“WATCHING YOU GET CHASED around by those kids was feckin’ classic,” Liam called over his shoulder.
“When you crawled under the car,” Josh added. “They had no idea what to do.”
As the Impala sped through Brooklyn, Liam and Josh were laughing uproariously, and even Yelena smiled slyly in amusement and relief at how well the trick had worked.
Joe grinned. “My biggest worry was that Yelena would get impatient and start blowing their heads off.”
She laughed. “But no, I was very entertained. I can watch you get beat up by children all night.”
Juno called in, “Looks like they’ve gone to ground,” and sent an address.
“It’s in Brighton Beach,” Josh said as he drove. “I can pick up some borscht for Rebbe while we’re there.”
Joe and Yelena exchanged a look in the backseat.
“Okay guys,” Joe said. “Let’s not break the champagne out yet. That was amateur hour. Next stop we might be dealing with pros.”
Juno and Cash had tracked the black Benz to Zena II, a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach, where the two men had valet parked and gone inside. Josh pulled in behind Cash’s car, up the block from the club, so that they could all observe the crowd outside. Shining cars came and went. Couples stood waiting at a velvet rope, men in expensive jeans or suits with women in miniskirts and heels, while a row of double-wide bouncers in black suits stood behind it, like trolls guarding a castle.
“You think that’s the main stash?” Liam asked.
“A lot of extra muscle just for a club. Even a Russian one,” Cash said.
“I don’t know,” Joe said. “It kind of makes sense. Thugs can come and go all hours without drawing suspicion.”
“And they can keep close control of the entrance,” Josh added.
Juno eyed a parade of young women, all hair and curves, who bounced and giggled as the door guy waved them in. He elbowed Cash.
“Yo Joe, you want me and Cash to check it out?” Joe frowned. Juno continued: “I know last time we got grabbed up, but that was because Cash here had to go ordering appetizers and shit.”
Cash shoved him. “You the one had to piss so bad. You got snatched up in the bathroom.”
“No thanks,” Joe said. “That was fun but not tonight. Something’s bugging me.” To Yelena he said, “Let’s take a walk.”
Arm in arm, like a couple headed out for the night, they crossed the street to where the crowd was most dense. Multiple languages were shouted through a cloud of smoke and perfume. An old, white-haired man in a custom-made suit shook hands with the door guy who nodded at a bouncer big as the door he blocked. The crowd parted as the entourage came through—three girls whose ages just barely added up to his, plus two bodyguards of his own—the door opened, releasing a blast of ice-cold air-conditioning and throbbing bass, then resealed. The bouncers closed ranks like cyborgs in their wrap-around shades.
Joe muttered, “This could work as a pickup point for re-ups, and for bringing back cash. But where are they bagging the stuff, stepping on it? For an operation this size that must be a team of people. I can’t see it all going down in here.”
“The basement?” Yelena asked.
“Maybe.” He considered the building, a cinder-block box painted black. “If this even has a basement. Looks like a converted warehouse on a concrete slab. Plus you’d need ventilation. Someone to watch the workers. And even then you’d still have your whole crew working right under the nose of the legit employees, with a few hundred people, some of them thieves, dancing right above you. Word would get out.” He shook his head as they continued strolling, down the block and around the corner, where the darkness and quiet grew. “It’s not safe. I wouldn’t do it like that.” He turned to her. “What would you do? If you were trying to protect your stash from someone like you?”
“Very difficult,” she said with a smile. Then she nodded at a gated-up shop. “I’d hide it someplace like that.”
Joe took the place in as they walked by. Grosskoff Caviar & Sturgeon, the sign read. Although the shop was closed, with a gate pulled over the front, the AC was humming. There were no other windows, but he could see dim light glowing in a skylight. There were security cameras at the building’s corners. It fit. The shop was essentially a giant climate-controlled vault and no nosy passersby would question the security or the air-conditioner and power going night and day. There was a narrow alley behind it, where a small, refrigerated truck with the shop’s logo was parked. Joe called loudly to Yelena in a drunken voice.
“One minute baby!” He veered into the alley, unzipping his fly, and saw that it also ran behind the club, which had a back door, for loading and unloading. Another hulk in a black suit stood guard, and he shouted as he saw Joe coming.
“Hey!”
Joe ignored him, drunkenly leaning against the truck.
“Hey,” the guard yelled, coming closer. “This ain’t the toilet. Get out of here.”
