.
He dragged the body to a small boat on the deck.
He threw Aleksander inside.
He got inside and lowered the boat down into the Hudson.
He made his way back to the shoreline.
