Terrorist Dispatch (Executioner) Read online

  “I got him,” Tokaido replied. “Nothing to it, with the facial recognition software, plus the cruiser’s license tag. I’m getting his financials and his background now.”

  “Give me the Reader’s Digest version.”

  “Sure. Sean David O’Leary, thirty-two years old. He’s a detective second-grade with NYPD’s Major Case Squad, out of headquarters. It’s funny. Did you know that Major Case is separate from Homicide? They only handle big-time thefts and kidnapping. I would’ve thought—”

  “O’Leary,” Kurtzman prodded, bringing him back on track.

  “Right. He’s been with the force—or should I say the force has been with him?—since 2004. He’s got a twelve-year anniversary coming around in May. Had so-so grades in high school, tried some college, CUNY, but it wasn’t working for him. Left before they had a chance to flunk him out and joined the army just in time for 9/11. Did two tours in Afghanistan and came out with a Purple Heart for shrapnel in his butt. Joined NYPD on the rebound, and he’s done all right so far, considering.”

  “Considering?” Kurtzman knew it was best to prod Tokaido gingerly, unless he lost track of a narrative and had to be reeled in.

  “His jacket’s fairly normal for a street cop in New York. Two civilian complaints of excessive force during arrests, both deemed unfounded by the IAD. You know how that goes.”

  Kurtzman did. The Internal Affairs Division could hang a cop out to dry for some minor infraction, but he also knew from personal experience that much was also swept under the rug by members of what New York’s finest called the Rat Squad. “Unfounded” brutality complaints could mean anything from a crackhead’s lies to a top-level cover-up.

  “Go on.”

  “The real kicker,” Tokaido said, “is in this guy’s financials. He earns in the mideighties, pretty much the median for NYC, but he’s a sharp dresser, trades out his old car every couple years. No family to feed, of course. He’s never been married. Has a two-bedroom apartment out in Woodside, Queens. But...”

  “Give it to me,” Kurtzman said.

  “I have to wonder why he needs five safe deposit boxes, all at different banks around the boroughs. Minimal accounts at four of them, to get him in the door, but what’s he stashing?”

  “If he’s cozy with the Russian Mob...”

  “Exactly,” Tokaido said. “Smells like cash to me.”

  “Okay. I’ll pass it on.”

  “And I’ll keep digging for a while. I haven’t checked New Jersey yet, to find out if he’s banking over there.”

  Kurtzman wheeled off and left him to it, headphones back in place, the music’s backbeat guiding fingers in their dance across Tokaido’s keyboard.

  The report he had for Bolan wouldn’t be astounding for a twelve-year NYPD officer. Kurtzman was well acquainted with the huge department’s history, from beatings and chokeholds to Abner Louima, Amadou Diallo, and the so-called Mafia cops: a pair of detectives who doubled as triggermen for the Lucchese Family until an FBI informant’s testimony sent them up for a hundred years plus.

  Every major department in the country was the same, to some extent, and Bolan knew that very well. What he required on this job, maybe, was a bit of leverage. Whatever he might have in mind for Sean David O’Leary, Kurtzman hoped the information would be useful.

  And he hoped that it would help to keep Bolan alive.

  Seacoast Terrace, Brighton Beach

  ALEXEY BRUSILOV WAS TIRED. He wished that he was tucked up in his bed, at home on Banner Avenue, and wondered whether that meant he was getting old.

  Hell, no. He was as strong as ever, still loved staying up all night and partying or taking care of business, but this damned day in particular had worn him down. He didn’t understand it, worst of all, and that was eating at him, causing him to question whether he was slipping.

  Since he’d arrived in the United States, there had been tension between Russian operators and the East Village Ukrainians. Brusilov took that as a fact of life and ran with it, encroaching on their territory when he could, but never pushing it to the extent of open warfare. Stepan Melnyk was a man after his own heart, putting business first, getting his licks in when and where he could, without lighting a doomsday fuse.

  So, what had suddenly gone wrong?

