Crime & Counterpoint (39 page)

“How’s the salmon?” Special Agent Rick Valentino said to his old NYPD partner over dinner at Blue Fire Bar & Grill, a couple blocks east of Times Square in a long stretch of popular restaurants. Manhattan was buzzing tonight; the sidewalk outside the restaurant glass front was littered with people despite the promise of rain.

“Fine,” Zach answered though it was entirely too dry. Subdued, he added, “Congrats on the new job.”

Rick smiled. “Thanks. It’s going well. You should apply.”

Scoffing, Zach replied, “I think Bennet would have something to say about that.”

Rick shrugged. “Bennet’s not in charge. In fact, the Assistant DIC asked me if you were interested not too long ago. Garcia. Real good guy. You’ve met him before, I’m pretty sure.” Rick forked into his penne regatta. “His son’s a full back for Notre Dame.”

Nostalgia clouded Zach’s face briefly.

Rick dropped his fork and stuck a hand inside his jacket, pulling out a white envelope. “Brought you an application.” He grinned sheepishly as he chucked it in the middle of the table. “You’re in if you want.”

Zach stared at the envelope, deciding if he wanted to take it or not. It was a job. Law enforcement but with the big boys. And frankly, he was feeling bereft without a badge and the comfort of a gun. He reached out and slowly took the application. “Don’t I have to pass fitness tests? I can’t really run.”

“They know. And it’s not an issue.”

Mutely, Zach nodded and tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket.

They ate in silence for a while until Rick picked up his napkin, wiped at his mouth, and got on with the big reveal. “There’s something I want to clarify before you decide.” He lay the napkin down. “I didn’t shoot Kazanov.”

Zach’s laser sharp eyes shot to Rick. “What do you mean you didn’t?”

Rick gave him a telling look, slanting his brows. “Apparently, you taught Shelley really well.”

Zach’s gut bottomed out, and suddenly, the dead fish came alive in his stomach and threatened to jump out his throat. His fork clattered to the plate as he grabbed for the glass of iced tea he’d barely drunk, chugging it.

But just as Rick asked if he was okay, Zach’s phone vibrated in his pocket, temporarily saving him from spewing fish chunks.

“Hello?” he answered without glancing at the caller ID. Anything to distract him from thinking.

But the Czech accent was unmistakable and did more than distract him. “Ericson, I’m glad to have caught you.”

Zach scowled and put it on speaker so Rick could be privy. “You have some nerve calling me.”

Rick frowned upon hearing Cervenka’s voice. He quit eating.

“I know,” Rybar replied, “but perhaps you will forgive me when I tell you that the Brother’s Circle will be headed out to make a mid-water exchange with a Colombian submarine tonight.”

“No thank you. I’ve had enough fun for a while.”

Rick mouthed “what?” He motioned to Zach to get the info.

“Don’t be a fool. This is what you were after. The heart of their operations. After all you’ve been through, all your life’s suffering, you’ve earned an opportunity to redeem yourself. Prove your worth.” Cervenka dipped his tone. “Alternatively, you can think of it as your audition for the FBI. You
are
considering it, aren’t you?”

Both Rick and Zach looked around warily – Cervenka was listening.

Despite the voice inside his head telling him not to buy into Cervenka’s reasoning, that it was just another trap, Zach couldn’t help the anticipation burning in his chest. The memories came swiftly and silently like vipers. The years of striving, the pain, the pursuits, the reprimands, all to bring him to this point. Maybe. Maybe not. But the goal was so close he could taste it. Old habits die hard, and he was in desperate need of a diversion tonight. So, he asked Cervenka for the specifics which Rick wrote down on a pad.

“And another thing,” Cervenka continued, “I wouldn’t do this alone.”

Rick straightened as the call ended. “How could he have overheard us? He’s gotta be right around here in the restaurant.”

“No. He’s too smart for that,” Zach cautioned, keeping his gaze loose. “He’s probably got someone watching us.” He eased out of the booth. “Come on. Let’s get going. We’ll take your car.”

Smiling to himself, Rick got up and followed Zach towards the restaurant’s exit. “You know, you’re a much better partner when you’re not actually my partner.”

A thick curtain of velvety, ashen clouds covered up the moon and stars though the sun had long yielded to its fellow celestial beings. Petulant wind kicked up the river’s currents, portending bad weather. March waters foamed and frothed with many secrets, anxious to divulge them to any who would listen.

