Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (79 page)

Chapter 30

Monday Morning — New York City

Santino crawled down North 10th Street in his Mustang, Nicky Mumbles at his side, scanning the brown-hued brick facades for the address numbers which were all but impossible to read from the car. His eyes flitted from side to side as he took in North Brooklyn’s changing face. He glanced at his watch. They were still twenty minutes early. Frankie Z had told him Russians were always late, so time wasn’t an issue.

Santino’s heartbeat almost crushed his chest cavity, not so much from fear of the death sentence that awaited him, rather from the searing rage threatening to explode through his hands and squeeze the bones in Nicky’s neck to powder. If thoughts could kill, Nicky would be slug food, lying six feet under with two hollow points in the back of his head. He wanted nothing more than to sink his soulless corpse in the East River. Instead, Santino forced his voice into its usual cordial tone, just as his Uncle Sal had ordered. Restraint was the opposite of every instinct his father had ingrained in him since he was a kid. The family silenced rats and traitors before they became cancers that subsumed everyone around them. Not this time. No. This time the plan was to sacrifice a
hen
to trap the
fox
.

And Santino was clucking like a motherfucker.

Nicky couldn’t suspect for a second that Santino wanted to end him, but the task proved tougher than he ever conceived.

After eyeing Santino with a skeptical glare during the whole ride, Nicky paused before breaking the silence. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? You on the rag? You’ve been acting like a little cunt all day.”

Santino swallowed hard and growled inside; his gut knotted from forcing down the anger spilling from within. The split-second gave him an instant to conjure a lame excuse. “I went to that spot on 15th, the place where you got the Stromboli. I think they gave me some bad scampi.” He patted his stomach and forced a belch.

“See, you don’t listen. I told you not go there. Gave me food poising. I had the shits for two days.”

“I hear you loud and clear, but Swifty said it was okay, so I thought I’d give it a shot,” Santino responded.

“Swifty? Please. The man’s got a stomach like an industrial storage tank. He could eat the torch off the fuckin’ Statue of Liberty, and it wouldn’t even give him gas.”

Santino found it hard not to chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. I get the idea now. Too little, too late. I’ll be all right. Just ready to get this meeting over with so I can go home and grab some Zs.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I can stop and get you a box of Midol and some Tampax. Gotta pick some up for the old lady while I’m at it.’’

“Which one? You got four of ‘em, dontcha?” Santino stepped out of the car and looked up the street. All clear.

“Hey, hey. Watch ya mouth. My wife, she’s got bionic hearing,” Nicky said, trying to lighten the mood. “At least I’m doin’ better than you. You couldn’t get pussy at a cat convention.” Nicky laughed hard at his own joke as he exited the car. He walked over to the warehouse and looked at the address. “555 North 10th Street in Brooklyn. This is it, right?”

Santino nodded as he checked the address on his phone. The location was perfect. On the corner of a one-way street with building construction on one side and a bunch of low-rise abandoned buildings in the surrounding area. It would be easy to spot the Feds if they showed up. On the right side of the building was a large fenced-in lot secured by a chain-link gate and padlock. Santino shot off a quick text and approached the door, knocking and peering inside the blacked-out windows, trying to get a heads-up on what awaited him.

“Somebody’s coming,” Nicky said from beside him.

When the door opened seconds later, the supersized Russians greeted him at the entrance, and Santino proceeded inside. It wasn’t enough to call them big. They were chunks of flesh and blood carved out of Siberian mountains. The corners of their mouths turned downward, and their eyes hid under bushy uni-brows. Santino wanted to speak to them in their language.
Ugg.

Each dressed from head to toe in black paramilitary cargo pants, tight shirts, and boots. Assault rifles were slung over their shoulders as if they were about to advance on a beachhead. Santino shoved his hands in his pockets, wrapped his fingers around his brass knuckle, and then clenched his eyes for a moment to feel the weight of his piece around his ankle. He was walking heavy, but not heavy enough to shoot his way out of this predicament.

Neither mountain spoke. Maybe they didn’t understand English. But they nodded at him and jutted their heads toward a dark green metal door in the back of the room. It had three deadbolts which Santino took as a sign: When shit went down beyond the threshold, it was meant to stay there, like Vegas.

“This way?” Santino asked, pointing to the only door.

Both grunted in the affirmative.