“Sorry, sorry, no trouble . . .” Joe mumbled, waving an arm, and swayed back down the alley. As he passed the truck, the guard turned away to open the club door for someone coming out and Joe dropped, lying on the ground behind it. At first he just saw white sneakers. Then jeans. Then he saw the tattooed Russian from the Benz, a black satchel over his shoulder, approaching the rear door of the caviar shop. He unlocked it and went in. Joe crept back to Yelena.
“Bingo,” he said. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
She laughed. “I can think of a few.” She took his hand as they walked back. “One is that I know how to sneak in and get those fish eggs.”
Joe laughed as they passed back by the club, another happy couple. “Just like a good alley cat.”
Yelena stepped back into the alley, in a spot where she knew the streetlight hit her hair and traced her silhouette. She lit a cigarette, pretending to be hiding from the wind. Immediately, the guard by the door took the bait. One thing about big, dumb, rude men: they were predictable.
“Pssst, pssst,” he hissed, and made a kissing sound.
She regarded him, blowing smoke.
“You think you are talking to cat?” she asked, letting her Russian accent thicken.
He began to saunter over. “I know I am talking to good pussy.”
She smiled. “Be careful trying to pet. You might get scratched.”
He came closer, grinning dumbly. “Don’t worry. I can handle this little kitten.” And indeed he was twice her size, maybe three times her total mass. He put a big hand out, as if to stroke her hair. In a flash, her left hand was reaching between his legs, grabbing his balls and twisting as hard as she could. As he gasped, her right came up, wielding the cigarette, which she stubbed out into his ear. He howled in pain, lifting his hands to brush the burning coals away, giving her a clear shot, and she punched him, hard, with an uppercut to the nose, which broke with a crunch under her fist. He grunted, as the blood gushed, and reached for her in blind rage, but by then Joe had stepped from the shadows and knocked him out with the crowbar from the pack he wore on his back. The man dropped, and Joe caught him as he fell.
“Pig,” Yelena said, and spit on him.
“A heavy pig,” Joe grunted, handing her the crowbar and trying to balance. “Let’s load him up.”
With the crowbar, she popped the rear doors of the truck open and Joe dumped the unconscious guard inside. They rolled him in, removed his gun and phone, then bound his hands behind him with his own shoelaces. As they shut the doors, Joe spoke into his mouthpiece.
“Okay Juno, give us two minutes then knock out the cameras. Liam, get ready.”
They strolled past the caviar and sturgeon shop to the building next door, a closed spice shop with a couple of apartments above it. This lock was so flimsy, it was beneath Yelena; Joe simply loided it open with a card himself. They moved quietly to the roof access, which was unlocked, then climbed down onto the roof of the caviar shop. Now they could see the skylight, the alley where the truck was parked, and the busier street out front. The cameras, pointed downward, could not pick them up, but they tread softly so as not to be heard inside.
Meanwhile, Juno and Cash were parked around the corner, and Juno had been hacking into the shop’s Wi-Fi, which was on the same network as Zena II, allowing those inside the club to see the security cameras. When Joe said, “Ready,” Juno hit a button and crashed the network. To anyone watching, it would appear that their internet service had dropped and needed to be rebooted.
“Cameras out, folks,” Juno said.
“Think I’ll stretch me legs then,” Liam said over his mic.
He had been loitering on the corner, with a brown paper grocery bag in his hand. Josh had parked further up the block as lookout, in a spot that gave him a view of the shop and the cross streets. Now Liam sauntered across the street and along the side of the shop, pausing about six feet from the vent to the AC unit, which was humming away. He pulled a sealed plastic bag from the paper bag: it contained a liquid chemical with another, smaller, sealed bag floating inside it. He threw it hard against the vent, bursting both bags and mixing the fluids, which drenched the vent. Then he ran like hell.
The bag had contained military-grade “Malodor,” heavy doses of chemical compounds that when mixed released a noxious, repellent, and intolerable but essentially harmless gas; in other words a stink bomb so foul that the US and Israeli armies considered them weapons. In this case, the fumes were sucked into the vent and pumped into the sealed interior of the shop. Inside, four people were busy bagging dope: One mixed the raw heroin with cornstarch and powdered caffeine on a large tray. Another used a small scoop to weigh doses out on a digital scale. Two more packed these little scoopfuls into the small glassine envelopes, taped them shut, and stamped them with the angel logo. Another guy, the only one armed, watched over them: he was guarding the workers from anyone looking to rip them off and guarding the stash from greedy workers. He also had a rather delicate nose and was the first to react when a powerful scent of human feces began to fill the air.
“Jesus what’s that smell?” he called out to the workers gathered around the table. “Was that you Louie?”