Along the dim yet harshly-lit harbor, a diverse array of brackish crafts bobbed nervously, captured to wooden posts by thick ropes that kept them from answering the call of the heralding Hudson. Frigid wet fingers pulled at the hulls and stretched taut the tethers, tugging at their wretched, weary souls.

One of the larger, older commercial fishing vessels was too heavy and massive to be concerned with the vacillating temperament of the toxic river spewing into the Atlantic. Safely anchored to the pier, the conceited trawler, christened
‘Black Orpheus’
in white upon its steel hull,
seemed more interested in the unmarked crates being loaded onto its fiberglass deck and stuffed in its spacious belly. Its bulbous bow protruded into the waves like an Adam’s apple, suggesting there was more below the surface than met the eye. 

Beneath the glow of a timed harbor light, a group of dockworkers lounged, ignoring the unobtrusive goings-on of the robust craft’s quiet crew. Talking and chain-smoking as their breath kissed the humid evening air, the men stood in a translucent space of hazy white, unaffected by the cool sea breeze or the forthcoming rain. The nondescript shipments passing by them were not the first the workers had seen. But as in previous times, they were paid well to maintain their ignorance.

Zach and Rick found safe harbor by a shipping warehouse near the groaning vessel. Their plan, if it could be called that, was simple: sneak onboard, locate the goods, and alert the Coast Guard. Stroked by shadows and unnoticed by the crew or the dockworkers, they watched the proceedings in silence.

When it appeared that the last of the cargo had been packed and crew boarded, Zach started to ease from their hiding place.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rick whispered tersely, grabbing the leather sleeve of Zach’s jacket. “The search warrant hasn’t come through yet.”

“They’re going to head out,” Zach returned. “And whatever’s in those crates will be gone.”

“I’m not jeopardizing my job for your thrill-seeking, asinine schemes.”

Zach bristled, but in his mind he heard Cervenka’s voice reasoning with him – a once-in-a-lifetime break. A chance for success. For satisfaction if not happiness. For life. No one was going to steal it from him. Not this time. “Then, stay here. I’ll do it myself.”

Before Rick could stop him, Zach broke out of the shadows and skulked along the misty pier towards the 160-foot ship.

The gangplank had been removed so he crept along the pier until he located the portside ladder. Without difficulty, he climbed onboard through the wide-opening, crouching low behind the rough folds of a pelagic trawl with large mesh holes. Mechanized winches, towing warps, hydraulic-powered spools, fish pumps, and net drums met their view in every direction. The bridge itself, the crowning glory of the veteran seafarer, daunted with its multi-deck superstructure and horn-like mast. Cheerless light shone through the control room’s viewing windows, barely penetrating the waking darkness. To all appearances and smells, the
Black Orpheus
certainly had the authenticity of a mid-water trawler.

There were skull-capped men on both the starboard side and the quarter deck working and calling back and forth to each other in thick Russian mat as they prepared to cast-off.

To Zach’s right and just up ahead, a faint stream of light shone towards the bow end of the bridge. A man clipped past him but was too busy shouting orders to see the stowaway.

As soon as he passed, Zach hurried along the bridge, turned the corner, and snuck down the stairs to the lower deck. It was more spacious than expected with a seven-foot head clearance. But only two fluorescents bathed the area with a yellowish, murky hue. The walls were painted a mint green that harkened back to the seventies, and along the baseboards, dark brown splotches indicated seawater staining and corrosion. The air wreaked of mildew, decaying fish, and diesel.

Zach scoped out the area, proceeding with caution, his blood thrumming with addictive energy. Straight ahead at the far end of the long hall, a tarnished metal ladder led all the way up to the wheelhouse on the third level of the superstructure. Men’s voices drifted down through the opening, but it was faint. Just beyond the ladder, yet another set of stairs led back up to the main deck, and a broad curved set spiraled downwards, to the hold of the ship. Behind the staircase he’d just descended was an open galley with a full kitchen and large eating table. But this area, as well, had the air of disuse. There were random articles lying under the table itself. A two-gallon rusted white tank, dirty oil rags, and a few bottles of chemicals, one of which had spilled its clear liquid.