Santino opened the door and allowed Nicky Mumbles to walk through first. Unlike Santino, he noticed there wasn’t a hint of anxiousness in Nicky’s demeanor, which he found odd given they’d just walked into the enemy’s lair. Uncle Sal had told him to keep his eyes open, and it didn’t take long for the revelations to begin. Nicky appeared comfortable, as if familiar with his surroundings. Santino trailed him down a narrow hall, four closed doors on either side. Nicky opened one at the end, without hesitation, without asking. And judging from the mumbles inside, he’d reached the correct one, confirming for Santino that Nicky was in bed with Russians and had plans to bump him off….right now.

In his mind, only one question remained: Was Frankie Z aligned against him or not. Once he got the answer, he’d walk away with all the information he needed—if indeed he walked away.

Trailing behind Nicky, Santino craned his neck to scan the room before entering. A dim light shone through the warehouse as they entered. On the wall facing him was a large blacked-out picture window that moonlight struggled to penetrate; it faced the empty lot. In the rear of the space, a large garage door also faced the adjacent fenced property.

His eyes then shifted to the dusty, wooden executive conference room table with about ten chairs positioned around it. Swifty sat next to some guy with strong Russian facial features—yellowish skin, thin lips, and a protruding nose—and testosterone bleeding through the pores. Santino figured the guy must be Max Novikov since no one else had entered except the mountains. Both Max and Swifty were dressed in tailored suits, and the smoke from their cigars clouded the air. As he moved forward, he drew a bead on bloody meat hooks swinging from the ceiling as if the carcasses had been removed moments before Santino’s arrival, perhaps to make space for him.

“Santino, get ova here. Got somebody I want you to meet.” Frankie greeted him with a handshake and fatherly pat on the back. “This is Max Novikov,” Frankie said with a stogie smoking between the pudgy fingers of his other hand, gesturing for them to shake. Swifty turned to Nicky and shifted his glance from one to the other. “You two met?”

“I don’t believe we have,” Nicky said, extending his hand and a put-on grin. He avoided Max’s gaze. The discomfort was unnatural.

Max was younger than Santino imagined, late 30’s, early 40’s. His stoic expression struck Santino as more business-like than mean-mugged. He and the mountains looked fresh from the same womb, like brothers, at least in the face. Not the build. Max was no mountain. More like a hill.

“Good to meet ya,” Santino said. As a sign of respect, he gestured for permission to take a seat.

“Please,” Max offered. Nicky followed suit.

As he bent down to sit, he identified a new threat. Two more mountainous brothers posted in darkened corners at the back of the room. Four of them total—strapped with heavy arms. Santino had a sudden urge to say a Hail Mary.

“You, uh, you sure got a lot of fire power. I thought this was a friendly meeting,” Santino said as his phone sounded. He pulled it from his pocket and tapped out quick response.

“That’s my intent,” Max responded. “Let’s call my brothers here an insurance policy, if you will, to ensure this is a pleasant visit for all involved.”

Santino’s eyebrows arched, and he let out a chuckle. “I see.”

Nicky landed a condescending pat on Santino’s back and belted out a fake laugh to break the tension. “It’s okay, Santino. You can leave this conversation to the grown-ups from here.” He turned to Frankie and gave him the stink eye.

“Look,” Frankie said, taking the hint. “Whaddaya say we get down to business and dispense with the group grope, eh? We all understand why we’re here.”

“Do we?” Santino mumbled under his breath, drawing a wicked sneer from Nicky.

Frankie released his cigar to the ashtray, leaned back in his seat, and folded his hands across his rotund belly. He made eye-to-eye contact with everyone at the table before speaking.

“We’ve all got a lot at stake, right? I think we can agree the Feds have an extra stiff hard-on to take our organizations down right now. A war would bring a lot of unnecessary heat and lead to the demise of some critical business interests. So, reaching an agreement here is not optional; it’s mandatory.”

Santino hunkered down in his seat. His Beretta was still smoking from whacking Stevie Pics, and every fiber of his being wanted to pull it out, snap the trigger back, and set the barrel on fire, until every last one of them struck a dead-man pose. The Russian stumps standing in the shadows made him think better of taking action…except to say, “Somebody’s got to pay for what they did to Dante.”

The words fell out of his mouth without effort or thought. Zero consideration for Nicky’s position which was a no-no. What else could he do? Sit by and let Nicky and this Russian prick play his family like a bad poker hand?

Uncle Sal’s voice echoed in his mind.
Watch your temper.

As expected, Nicky shot him a “shut the fuck up” glare to warn him he was talking out of school. “Despite the impetuousness of the Boss’s nephew here,” Nicky began, “I’m afraid he’s right. My orders say we can’t let your people skate on this one.” Nicky eyed Max with a poker face.

Santino wondered if the rat bastard thought him both blind and stupid. Stevie Wonder could’ve seen the looks passing between them. Maybe the problem was less that they dismissed Santino, and more that they didn’t give a damn what he noticed because they never planned for him to walk out alive.

