Marked Man II - 02 (17 page)

Watching the club from the safety of a rooftop a half block away, Jordan confirmed that Gusin and a number of other Shirokov associates were regulars. Through his binoculars he watched them smoke outside and laugh and glad hand around.

Three security cameras watched the front entrance. There were two more in the back. That kind of presence indicated that there was something on the premises that they didn’t want found, and since the Eastern European girls they peddled seemed to mean so little to them, Jordan guessed it was something else. Perhaps a huge stash of drugs, perhaps a cache of weapons, perhaps a valuable hostage. The thought that Mary, her husband, and her kids might be tied up in a basement not a hundred feet from where the Russians were standing filled Jordan with an anger of the blistering variety.

Jordan decided to make his move in the early morning hours when the odds would be more even. Most of the Russians weren’t awake before noon and the ones that did were clearly nursing hangovers, moving like snails and wearing sunglasses at all times.

On Friday morning, just after sunrise, Jordan set out for the Kiev Sport and Social Club with twin glocks, a .22, a .38 and his handy green beret Yarborough knife. Seventh Avenue was sparse, only an early jogger here and there, and a car driving through every other minute or so.

He set up behind a United States post office box and watched the entrance. As was his custom, the bartender arrived at 6:30 AM to open the place. Once he was inside Jordan got up and began marching towards the entrance. He was in the middle of the street when he heard his burner ringing.

Growling, Jordan answered.

“Kind of in the middle of something. What is it?”

Detective Bollier was frantic.

“Jordan! Where are you? Please don’t tell me you’re down on seventh.”

“So what if I am?”

“You can’t go in there! Jordan. Listen to me. You can’t go in.”

“I don’t take orders from you, detective. I have a pretty good feeling that they’ve got my sister in there and I’m going in.”

“CORPORAL! Even if she is in there you won’t come out alive. Just stop and listen for a second. The guy that I told you about who gave us the information about this place, his name is Viktor Demidov. He was supposed to stay in custody until his trial but I just found out through Kyle that he was released last night. They got him out on some technicality. Jordan. They wouldn’t have done that if he was really an informant. They wanted him to tell us about this place. They’re setting you up to go in there.”

Jordan was paused in the middle of the street. His eyes were fixed on the Kiev’s window. The anemic face of the bartender was watching him right back.

“Are you sure they sprung him? Maybe it was a coincidence.”

“Jordan there are no more coincidences. We’ve been… hold on… YES! I’m telling him… hold on. Jordan. Agent Clemons wants to speak with you.”

“That’s nice. I’ll have to take a message.”

“For the love of God if you’ve ever trusted me just talk to him for a minute.”

Jordan hated straddling the fence like this, left out in the open. He felt like he should either charge in shooting or make a hasty retreat back to his vehicle, which was parked around the corner two blocks away.

“Fine. One minute.”

The federal agent’s voice came in over the line. He sounded both contrite and terrified.

“Mister Ross?”

“Agent Clemons.”

“I know we’ve had our differences but I hope that you can put that aside for just a moment. Listen, you were right. You were right about the bureau. You were right about everything. There’s a leak. There’s several leaks. There’s leaks all over the place. All of our information… ALL of it is no good. We cannot trust anything that’s come in.”

“And this is a breaking news bulletin how?”

“I’m sorry. I’M SORRY! I’ll kiss your ass. I’ll get down on my knees and say whatever you want me to say, just please don’t go into that club. You won’t come out alive. We want to meet up with you. We’re going to all get out of town for a while, it’s not safe anymore. Can you meet us at the diner on West End?”

Jordan did not answer. He was too preoccupied with his staring contest with the Russian’s bartender. Agent Clemons’ voice kept calling his name.

“Mister Ross? Can you hear me? Mister Ross?!”

The bartender’s face disappeared all of the sudden. Jordan yelled into the phone.

“Can’t talk right now. Got to run!”

Jordan began running west on Seventh Avenue away from the club. He did not see but he could hear the clamor of voices shouting in French behind him. At the intersection Jordan ran across a white Toyota Tercel idling at the red light. Inside the car a middle-aged man with a stubble beard was tapping out the radio’s rhythm on his steering wheel.

Running up at full speed, Jordan un-holstered both of his glock nine millimeters and pointed them at the windshield. The driver froze and held his hands up. As he rounded over to the driver’s side door, Jordan barked instructions.

“I’m sorry about this but I need your car. Get over to the other side. Now! Now!”

The man had barely gotten his seatbelt off when Jordan shoved him over into the other side of the car’s cockpit. A bullet glanced off of the top of the car’s roof a fraction of a second after Jordan ducked in. Another bullet followed and another.

Jordan kicked the accelerator and yanked the Tercel’s wheel as hard as he could to the left. The rear window shattered.

“What is going ON?” The poor driver screamed over the din of gunshots.

“Keep your head down!” Jordan yelled back. To make sure that he obeyed, Jordan reached across and pushed the man’s face down out of the firing path.