Louie, who was in his undershirt and surgical gloves, mixing, looked up. “Not me!” He sniffed and made a face of disgust. “Smells like a sewer pipe burst.”
Sonya, who was bagging, stood up, covering her nose. “It’s coming from the vent. I think a rat died in there.”
Louie stood too. “Or a bum who’s been eating rats took a shit in our air-conditioner.”
Ronnie, the other bagger, was gagging. “I can’t stand it. I have to get some air.” She moved toward the back door but the guard waved her back.
“That door’s locked from outside for security. Come on.” He led them through the inner door, to the front of the shop, which was decorated with displays of caviar tins and vodka bottles. A long refrigeration unit held smoked fish and other treasure, worth slightly less than the heroin in back. Hurrying around the counter, he threw the deadbolt and opened the front door, then unlocked the gate and pushed it open.
“Hurry!” Sonya yelled. “I have to get out of here.”
On the roof, Joe and Yelena were waiting. Then they heard Josh laughing over their earpieces. “Here they come,” he said. “They look traumatized.”
“Thank God none of that shite got on me,” Liam said. He was making his way back around to join Josh in the car.
“Yeah, you’d be walking home,” Josh answered.
Yelena pulled two gas masks from the pack and handed one to Joe, who fitted it over his face. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going in.”
With the crowbar, he chipped at the paint layered where the windowpanes joined, then forced it in the crevice, and using his foot, levered the skylight open. They both stood back, instinctively, to avoid the invisible rush of poisoned air from within. Then, while Joe aimed his gun into the now-empty store, Yelena clamped a winch over the opening. Sitting on the edge of the skylight, she put a foot into the loop at the end of the cord and lowered herself in.
She checked quickly to be sure it was indeed empty, then slid the loop over the leg of the table and signaled to Joe. He slid down.
They were in the back room of the shop. Around them refrigerated cases held tins of caviar and sealed sturgeon as well as cartons of blinis, vodka, and other trimmings. The equipment for the legit front business was on a work bench, while the central table was covered with the bagging supplies. A door led to the front of the shop, where, in the daytime, customers were served from behind a counter.
Joe shut that door, keeping it open a crack to watch, while Yelena quickly checked around. One of the fridges held a large black plastic trash bag, which she untied.
“Here’s the stash,” she said, handing it to Joe, who hefted it.
“Must be at least a dozen keys here.” He took hold of the cord and put a foot in the loop. “Let’s go,” he said, and then, over the mic: “We’re coming back out.”
Yelena joined him, sliding her foot in on top of his and wrapping her arms around him. Then she yanked the cord to start the winch, and they rose. As they moved past the table, she flipped it over, spilling the rest of the dope onto the floor. Now the plan was simply to go out as they’d come, exit through the neighboring building, and hop into the car with Cash and Juno. When the dope crew summoned the courage to venture back in, they’d find their stash mysteriously vanished. But as soon as Joe and Yelena’s heads cleared the window, someone took a shot at them. The bullet ricocheted off of the skylight’s metal frame.
They ducked, heads down, and hung there.
“Josh?” Joe asked over the mic. “Any news?”
“Shit, sorry, Joe,” he said. “I missed it. They must have a sniper in the building across the street.” He was out of his car now and scanning the street. “I’m going to have to move to get a shot.”
But now gunfire raked the roof above them, shattering the open skylight. Glass rained down and they swung together on the cord.
“Going down,” Joe said, as they yanked it to restart, and it lowered. Yelena jumped off first and ran to the back door, while Joe knelt behind the toppled table.
“It’s locked,” she yelled. “Give me a minute.”
Now the guard came back, hanky around his face, and opened the door, gun drawn. Joe sent a bullet whizzing past his ear and he fled.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he called back to Yelena.
“Done,” she yelled, pushing it open, and he joined her as they went out the back into the alley. This time the door saved them. It was reinforced steel, designed to protect the stash house, and so even fired at close range from a high-powered rifle, the bullet got stuck halfway through its thickness. Joe and Yelena dropped to the ground.
“The truck,” he shouted as they crawled around the far side and then climbed in the driver’s door, ditching their gas masks. The guard he’d knocked out was just coming around, mumbling and shifting on the floor. In the side-view, Joe saw two men in body armor, heavily armed and set up behind a portable shield, blocking the mouth of the alley.
“Now what?” Yelena asked.
“Let’s drive,” Joe suggested. He took a folding camp knife from his pocket, busted open the ignition housing with the screwdriver and used the pliers to strip the wires. “This truck is refrigerated. All that metal should stop a bullet.”
