Terrorist Dispatch

“I’ve got two thoughts on that, but I can’t prove either one.”

“Let’s hear them anyhow,” his underboss replied.

“One thought, it could be Georgy Vize.”

“His number two? Without Alexey signing off on it?”

“If Vize was hoping we’d take out his boss and help him get a leg up, maybe.”

“I don’t know. What was your other thought?”

“Somebody from outside.”

“Like where, outside? New Jersey?”

“How in hell do I know?” Melnyk growled. “Outside. Could be from anywhere, trying to start a war that hurts both sides. Create a vacuum, like they say, and let some new blood in.”

“Armenians,” Levytsky suggested, his dark eyes narrowing. “I hate those sons of bitches.”

Truth be told, there was no end of candidates when Melnyk thought about it. He and Brusilov alike had stepped on many tender toes while staking out their fiefdoms in New York, including the Italians, Irish and some Russian predecessors whom Brusilov had removed, feeding the fish in Sheepshead Bay. Then there were other ethnic gangs chafing to rise and conquer territory, even if they wouldn’t fit: besides Armenians and Chechens—who were just another breed of Russian, when you thought about it—there were Cubans, Salvadorans and Colombians, even Israelis waiting in the wings.

Levytsky wasn’t convinced. “I still say we should hit him back, before he hurts us any worse.”

“Do nothing until I give the word,” Melnyk replied. “We clear on that?”

“Sure, Boss. Whatever you decide.”

But was there something hinky in Levytsky’s eyes, as if he might go off and try some action on his own.

I need to watch that one, Melnyk thought, wondering if his trouble might come from inside, rather than without.

Brightwater Court, Brighton Beach

THE BROWNSTONE WAS a way station along a trail of abject misery. Behind its drab facade, atrocities were the routine. Its soundproofed walls held secrets locked inside and kept the neighbors from complaining to police—who got their weekly cut, of course, but who had to make a show of taking action if the straight folk bitched too loudly, for too long. Beyond the old three-story house lay routes of suffering that spanned the continent, carrying slaves off to Manhattan and Atlantic City, to Chicago and Detroit, Miami and New Orleans, San Francisco and Los Angeles, even Toronto and Vancouver, with a thousand other destinations in between.

The victims, brought here from their hometowns, sold by parents, or the tourist spots where they’d been drugged and kidnapped, would be women under twenty-five or children, either sex. They would have been selected by appearance first, and then with some thought given to their families. If they were being sold, that raised no problem. Otherwise, the spotters would be on alert for runaways and party girls, for wannabe celebrities, for the abused and lonely ones who gave off victim vibes. The hunters would be smart enough to pass on trust fund brats and anybody else whose families were well connected, likely to make trouble if their little darlings disappeared.

His latest target wasn’t like the brothel he had torched in the East Village. This place was a lockbox, a chamber of horrors, with no clientele but a handful of affluent freaks who dropped by, now and then, to unleash their demons in private. What happened inside stayed inside, or went into the bay.

No knocking, then. No small talk. Bolan climbed the concrete steps and pumped two 5.56 mm rounds into the front door’s locking mechanism, then kicked through it to a murky foyer, where a sleepy-looking thug was scrambling upright from a metal folding chair. He made it halfway, then another round punched through his forehead and he sat back down without so much as a grunt.

Bolan swept on, taking no prisoners. His gunfire brought two more goons on the gallop, one armed with a pistol, while the other held a sawed-off shotgun. Bolan dropped them with a quick one-two and started kicking doors.

Some of the rooms were empty. Others had bleary occupants sprawled on filthy beds, drugged out, some of them manacled. He left them where they were, no time for individual rescues, and watched for other guns along the way. A fat guy waited for him when he reached the stairs, blasting a pistol round into the wall near Bolan’s head before a clean shot from the Executioner punched into the gunner’s chest and put him down.

The second floor was empty. The third floor’s rooms were mostly empty, but those that were occupied offered glimpses of unimaginable suffering. Bolan found no more enforcers, no one standing by to take a heaping helping of his fury, so he made his way downstairs and outside, palming his smartphone as he cleared the house.

He had the number for NYPD’s Sixtieth Precinct, the cop shop serving Brighton Beach, programmed in. An operator picked up on the third ring, laughter in her voice until he said, “Shots fired, men down,” and spit out the address, then cut the link.

Seacoast Terrace, Brighton Beach

“SO OUR COUSIN from Kiev is having trouble, eh? I won’t lie to you, Georgy. This news makes me glad.”

Alexey Brusilov was seated at his desk, inside his private office on the second floor of Café Moskva, smiling broadly at his second in command. Georgy Vize, by contrast, did not seem to share his godfather’s excitement at the news.

“I’m hearing other things,” Vize said.

“What other things?”

“Our friend at Police Plaza says the restaurant shooter left them a note.”

“What kind of note?” Brusilov asked.

“In Russian.”

“Ah.”

“And so he thought of us,” Vize said.

“So what? Lots of people speak Russian.”

“There’s something else.”

“Tell me,” Brusilov ordered.

“Your name was mentioned at the bordello.”

“By who?”

“The shooter.”

Brusilov considered that and saw a pattern forming. “Someone’s playing games with us.”