Back when I was a detective, Roman Vyhovsky was one of the most dangerous men on the streets. It was rumored that over one hundred people had died by his hand, both men and women, but there had never been any substantial evidence. Sanchez and I had brought him in countless times for questioning. It had become our mission to make something stick. Nothing ever did. Even the few times there were witnesses those witnesses eventually changed their stories or went missing.
To Roman, it was a game. After all, he was the head enforcer for the Ukrainian mob in New York. He had grown up in Ukraine and killed countless people in his country before coming to America. It was said on his first day—within the first hour of his feet touching U.S. soil—he had strangled a man to death. There had never been a body, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened, though part of me had always wondered if Roman had started that story to create his reputation.
Somebody in the DA’s office had once called Roman “The Magician,” and the name had forever stuck. Because whether it was bodies or evidence, Roman always managed to make them disappear.
Roman had been in his early thirties the last time I saw him. Right after Shalissa passed away. Right after the Central Park Bombing. Just before I left the city and my old life behind for good.
Now, twenty years later, it seemed Roman Vyhovsky had graduated from head enforcer and become the head of the mob.
And he was staring right at me.
“Who the fuck is this?”
Sanchez answered.
“Nobody.”
“Shut up.”
Viktor smacked Sanchez in the back of the head with his gun. He answered Roman.
“Spic told us he’s just a friend. Had too many to drink, didn’t have money for a taxi. But his friend said he lives in Crown Heights.”
“What was he doing in Union City?”
Viktor said, “That’s what we want to know.”
Roman squinted. He stared at me for several long seconds, and then recognition filled his face.
“I know who it is. Detective Shepherd, it has been a long time, has it not?”
I said nothing.
Now it was my head that received the wrath of Viktor’s gun.
“Answer him.”
“I’m not a detective anymore.”
Roman nodded.
“No, of course you are not. Neither is Hector. But that does not matter. In my memory, you are still both detectives. How many times did you bring me in for questioning?”
“That depends. How many people did you murder?”
I expected another blow from Viktor’s gun, but it didn’t come. Maybe the man was too stunned to do anything.
Roman shifted his gaze at Sanchez.
“Spic, do you know why you are here?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
Sanchez said nothing.
Roman looked at me again.
“Your old partner has been stealing from me. Not a lot, mind you—he no doubt did his best to hide it—but stealing is stealing. And nobody steals from me.”
He took off his suit jacket. He held it off to the side and his driver took it and draped it over an arm like a loyal butler. Roman began to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt as he approached Sanchez. His hand slipped into his pants pocket, came back out gripping a thick pair of brass knuckles. He slid the knuckles over his fingers, flexed his hands.
“My original plan was to teach you a lesson. I was not going to kill you—I do not kill cops, even retired ones—but I was going to make you bleed quite a lot. However, the appearance of Detective Shepherd has given me a change of heart.”
He stepped up close to Sanchez, grazed the brass knuckles across Sanchez’s face.
“I go to work on you just as I had planned. You spend a month or so in the hospital, then come out and continue working for me. Only now your debt has tripled. Or—”
Roman glanced at me.
“—I go to work on your old partner. He spends a month or so in the hospital. You keep working for me just as you have been doing, and your debt stays the same.”
Roman patted the side of Sanchez’s face, smiled and stepped back.
“I will give you a moment to make your decision. But only a moment. I do not have all night.”
I glanced at Sanchez. He was already looking at me. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and whispered two words.
“I’m sorry.”
Roman laughed. He raised his hand and motioned his men toward me. The two from the other SUV marched over. They stripped me of my jacket, held onto my arms to keep me in place.
“I have always wanted to tell you something, Detective Shepherd.”
Roman massaged his hands as he approached me.
“You were always a nuisance. I understood you were doing your job, but you always seemed to hold a grudge against me. Your questions were always a little more hostile than your partner’s. Every time I sat in an interrogation room, I would look at you and wonder what it would feel like to bash your face in. And now, all this time later, I finally have my chance. Is that what is called serendipity?”
The men holding me had grips as tight as vices. I didn’t bother trying to struggle with them. I stood there, staring back at Roman.
“Before you start, let me just say two things.”
He held my gaze for several long seconds, then tilted his head for me to proceed.
“First, you’ve always been a spineless piece of shit. Second, I’ve had a couple bad days so far. I lost my dog—my only friend in the world—and right now I need to be somewhere else. So this little show you’re putting on? It’s delaying what I need to do. So either let us go now and we’ll be on our way, or I’ll put each and every one of your men in the hospital for at least a month.”