The engine sputtered to life. Meanwhile, the guard on the floor, stirred by the commotion, was climbing to his feet. But before Yelena could do anything about it, like shoot him, someone else beat her to it. An armor-piercing projectile came through the back of the van, burning through the layers of metal like they were paper and punching a hole right through the guard before exiting out the other side of the truck.
“Next idea?” Yelena asked as she threw herself to the floor, firing back as best as she could through the hole that shot had made.
Joe called over the mic. “We’re taking fire back here.”
“Damn it,” Cash said. “We’re on the wrong side of you.” He was parked with Juno on the street, waiting to pick them up when they came out next door. Liam and Josh were pinned down by the sniper. “We can try to drive around and ram them,” he suggested.
Now the two men in body armor were moving and, to close the trap, the club’s alley door opened too, and another armored man stepped out. “Thanks but we got a ride,” Joe said, and stomped the accelerator. He ducked his head as the man in the door fired, just one shot, before Joe ran him over, sending him flying and taking the door off its hinges. Joe braked hard, banging into the wall.
“This way,” he told Yelena. Crouching low, they abandoned their equipment pack and darted out the driver’s side door, into the open, or rather missing, door of the club. They were now in a dim loading area. A dumpster full of trash bags sat to one side, ready to be picked up. Music thumped through the walls. Joe dropped the bag with the stash into the dumpster. Then they tucked away their guns as they pushed through another door into a bustling kitchen and a young busboy, apron around his shirt, stared at them in surprise.
“Excuse me, but where is the dance floor?” Joe asked.
Confused, the busboy pointed toward the kitchen doors, from which the music came roaring every time a waiter hurried through.
“Thanks,” Joe said, grabbling Yelena’s hand. “Come on, honey, let’s dance.”
Toomey was getting annoyed. Till now, all his plans had gone off like clockwork. As predicted, these street gangs had been nothing compared to his highly-trained, disciplined, and battle-hardened team. It was thugs versus soldiers and the soldiers had wiped the streets with them, giving them a taste of real urban warfare. Then word had come down that this Brody might be making a move against them. And perhaps, Toomey admitted, he’d been a touch too confident, after the string of easy victories. He’d posted his own man as a sniper in addition to the usual guards, local talent from Brighton Beach. Then, as soon as his point man had spotted Brody’s people moving in, he’d sent in the hitters, armed, and armored, to the teeth, while he directed it all on camera. But then the cameras went down. And now he was told that, despite his overwhelming firepower and tactical surprise, Joe and Yelena had fled into the club. He couldn’t exactly send storm troopers in to sweep the place with bullets, as much as he’d like to. Like a fly that you missed with the first swat of a magazine, and that zips out of reach, this minor annoyance had become a major hassle.
“Does anyone have eyes on them?” he asked Sergey, the beefy, tattooed Russian who ran this place as well as this end of the operation. That was the division of labor: Sergey peddled the product, handled the stash house and the street crews. Toomey handled security and ran the pipeline, bringing the product in. Victoria was the head case. Every covert network needed one, and Toomey was cool with it: let her chop people’s fingers off and electrocute balls, she enjoyed it. Jensen kept Richards’s ass well-licked. And Richards and Nikolai played the big shots, overseeing finance, connections, and long-term geopolitical strategy. Or so they thought. Toomey had ideas of his own that would make them look like the spoiled brats they were, playing kiddie games. But for that he needed time, and that was what the large supply of heroin he’d brought in and stockpiled in the caviar shop meant to him: time. Now this Brody had snatched it.
Sergey was on the walkie with his people, the Russian knuckleheads who threw drunks out of the club and guarded the dope on runs to resupply the dealers. “They are downstairs,” he told Toomey. He shrugged. “I think they are dancing.”
“Just make sure you seal all the exits. As long we have them trapped, we take our time cornering them. And get back our goddamn dope.”
“Right,” Sergey said, rushing out to deal with it, which mollified him a little. They’d boxed themselves in, and even if Toomey couldn’t kill them right here, they would surely run them down and retrieve the product, maybe even take them prisoner. Endless seconds crawled by while he stared at blank monitors, fists clenched. Then he heard more squawking over the radios and Russian cursing, which he didn’t understand, except for one word: musar, which in the dictionary means garbage but which everyone on the street, and in this club, knew meant police.
Joe and Yelena were in the cavernous main room of the club. Colored lights streamed and strobed as a mass of bodies gyrated on the large dance floor. The columns that held the warehouse roof up had been lined in mirrors that multiplied the chaos, and tables, chairs, couches, and banquets covered in red plush filled in the sides, with a long bar along one wall and more mirrors above, old fashioned ones edged in gilt. A DJ ran the deafening techno and waiters rushed champagne and vodka back and forth. The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, cologne, and perfume. As Joe pulled Yelena into the center of the dance floor, he picked out the guards: more big men in black suits or tight T-shirts, looking grim.