  Brusilov thought about the hits on Melnyk’s turf, knew that the orders hadn’t come from him, and tried to figure out what that might mean. Most obviously, Melnyk could have stepped on someone else’s toes and pissed them off. Maybe that someone else was smart enough to spin it, make the Ukrainians think Russians were behind the raids and get a nice war underway, ravaging both sides while the instigator sat it out, waiting to pick up any pieces that were left after the storm blew through.

  Another thought: whoever pulled the raids might be a Russian, either from another outfit—Uri Pavlov’s clique from Bay Ridge, maybe Ivan Budker’s gang from Gravesend or, and this was what tormented Brusilov, someone within his own organization who thought he’d been too soft on the Ukrainians, hadn’t moved in and squeezed them hard enough to benefit the Family.

  And if there was an upstart traitor in the ranks, who might that be?

  Brusilov didn’t want to think of Georgy Vize that way. They had been through too much together, in the Motherland and in the States, but if he let his mind be ruled by sentiment he might wake up some morning with his throat cut, or a bullet hole between his eyes. Georgy was smart and capable, up to a point, and he was not averse to treachery. Soon after they’d arrived in Brighton Beach, he had helped Brusilov depose his predecessor, drove the boat that took old Maxim Stefanenko, whom they’d called the Butcher, for his last cruise onto Sheepshead Bay.

  So Georgy was a possibility. Who else?

  Brusilov had two brigadiry, roughly analogous to Mafia caporegimes, who were smart and ruthless enough to go off on their own if they thought he was slipping, and would likely take him down in the process to minimize blowback. In that case, Brusilov supposed they would dispose of Georgy Vize, as well.

  That was something to think about, but could he talk about it with his number two?

  Decisions.

  One thing Brusilov was sure of: though he hadn’t started any trouble with the Ukrainians this time, Melnyk was striking back at him, assuming that he had.

  And that meant war.

  James Madison Plaza, Manhattan

  BOLAN GOT THE email dossier from Stony Man, acknowledged it and read it by the light of mercury-vapor lamps while he sat in the Mazda, parked within sight of One Police Plaza. The file gave off its own ephemeral aroma of corruption, even though it wouldn’t be enough for most DAs to file criminal charges. The good news: since he wasn’t any kind of cop or prosecutor, none of that meant anything.

  Right now, he had Detective Second-Grade O’Leary by the balls.

  He dialed the cell phone number Stony Man had found for him, let it ring twice before his target said, “O’Leary, Major Case Squad.”

  “Check your email,” Bolan said, then cut the link. Five seconds later, he had sent through two clear snapshots of O’Leary in the diner on East Tenth, with Georgy Vize. Ten seconds more and he called back. This time, O’Leary’s answer was abrupt.

  “What do you want?” It was said in a hushed voice, as if he wasn’t alone inside the squad room.

  “Face time,” Bolan said.

  “Right now?”

  “ASAP,” Bolan replied. “You and your Russian friends are running out of time.”

  O’Leary muttered something, probably a curse, then said, “All right. How’s twenty minutes?”

  “Good enough.”

  “The Hampton Inn on Pearl Street has a coffee shop. How will I know you?”

  “I know you,” Bolan replied, and broke it off.

  * * *

  BOLAN PARKED IN the Hampto
n Inn’s lot, spotted O’Leary’s unmarked pulling in and let the man enter the coffee shop before he followed. A waitress in her early twenties had O’Leary settled in a booth, just handing him a menu, making small talk, when the Executioner slid in across the table.

  “Menu, sir?” she asked him.

  “Coffee, black, should do it,” Bolan said.

  “Awrighty, then.”

  When she was gone, O’Leary tried to play the tough cop. “Let’s get to it. I’ve got paperwork up the wazoo tonight.”

  “Pulling that overtime for Brusilov.”

  “I’m busting criminals, Mr.... What did you say your name was?”

  Bolan kept it deadpan and replied, “I didn’t say. It isn’t relevant.”

  “Some stranger tries extorting me, I like to spell his name right on the booking sheet.”