In the rearview mirror Jordan saw five Russians standing in the middle of the street, each one of them unloading AK-47s in his direction. Jordan had stood toe to toe with the Russians in at least a half dozen firefights. He had survived, he knew, in large part thanks to his extensive military training, but an even larger part was that most of the men he fought couldn’t hit an idle tank with a giant red target painted on it.

These men were different. For the trap at the social club they’d called out the heavy hitters; men who clearly had combat training or were shooting range rats. This was the all-star team of Shirokov’s shooters. The sheer volume of rounds that hit the Tercel was astounding. In short order both side mirrors were blasted off and every window was shattered. Jordan knew he had to get out of their line of fire or a bullet would very quickly find its way into the back of his skull.

Jordan saw a street approaching ahead and he let his foot off the accelerator just a bit so that he could make an easier turn. He was about to roll the wheel when a .762 round struck the rear left wheel, exploding the tire instantly and sending the Tercel into a tailspin. Jordan clutched the wheel with a vice grip and tried to will the car to stop its wild revolutions. It finally stopped when the Tercel slammed into a blue Chevy Malibu. The engine died, pierced by a reverberated round.

Jordan took a second to check on the man whose car he’d jacked. He had a few cuts from the glass, but he was alive, and would continue to live. That was good enough for Jordan and all he had time for. Jordan pushed the door open and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. In the distance he heard an occasional rattle and pop. He sprinted to the next street and turned right, and then left on the next, and then right again, not having any plan as to where to go until he spotted the 2 Av subway station. Without thinking he flew down the stairs and entered the station.

After he paid and cleared the turnstile Jordan rushed to the lower level and paced the platform. Waiting for the next F train to come turned out to be the longest six minutes of his life. Jordan hid behind a pillar, hand on his gun, ready to shoot anyone who came running into the station. When the F finally arrived Jordan jumped in and sat down, relieved beyond measure, but he didn’t catch his breath until he got off at Columbus Circle.

…

The diner on West End was open 24 hours and was renowned either for nothing at all on its menu, or the grilled cheese sandwiches. A surly cook in a dirty apron had been flipping burgers, omelets and onions on the same dirty grill for thirty six years. The patrons of the diner were elderly, there to pass the time drinking black coffee and complaining about current events.

Agent Clemons and Detective Bollier took a booth near the back end of the diner and sat opposite each other so he had a clear view of the front door and she could watch the back. A television was mounted on the wall above them. The volume was turned low but when a breaking news bulletin came on about a shooting in the East Village the cook turned it up.

Tens of police cars had cordoned off a section of Seventh Avenue. The army of flashing blue lights was practically festive. A perturbed woman news anchor’s voice spoke over a live feed of the area.

“We’re getting reports that there are five shooters still at large in the area. The NYPD is asking people to stay indoors until the manhunt is concluded. When asked about the number of fatalities, a department spokesman said that he could not confirm whether or not anyone had been injured or killed at this time…”

Agent Clemons sat rigid, moving only to stir the cream in his coffee.

“Do you think he got away?”

“If he didn’t we’re wasting precious seconds sitting here.”

“How long?”

Bollier had passed on the coffee and was trying to make due with ice water to no avail. She hadn’t had a drink in five days but swiftly felt a powerful thirst when the news came on.

“How long what?”

“At the risk of sounding insensitive, how long do we give Jordan to show up? We should be getting out of dodge.”

She wanted to spit in his face. But that wouldn’t have changed the fact that he was right.

“Fifteen minutes.”

The look on Agent Clemons’ face said that fifteen minutes sounded not only absurd and arbitrary but also an eternity given the circumstances. Bollier did not disagree that it was an extraordinarily long time with so many people gunning for them, she insisted that she couldn’t live with herself for not at least giving Jordan that much time. Agent Clemons only wanted to give him ten. They spent five minutes arguing about it until he gave in. Bollier settled it with her fierce face.

“We owe him that much. He’s going to make it.”

Bollier did not speak to Agent Clemons again until Jordan Ross appeared twelve minutes later. He looked like hell. Bollier actually reached out and hugged him when he sat down in the booth next to her.

“Thank God you’re alright. It’s all over the news. You’re not hurt?”

“Nope. Not a scratch. Thanks to you. Not even a hair out of place.”

“Jordan there’s glass in your hair.”

She brushed it out for him and Jordan ventured a cold glance across the table. Agent Clemons cleared his throat and addressed him.

“Glad to see you’re still in one piece, Mister Ross. No hard feelings I hope?”

“Would be a little silly to hold a grudge considering you saved my ass today. Everyone gets to be wrong once in a while. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

Agent Clemons laughed and they shook hands. A vacuous looking waiter came over and stood there like a mute, waiting for the new customer to order something. Jordan obliged him by ordering virtually every single item on the breakfast menu.

“I don’t know if there’s time for that…” Detective Bollier commented.

“We were kind of hoping to get on the road soon…” Agent Clemons added.

Jordan Ross ignored both of them.