“Two by the front door,” he spoke into Yelena’s ear. “And one by the kitchen.”
“And more by the restrooms,” she said, nodding toward the two men who stood glaring at them by the other hallway. A roped-off staircase led to a balcony above, and there was Sneakers, the Russian from the Benz, leaning over the railing, eyes on them, jabbering into a walkie, no doubt directing his troops.
Yelena looked Joe in the eye. “Well Joe, looks like you have no choice. It’s a matter of life and death.” She put her arm on his waist and began to sway her hips to the music. “You will have to dance with me.”
“That sounds like an emergency all right.” He pulled out the phone he took off the guard and dialed 911, switching to a frantic voice. “Help! Please!” he shouted into the phone. “I’m at Zena II, the club on Brighton Beach Avenue. The bouncer just pulled out a gun and threatened to kill a customer. He’s a big guy in a black suit. Out front! Hurry!” He hung up and then dialed again. “Help! Fire!” he said this time. “I’m at the club Zena II, there’s smoke and flames in the kitchen. Oh my God it’s spreading please help. The sprinklers don’t work.” He disconnected the call. “Help’s on the way,” he told Yelena.
“So is trouble,” she said, nodding as she swayed to the rhythm. The guards, having decided not to wait any longer, were converging, making their way through the dense crowd.
“Let’s get a drink while we wait,” Joe said and took her hand. As the guards drew closer, they pushed toward the edge of the crowd, where the most luxurious banquettes lined the dance floor. The old man they’d seen outside sat in the center of one, with his young female companions on either side, and two personal bodyguards on the ends. Joe reached over and dropped the Russian’s phone into one of the girl’s cocktails. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry. I slipped.”
She stared at him blankly, batting her fake eyelashes. The old man yelled and waved him off. His bodyguards stood up and stepped toward Joe. By now the club guards had made it across the floor and were getting closer.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Joe asked the old man, reaching for his expensive bottle of champagne. He pulled it from the ice bucket. “My girlfriend is thirsty.” He handed the bottle to Yelena.
“Za zdorovie,” she said, and took a gulp, just as one of the bodyguards, barking in Russian, pushed Joe. Joe sidestepped him, quickly pivoting like a bullfighter and tripped him, sending him reeling into the club guard, who got knocked to the ground. Angry and embarrassed, the club guard jumped up and punched the bodyguard in the gut.
Meanwhile, another club guard was reaching for Yelena and she spun, stomping his instep and grabbing his arm, then twisted it behind him, kicking his other tendon from behind. He stumbled into the table, dumping champagne and vodka onto the girls’ dresses, and then falling into their laps. They screamed in anger and the other bodyguard leaned in to yank him off. He came up swinging blindly, hitting the guard.
The old man bellowed in Russian and the fight grew, as bystanders stepped in to defend him or the women and were confronted by club security, who had rushed over to pacify the bodyguards. Then Yelena noticed two firemen coming in the door, in full gear.
“Our bodyguards are here.”
“About time,” Joe said as they began to push through the crowd milling like angry bees around the growing brawl. “Fire!” Joe yelled now. “Fire!”
The firemen looked their way.
“I think there’s smoke coming from the kitchen,” he told them, as more people noticed and began to move toward the exit. Joe pulled his own phone out now and called Juno.
“Hey we’re coming out the front now,” he said. “How about that lift?”
“Um . . .” Juno said. He and Cash were observing the mayhem from the car. A fire engine was parked out front and cops were scrambling from their cars. “You do realize that there’s a whole bunch of city employees out here?”
“Don’t worry,” Joe told him. “That’s our free pass tonight.”
They flowed with the evacuating crowd, out the doors and into the street, where firemen ran by three cops who were wrestling the largest bouncer to the ground, his wraparound shades getting crushed underfoot. The door guy was up against the car, getting frisked by other cops. Joe nodded as they walked by. Cash picked them up at the corner.
“Man,” Juno said, as they got in. “Are we happy to see you. Uncuffed and bullet-free.”
“I feel bad, dudes,” Cash said, as he steered them away from the club and into ordinary, backed-up traffic. “I wish there was something I could do to make it up.”
“There is, actually,” Joe said, sitting back and finally breathing easy as they pulled onto Coney Island Boulevard. “You can pick us up a garbage truck.”