Zach shook his head and started peering through the portholed doors lining the passage on either side. A glance through the first six revealed bolted bunks for the ship’s crew – roughly two dozen, four to a room. The fourth room on the left was opened. He decided try that one.

But suddenly, he heard a loud rumbling followed by a string of harsh expletives coming from a wide open door to what he assumed was the engine room. The lights glittered wickedly as the engines cleared their mechanical throats and coughed to life. The male voice drew nearer, indicating the owner was about to exit into the corridor in which Zach stood.

Quickly, Zach lunged into the open fourth room just as the Russian emerged. The man climbed the rungs of the ladder leading up into the superstructure, grease staining his clothes and a cigarette pluming from his blaspheming mouth.

Inside the room, stacks of crates bearing no stamp or indication of the contents were lined up against one wall. Without thought for the legal impropriety, Zach strode across the room, grabbed up a crowbar leaning against the wall, and pried open a crate.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, looking upon well packaged Russian-made assault weapons. But just then, he felt a lurch which nearly threw him off balance. He braced himself against the wood-paneling.

The ship was on the move.

This can’t be happening.
H
eart plunging, the black-clad blonde dropped what she was doing on the aft deck. And, without a word to the rest of the two dozen or so crewmen, she hurried towards the midship superstructure, a gold, sapphire-studded, oval locket dangling from her slim, creamy neck.

Lighting was limited, but the brawny figure she’d just seen creeping some thirty feet away towards the lower deck looked all too familiar. She hoped to God she was wrong.

The sky above picked that moment to light up and flex its bulging muscles as smoke began to fog the thrashing water in a thick, tangible layer. She felt oppressed by the ensuing rumbling and prayed that it wasn’t some sort of ethereal warning.

Dark shadow wrapped around her lithe body as she leaned against the sandpaper-like siding of the long, towering bridge, peering around the corner of the doorframe and down the narrow stairs.

Slipping her hand inside her jacket, she withdrew a subcompact Sig Sauer and held it at the ready.

She stole her way down, step by careful step, noise of the crew and weather receding to a dull torpor behind the grumbling of the baritone engines. The coast at the bottom landing was clear, except for that foul-mouthed character, Vasily, disappearing up the ladder at the other end of the lower deck. She hung back behind the shadow of the stairs until he was gone. One of the doors to the left was open. Undoubtedly, he was in there.

As she progressed with light-as-air movements through the passage, she struggled to compartmentalize over the noise – to get in the right head space.

Reaching the open room, she stopped and listened from just outside the doorway, breath quickening. She glimpsed through the sliver of space by the hinges. Her head jolted backwards as the ship pitched, pulling out of the dock. It was him alright. The detective. And he was staring at an open crate, cell phone at the ready. Dialing.

Panicked, she flew into the room, gun extended. She refused to let him make that call because one way or another she
was
going home. To her father.

“Drop the phone,” the sultry Russian accent commanded from the doorway.

Zach’s pulse spiked but only for a second. He remembered that voice. All too well.

As the wind kicked up a storm, he weighed his options. Only one way out of this room, and it was behind him. But so was she. The vessel rocked and rumbled, attesting to the speed at which they now travelled. Further away from the harbor. Further away from escape.

Zach took his time. His hand slackened, fingers unfurling. The cell clattered to the floor and slid a few inches with the boat’s momentum. The hum and vibration of the engine drilled through the fiberglass floor, nauseatingly.

“Turn around,” she ordered. “Hands were I can see them.”

Slowly, Zach obeyed, thinking he was prepared to face her. But the sight of the woman staring down the barrel of a gun stole his swagger.

Vienna.

She was in all black and unadorned except for an oddly familiar ornate locket glinting upon her alabaster skin. Once he tripped past the gritty surprise, his heart resumed a steady, unflappable course. But he was perturbed by the woman more so than the weapon. There was an air of desperation to her stance and carriage that marked her as dangerous. She held the polymer frame of her pistol like she
would
pull that trigger. And if she did, he doubted she would miss.

“Back up against that wall,” Vienna instructed, motioning with her gun to the left side of the room. She worked to avoid Zach’s gaze; eyes were a terrible distraction.

Her palms began to sweat, and she felt her grip slip.

She watched as Zach grudgingly came to a stop against the wall. Her finger touched the curve of the trigger, trembling in time to the oscillations of the engine. “Give me your gun.”