At first Roman made no reaction. He stared at me, his stern face blank. Then, like before, the corners of his lips rose.
“Nobody likes a funny nigger.”
He stepped forward, cocking his fist back, and threw a punch.
And like that, the world began to slow. Just as it did back in Colorado, everything took on an extra sense of texture. My heart rate slowed. My breathing slowed. Everything slowed.
Roman’s fist came right at my face, but in slow motion.
I leaned back as his fist swiped past my nose. I pulled the man holding my right arm forward, directly in the path of the fist. Roman’s brass knuckles tore into the man’s face. His grip loosened on my arm, enough for me to yank it free. I turned in toward the man gripping my left arm, kneed him in the groin, and as he bent forward I extracted his weapon from his holster, used the butt of the gun to hammer the back of his head, and then shot Viktor twice—once in the arm, once in the leg—and turned and did the same to Yuri and Roman’s driver. All the men hit the ground, their weapons clattering away. Yuri reached for the piece he had holstered to his ankle, and I shot him once more, right in the hand.
The two men holding me were back on their feet. They charged at me, and I shot them twice too. Both fell to the ground.
Everyone was down except for Roman Vyhovsky, who had grabbed Sanchez and now used him as a shield. He still had the brass knuckles on the one hand, and in the other hand he held a gun at Sanchez’s head.
“I’ll kill him.”
I didn’t bother responding. The piece I’d taken off the guy was a Glock 17. Assuming it had been fully loaded before I took possession, its magazine held fifteen rounds. I’d already exhausted eleven rounds, which meant there were still four rounds left.
I stood beneath one of the emergency lights in the damp garage. With a flick of my wrist and a slight squeeze of the trigger, the light bulb disintegrated. As Roman looked up, startled, I hurried forward. Not as fast as I had moved in my prime, but it was still fast enough. When Roman turned his attention back to me, I was standing right beside him, the barrel of my gun pressed against his head.
“Let him go.”
He released his grip on Sanchez, who wriggled free and stepped away.
“Hector, take his gun.”
Sanchez approached, hesitant, and took Roman’s gun.
“Now go secure the others.”
He looked at me like I was crazy. But it was only for a moment and then he hurried over to the others. A few had tried picking up their weapons, but Sanchez ordered them to put them back down. He picked up several guns, shoved them in his jacket pockets, keeping Roman’s gun on the men to keep them in place.
Roman glared back at me, confusion on his face.
“Who the fuck are you?”
I leaned close, my voice going low, staring deep into his eyes.
“An old friend.”
“Temple?”
He frowned, shook his head.
“But that … that’s impossible. Temple’s supposed to be dead.”
I looked past Roman at Sanchez and the men still on the ground. Yuri tried to get up, and Sanchez kicked him in the ribs to stay down.
“Sanchez, come over here.”
He hurried over.
“Yeah?”
“Frisk him.”
Sanchez looked reluctant, but we’d already come this far. He crouched down and started with Roman’s left leg, then his right leg, patting all the usual spots. He pulled out a wallet and a cell phone.
“That’s it?”
He nodded.
“Toss them. And get in your car.”
He started toward the Crown Vic, paused, then turned toward the SUV with the bag of money resting on its hood.
I said, “Leave it.”
His shoulders dropped. He stared at the bag for a moment, then continued toward the Crown Vic.
I pushed Roman toward the Mercedes.
Sanchez shouted, “What are you doing?”
I called back over my shoulder.
“Just follow me!”
As we reached the Mercedes, I shot out one tire on each SUV. The slide hadn’t kicked back, which meant I had one round left.
I snapped my fingers at the driver of the Mercedes.
“Give me the keys.”
He grimaced in pain.
“Fuck you.”
I pushed Roman forward. I opened the driver’s door, checked and saw that the keys were still in the ignition. I pulled the lever for the trunk to disengage and shoved Roman toward the back of the car.
Roman said, “What the fuck are you doing?”
The trunk was completely bare. Good.
“You’re not putting me in there.”
Again, I didn’t bother responding. I punched him in the stomach, and as he bent forward, I shoved him into the trunk and slammed it shut.
As I went to slide behind the wheel, I paused and surveyed the bodies moving about the garage. None of them were dead, but all of them were out of commission.
I slipped inside and started the Mercedes. The engine purred like a kitten. After days of driving the Charger with its ravenous engine, it was like night and day.
I put the car in gear and glided past the SUVs and bodies and Sanchez. I paused only briefly to make sure Sanchez was following, and then I accelerated up the ramp.