  “No one’s extorting you, Detective. That was just a preview of the file that’s going to IA, along with five safety deposit boxes. They can run with it from there.”

  “No matter what?”

  “You’re leaving law enforcement,” Bolan said. “The only point in question is the timing.”

  “So you say.” O’Leary shifted on his bench seat, maybe easing access to his sidearm.

  “You could try it,” Bolan said. “But bear in mind that I’m responsible for everything that has your Russian pals worked up tonight. And Melnyk’s people, too.”

  “Say I buy that. You ready for the heat killing a cop will bring down on your head?”

  “Why not?” Bolan asked, bluffing with an empty hand. “Your file goes to IA if anything happens to me. I’m guessing that you’ve seen The Godfather a couple dozen times.”

  The dirty NYPD captain, played by Sterling Hayden, was shot by Michael Corleone, then smeared in media reports for his alliance with the drug trade.

  After glaring at him for a long moment, O’Leary asked, “So what’s your pitch?”

  “It’s simple,” Bolan said. “I just want you to do your job. Impartially, that is, treating the Russians just like you’ve been handling Melnyk’s crew tonight.”

  “Simple,” O’Leary echoed in a mocking tone. “Just lay my life out on the line.”

  “You did that when you started working for the Mob,” Bolan replied. “Call this making amends.”

  “Too late,” O’Leary said.

  “I’m not a priest,” Bolan told him. “I don’t handle that end of things.”

  “Just life and death, eh?”

  “Now you’re catching on.”

  “All right,” O’Leary said at last. “What is it that I have to do, exactly?”

  5

  Banner Avenue, Brighton Beach

  The news was bad and getting worse. Alexey Brusilov had finally gone home, retreating under guard to leave his office empty, just in case the trouble that had rocked his Family for the past few hours tracked him there. His house was on the small side, nothing ostentatious that would raise a red flag with the tax people, but it was fortified against assault, with several nice touches added when he had the old place renovated, prior to moving in. His bodyguards were unobtrusive, but they never strayed beyond an easy shout from their godfather.

  Georgy Vize sat facing Brusilov, diminished slightly by the massive leather sofa he had chosen, while his master occupied a matching recliner. A low glass-topped coffee table sat between them, supporting half a dozen guns. Their muzzles all were aimed away from Brusilov, toward Vize, which did nothing to ease the underboss’s nerves.

  “Melnyk hit us again,” Brusilov said. “A carload of his people took down two of our guys in a drive-by, outside Siberia.”

  The nightclub, Vize knew he meant, and not the distant frozen wasteland used for generations as a Russian penal colony. The news put a crimp in Vize’s gut, but he endeavored not to let it show.

  “Who were they?” he asked.

  “Sergei and Little Ruslan.”

  As opposed to Big Ruslan, whose last growth spurt had blown away when he was five foot five. His “little” counterpart was—had been—nearly six foot six, a strapping soldier with a weightlifter’s physique.

  “I’m sorry, Boss.” Vize could think of nothing else to say.

  “Sorry? Why are you sorry?” Brusilov inquired. “You didn’t kill them, eh?”

  Vize blinked twice at the unexpected question. “What? Of course not!”

  “Then there’s no need for sorry,” his godfather said. “Don’t be sad. Instead of mourning, take revenge.”

  “We’ve got teams out looking for Melnyk,” Vize reminded him. “And—”

  He was suddenly distracted by the trilling of his cell phone, from the inside pocket of his blazer. “Damn! I better take this. Could be something.”

  “Something good, I hope,” Brusilov said.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” the familiar voice stated. “You sitting down?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I got your guy. Well, one of them.”

  “What guy?” Vize felt as if his head were filled with cobwebs, interfering with coherent thought.

  “The one’s been shooting up your places over there,” Sean O’Leary replied. “You still want him, right?”

  “Yes!” Vize snapped out of his daze. “But how did you—”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “See me?”

  “When I hand him over,” O’Leary said. “That was the plan, right?”

  “Yes, yes. But we have to play it safe.”