“Stop right there,” Max said. “The people who hit your cousin weren’t my people—I’m with Levi Mashkov. Pavlov Mashkov, his brother in Moscow, ordered the hit. And he’s untouchable; nobody gets to him. So, you’ve got to deal with me.”

Santino made a mental note of the instigator's name. Pavlov Mashkov. If life in the mob had taught him anything, it was that nobody was untouchable. Anyone with a head could take two in the back of it.

He glanced at his escape route. A shadow appeared outside the window, breaking the beam flowing from the street light. No one else noticed. All eyes burned on him. Max shifted in his seat to face Santino and clasped his fingers together on the table. “You’re the boss’s nephew. What does he plan to do if we’re unable to reach a meeting of the minds?” Max asked.

Santino shrugged. “To be truthful, I can’t say,” he replied, which in no way meant he didn’t know. “I’m just a crew chief.
He
would be more knowledgeable than me about such matters,” Santino said, gesturing toward his Captain.

Nicky hunched his shoulders in reply.

“So, this still leaves us with the question of who’s gonna answer for Dante?” Santino said, still unable to restrain himself.

“Then I’m afraid we’ve reached an impasse, and it will do you well to remember one thing.” Max’s lips thinned; his nostrils flared, and the whites of his eyes cracked red. “We don’t have to answer for shit!” He swept his hand in the air, signaling the mountains. With the precision of a color guard, their rifles crackled as they snapped into position—each barrel pointed at Santino’s head.

Frankie turned to Santino and back to Max. “What the fuck is goin’ on here? I told ‘em you were a stand-up guy, and you go and pull this bullshit?”

Santino cocked his head to the side and smirked before leaning back in his seat. In a blazing fast move, he snatched the cold steel from his ankle holster and locked his aim on Max’s head. A second later, the gun cocked. “Put your fucking guns down,” he told the mountains. “Shoot me and nobody’s walkin’ out of here alive. Nobody.”

Chapter 31

Monday Morning — New York City

J.J. had done it. Succeeded in stopping the truck that she hoped contained the Mashkov’s shipment. With his front bumper now lodged firmly in her car door, and the driver annoyed, she needed to play her next step cool or her attempt to create probable cause might land her six feet under.

She threw up her hands in the air, feigning shock and frustration at the crash
she
caused. Then she turned down her driver side window and signaled for the driver to turn down the one on his passenger side.

The driver looked like the Russian missing link, one of the matched pair seen in Max Novikov’s surveillance photo. Could’ve been a brother, equally wall-like. His nose beaked and his mouth curled into a hardened grit.

Once his window opened, he yelled, “What the hell are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing? What the hell are
you
doing?” She yelled as though she’d missed a few doses of Prozac. “You can’t see from under those eyebrows?”

He grumbled a bunch of expletives under his breath.

“You saw me pulling out,” she continued. “You ever hear of a blind spot, douche bag. Back the truck up! I can’t get out.”

He reversed just far enough to allow her door to open. J.J. scanned the area, still looking for Tony’s NYPD buddies. No one was in sight. She was beginning to understand why they weren’t Feds.

She jumped out of the car and waited for the Russian to do the same. The moment he stepped out to confront her, she slipped the .45 into his passenger window and dropped it on the seat, hoping it landed in plain sight.

“Are you blind? What the fuck are you doing?” she said, continuing her rant in order to stall. Still no back up. Where were they?

“I had the right of way. You fly in front of me into the street. Are you blind, you stupid bitch!”

“Bitch? Yo’ mama’s a bitch, you stupid asshole.” She planted her hands on her hips and twisted her neck in a ghetto frenzy. “I can’t half understand you with that accent. You no speaka de English?”

“Better than you, you dumb cunt.” He spat his words like venom.

J.J.’s eyes shifted waiting for NYPD to appear. She’d continued stalling but hoped Tony wouldn’t swoop into intervene and blow the op too early if he feared the situation getting out of hand. Short of him shooting her, she could handle him.

The angry Russian walked over and scanned her door. “You call this a dent? This is nothing, a little nick.”

“Are you kidding me? I could fit your head in there?” she said. “Where’s my cell phone? I need the number for 9-1-1. And give me your license, registration, and insurance information.”

He scanned left and right, surveying the area for potential witnesses. J.J. happened to know the only ones in the area were FBI agents and Russian Mafiya.

“Lady, I don’t have time for this bullshit.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of hundreds, looking down the street past her toward the warehouse. “Listen, I have an urgent appointment. Here,” he said, handing her a wad of hundreds. “This should cover it.”