He smiled. “I’m clean. Search for yourself if you want.”

She studied his face, gauging his veracity, and nausea overwhelmed her.

“So what now?” Zach said. “You plan to shoot me in cold blood?”

She scowled. “There are twenty-five men aboard who will do it for me.”

“I’m disappointed, Vienna,” he taunted. “I’m at your mercy. You could make me do anything you wanted. Yet, you need a man to take care of your problem?”

Her sapphire orbs filled with virulence.

“No? Then are you showing me compassion?” Zach paused and appraised her deliberately. “Or are you just hesitating?”

“I would save your breath if I were you.”

“For what?” He dared to step closer.

She faltered. “Stop it! Stay where you are!”

“Why are you doing any of this, Vienna?” he said intimately, advancing towards her. “Fucking all of Wall Street… Keeping everyone’s secrets. All for Kazanov, is that it?” He shook his head. “Well, he’s gone. So what’s really keeping you going? Anger? Your father?”

“STOP!” She stamped her foot and then abruptly directed the gun at her own head. Her eyes glittered. “You think you’re the only one who doesn’t fear death?” she hissed.

“There’s so much worse than death.” He stared at her intensely, her locket catching the disillusioned hue of her beautiful eyes. “Let me help you.”

Her heart pounded as she held his mesmerizing gaze, feeling a connection she didn’t want to feel with him. She could scarcely think. But a jarring toss of the ship, and the spell broke. “No.” She took a step back and pointed the gun at Zach again. “I’m done listening to men.”

Zach’s pulse skipped a beat. He could almost feel the bullet ripping through him. She was about to pull the trigger, but then–  

“FBI! Drop your weapon!”

Fear and surprise sheened over her porcelain features as Rick appeared in the doorway. Her eyes darted to him.

“Put it down, Vienna,” Zach instructed calmly. “It’ll be okay.”

She turned her head from side to side, a cryptic smile twisting her full lips. Her eyes followed Zach as he stepped towards the middle of the room. His steel gaze remained locked on her hands.

“Don’t make this hard on yourself, sweetheart,” Rick said.

But Vienna made her split-second decision and pulled the trigger, aimed at Rick.

BANG!

Zach lunged at her, throwing his full weight and knocking her to the ground, sending the bullet off course.

Kicking Zach with vicious intent, she freed herself, scrambled to her feet, and pointed the Sig on him instead. But before she was able to fire–

BANG!

A bullet sliced into her right arm, shearing through flesh. She cried out, but adrenaline drove her wild. She whipped her gun towards him and prepared to fire, except–

BANG!

Her eyes bulged out of their sockets, veins in her neck threatening to burst, as sharp and breathtaking pain exploded through her right femur. Lights danced before her. She couldn’t even hear herself scream as she dropped to the floor, gun tumbling from her spasming grasp.

Vienna lay writhing unable to think beyond the overload of hellish sensation. Stricken and trapped, she began to slip away, tears and drops of sweat commingling on her highborn features. The ceiling lost its focus and burst into color before fading to ethereal grey then black.

Quickly, Zach palmed her discarded weapon. Breathing hard, he glanced at Rick questioningly as he checked the mag. “Let me guess: the warrant came through.”

“What? You think I need a judge’s permission to save my friend?”

“I’ll take that as a yes then.”

Rick smirked.

Zach bent down and picked up his phone. He checked the screen. “We’ve got no service out here.”

“Don’t worry. I see a radio.”

But just then, the lights flickered. The engines were powering down. They had reached their destination.      

Rick then grabbed the VHF marine radio, which was already tuned to channel 16, and rattled off a distress call, knowing the protocol.

“
Black Orpheus, switch to channel 15 to continue transmission.
”

Rick did as told. He provided the specifics of their situation and that there were Russian-made weapons on board.

“
Roger. Do you know the class of the submarine?
”

“Unfortunately not yet.”

“
Roger. We’ll have two cutters out to you in three minutes. And we’ll contact Navy to send out a Seahawk, but it may take a few. Stay in the lower deck and out of sight to avoid being fired upon. Standby for further instructions.
”

Rick acknowledged. “Alright,” he said to Zach. “We’ll sit tight and–” But when Rick turned around, Zach was gone.