  “Safe is my middle name. I picked a spot already. You can take delivery and run with it, while I go on my way.”

  “Where did you have in mind?”

  “The Brighton playground, by the boardwalk. How’s an hour sound?”

  “We’ll be there,” Vize replied. “And you shall be rewarded.”

  “Music to my ears,” O’Leary said, and cut the link.

  “Well? Who was that?”

  “Our contact at police headquarters,” Vize said.

  “Irish.”

  “Yes. He says he’s caught the man behind our troubles.” Thinking of the recent drive-by, Vize added, “One of them, at least.”

  “Ukraininan?”

  “Um... I didn’t ask.”

  “It doesn’t interest you?”

  Vize wished the couch would open up and swallow him, but he had no such luck. Instead of answering the question, he replied, “O’Leary’s bringing him to us. We’ll have a chance to question him.”

  “Bringing him where?” Brusilov asked, hunched forward now, his big hands resting on the coffee table, near a pair of shiny pistols.

  “To that playground, at the west end of the boardwalk. In one hour.”

  Brusilov bounced to his feet and clapped his hands, smiling. “I’m coming with you,” he announced.

  “You think that’s wise?”

  “Wise? I wouldn’t miss it for the whole wide world.”

  Riegelmann Boardwalk, Brighton Beach

  BOLAN WAS SET UP on the rendezvous before O’Leary made his call to Vize, already covering the sweep of Brighton Playground through his Leupold scope. There were no children and no tourists anywhere around, although he’d watched a drug deal from his rooftop vantage point, across Brightwater Court.

  Away to Bolan’s left, or east, some sleepless types were still riding the Coney Island Cyclone roller coaster, a giant Ferris wheel, drifting in and out of restaurants, or dawdling at the mural for the fourteen-acre New York Aquarium. Those night owls were beyond his line of fire, though not beyond the range of Bolan’s Remington. They’d be all right, as long as they obeyed their first survival instinct, fleeing gunfire, rather than approaching it.

  Of course, some of th
em might be ringers. Brusilov had not survived this long without learning the ins and outs of treachery. As soon as he received O’Leary’s message, it made sense for him to flood the area with soldiers, sending individuals and pairs, nothing too obvious.

  How many did he still have left, from the beginning estimate of sixty-five to seventy?

  Enough to do the job, for sure, if Bolan didn’t watch his step and watch his back, the Executioner knew.

  The upside, if O’Leary kept his word, was that the Russians shouldn’t smell a trap. As canny as wild dogs like Brusilov and Vize might be, they owned O’Leary, had enough on him to send him up for life and then some, if they didn’t kill him outright. They’d expect him to obey and follow orders without doing anything to trash the status quo.

  Two questions now: Would O’Leary show up? And would he adhere to the plan he’d agreed to with Bolan? It was always possible the crooked cop would cut and run, with or without exposing Bolan’s scheme. If he followed through, Bolan had promised that O’Leary would be covered—but they both knew that he would be front and center on the firing line, if anything went wrong.

  The trick: O’Leary didn’t know how Bolan planned to deal with Brusilov and company. The Executioner had kept it vague, letting O’Leary think a SWAT team might sweep in at the last second, rounding up the Russians, carrying O’Leary off to some small WITSEC hideaway where he would cool his heels until he’d testified against the Mob. From there, after he’d served some token time, a brand-new life.

  Lying to the detective didn’t trouble Bolan’s conscience in the least. O’Leary had already built himself a life of lies long years before they met by chance, and anything that happened to him now counted as just deserts. But if the outcome were to be a sudden death, O’Leary wouldn’t pay that price at Bolan’s hand.

  At the beginning of his one-man war, Bolan had drawn a line he’d never crossed, and never would, in spite of any danger to himself. He wouldn’t kill a cop. No matter how corrupt or dangerous that cop might be, he or she had likely begun as a blue-suited comrade, what Bolan called a soldier of the same side. He might knock a cop out cold, or set a trap that sent him off to jail where he belonged, surrounded by sworn enemies.