She peered over his shoulder, feigning impatience. Then started counting the money. “One hundred, two-hundred…nine-hundred, a thousand…two thousand five-hundred, two-thousand five-hundred…wait? Did I just count that twice? Let me start over. One-hundred, two hundred…”

He snatched the money from her hand, snapped his finger around her throat, and slammed her against the car.

She couldn’t breathe, taking life-and-death grasps at his fingers trying to pry the stumps from her neck. He leaned forward and growled, “You take this money and move this piece of shit out of the way or I will—”

Two sirens sounded. Out of the corner of her eye, the red and blue lights flashed in her peripheral vision. He released her and growled as he stepped back, unleashing a barrage of curse words in Russian. Then he spat toward J.J.’s face and fired the N-word at her like a hollow point.

As they stepped into the escalating scene, one officer checked on her as the other ordered the driver to strike the perp pose. “Sir, get on the ground and put your hands behind your back.”

“Fuck that! I’m not getting on the ground.
She
pulled in front of
me
.”

“Is it her fault you had your hand around her neck? I’m not going to ask you again,” he said, raising his voice. He pulled out his Taser and yelled. “Get on the ground and get your hands behind your back! Now!”

The man conceded, grumbling all the while. The officer cuffed his wrists and went to retrieve the registration from the glove compartment.

J.J. eyed the cop’s partner as he glanced inside the passenger window, and his head turned downward. “Fisch, there’s a weapon on the floor. I’m going to search the rest of the car.” Leaning against the car as she waited for them to find the loot, she felt a twinge of regret over crossing the line to make the bust, but defended her actions by blaming Fitzpatrick and his stone-walling. If he’d followed protocols and granted her requests, she wouldn’t have had to resort to such extremes. A few moments later, Farley called out, “Holy shit! There must be millions in cash, thirty kilos, and enough Uzis to arm Brooklyn.”

She suppressed a smile. The plan worked. Once again she’d bent the rules, but, in her mind, the end justified the means. Yes, she’d falsified the probable cause, but she hoped like hell the gamble would pay off once they made the bust.

“That belong to you, Mr. Jov Rakov?” Farley said.

J.J.’s ears perked up. She remembered the name. He was the former FSB officer and link between the drug and arms factions of the Mafiya network. The deal must’ve been major for him to travel to the states.

“I want my lawyer!”

“You’ll need him. We’re putting you under arrest,” he said, just before they stuffed him into the back seat.

Rakov glared at J.J., baring his teeth. She crouched next to the squad car door, snarled through clenched teeth, and said, “Nigger? No. Bitch? Oh, yes. All day every day, you sorry son of a bitch.” Then she returned his spit.              

Once back at her car, J.J. retrieved her radio as Tony, Scott, and Manny ran to the scene after the action ended. As they approached her, she could see Novikov’s henchmen step out the door of the warehouse and disappear inside as fast.

Rakov was off the streets. They were next.

Within in seconds, the street swarmed with press trucks. “How in hell did they know we were here?”

J.J. turned to the NYPD officers who both shrugged as if they had no clue.

Damn it
, J.J. said.
This can’t be good
.

•••

Back at FBI New York, J.J. and the crew returned to write their reports, hoping to get the right details to Fitzpatrick before the press got everything wrong.

“Donato, McCall, Lewis, Vasquez. My office—now!” Fitzpatrick yelled. She’d never worked for him before, but he was far from a happy camper. They all trudged inside exchanging guilty looks although none of them knew exactly why except J.J.

Once seated, he dropped the bomb, so to speak.

“Your arrest is a bust. We had to let the perp go.”

“Why?” J.J. asked, thrusting forward to the edge of her seat.

“Seems in all the media excitement, NYPD failed to read him his rights.”

“What about the drugs, guns, and money?”

“Oh, we keep the goodies. But the perp walks. And he’s got a hard-on for you Agent McCall.” She didn’t have to guess why. There were a lot of things she could let slide.

Spit—no.

The N-word—hell no.

Fitzpatrick held back Manny and Scott as J.J. and Tony returned to their desks.

“Well, at least we’ve got the shipment off the streets and copies of the paperwork from the van.”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “But we’ve still got no direct link between Troika and the shipment and now we’re on the radar. They’ll probably start conducting damage control, and we’ll never get access to the information we need to take them down.”

J.J. closed her eyes, shook her head, and thought, Things couldn’t possibly get worse. Then her cellphone buzzed. It was a message from Sunnie.

Nixon got access to your mother’s case file.

It’s gone
.