Chapter 31
VLAD
Iride shotgun in a plain gray SUV while Dmitri drives. No convoy, no silver ties, nothing that says Angeloff. The wipers click back and forth as we idle half a block from a Midtown pawnshop, watching Jack Winslow ring the bell over and over, clearly in a hurry.
Four minutes later he comes out with a blister pack and a brown paper bag. Hoodie under a peacoat, no hat, no gloves. He’s carrying light—no overnight bag, no backpack.
“Two Angels trailing,” Dmitri confirms, eyes on the rearview. “Dima’s covering the turnstiles. Lev’s a block behind.”
I sigh. Jack cuts toward the subway, hunching against the weather. We give him space for a bit before pulling out and following him, staying high on the mezzanine to remain out of sight.
We watch as he boards a downtown train. He rides for two stops, switches lines, then doubles back. On the Q, he pulls a folded newspaper from his coat. His thumb circles the same spot over and over. When he stands to get off, he leaves the paper on the seat.
I swoop in and pick it up. An address is circled: Neptune Bar, Brighton Beach. Amateur work. I snap a photo of the page and drop it where I found it.
When we surface in Brighton Beach we’re met with snow and neon. Dmitri angles into a shadowed doorway across from the bar. Down the street, one of our techs sits in a plumber’s van with a fake logo.
The Neptune Bar is narrow and wood-paneled, three blocks from the water. Slot machines hum in the corner. A muted hockey game plays on the TV. The menu on the counter lists three bottom-barrel vodkas. A sign taped to the back door says Private Party.
Through the front window I spot four men that I recognize—old Bratva heavies.
Marek “Bear” Kovalenko sits large at the head of the table. Late forties. Shoulders heavy with old wounds under a cheap suit. He speaks in fragmented sentences—Bratva-trained men waste no breath.
To his right is Denis, wiry with a smoker’s cough and faint letters tattooed across his knuckles.
Prison ink, no doubt. Oleg sits across from him, skull shaved close, a scar running under his ear from an old knife wound.
The youngest is Timur, eyes twitching, seeking exit routes. He’s the driver, not a hitter.
Jack is frisked as soon as he enters through the alley door. He flinches when they pat his ribs. Marek waves him to the empty chair at their table. A beer appears in front of him. Jack doesn’t touch it.
Across the street, I lean into the shadow of a doorway, the cold crawling into my bones. The tech speaks in my earpiece. “We’re getting partials.”
Jack: “Schedule moved up. He’s spread thin. Park hit proved pressure works.”
Marek: “You want him dead with certainty. Certainty costs more.” He taps the table with two fingers.
Jack: “I’ve already given you so much goddamn money!” His voice sounds desperate. “Fine. Just do the job.”
Denis: “Volkov’s name isn’t on this.”
Jack, too quick: “Didn’t say it should be. Yet.”
So Jack is behind the attempts. Not Volkov. But did he act alone?
Marek slides a phone across the table, and Jack scans it with his burner. Marek stands and shakes Jack’s hand, but it’s not friendly. Jack leaves through the alley entrance, hood up, head down.
“You take the brother,” I tell Dmitri. “Long tail. No contact.”
“Copy.” He heads off, vanishing into the night.
I tap my mic. “Dima, Lev—cover the exits.” Two clicks answer. The tech adds that he’ll hold audio and mirror what he can.
Marek’s crew has a smoke by the dumpster, then heads east to a rundown auto shop. Inside, the lights stutter when someone hits the panel.
I text Dmitri.
Where is Jack heading?
Westbound Q. Switching lines. Not home.
Keep eyes. I’ll pluck the Bear.
This has to stay clean and quiet. Noise brings cops. Tonight we need answers, not bodies. The plan is simple; we grab the leader, not the pack. We separate the men, no bloodshed unless absolutely necessary.
Snow falls as the street quiets, a blank page waiting for a pen. I text the tech.
If they move, let me know.
A green checkmark appears in response.
The outline of Jack’s plan is unclear. But I get the idea—kill me, possibly even kill Teresa. Volkov is still a question mark. He could be pulling the strings or it could be a set up. It’s unclear at this point.
The shop door opens. Marek steps out alone, collar up, takeout bag in his hand. The others stay inside. Perfect.
I step from the shadows of the doorway. The cold cuts clean. Dima’s silhouette waits on a roof. Lev ghosts a corner.
Marek turns into the alley. I catch his sleeve like an old friend bumming a smoke.
He looks up with total surprise. I clasp a hand around his mouth and pull him into the gap, forearm under his jaw.
He doesn’t fight. The bag hits the ground, food spilling.
Two body shots, one knee kick, and he folds.
I snap zip ties tight around his wrists.
I drag him inside the building next door; an old paint room with concrete floors and plastic sheets. I sit him in a chair, tie his ankles with zip ties, then stuff a gag in his mouth, muffling his shouts.
I say nothing. He’s breathing hard and fast. I pull off my gloves, fold them once, and place them where I placed his phone—on a table just out of reach. I take out my gun and show it to him, then make a shh gesture with my finger in front of my mouth.
He gets the message, nodding once. I remove the gag.
He tries bravado. “You Angeloff?”
I laugh. Stupid question. “You know who I am.”
“You doing your own dirty work now?” he asks, chest heaving.
“Sometimes I like the personal touch.”
He goes quiet, deciding to wait me out. I reach toward him, pressing two fingers into the brachial plexus, just inside the shoulder. Pain lights behind his eyes. I take my hand away. He grunts. No screaming. Good, he’s disciplined.
“Names,” I demand. “Client. Middleman. Tell me who’s behind this.”
He works his jaw, but he says nothing.
I step over to the table, lift his phone, and open it. I hold it in front of his face to unlock. A message blinks. I scroll until I spot a new thread, one called Ferryman. I read a line aloud.
Message from client: Price doubled if Angeloff goes down too.
His jaw tightens as he stares at me. There it is.
“Who’s the Ferryman?” I ask.
He shrugs like he’s annoyed, like I’m wasting his time.
Time to try another strategy. I locate the nerve where the jaw hinges, pressing there with two knuckles for two seconds, letting the pain blast through him before releasing. His breath catches, his eyes watering; he can’t fake the pain.
He blinks through it, then speaks. “You don’t need the Ferryman,” he rasps. “I don’t have a name. He’s the middleman, he brokers. He’s the one who set me up with the client. I don’t ask questions.”
“You asked one,” I reply, reading through the thread. “About the girl.” My voice is even and calm.
“He said no bonus if you die fast,” Marek says, swallowing. “He wanted to send a message.”
“Who is he?”
“The Ferryman said the man who paid wanted a public scene,” he croaks, “Central Park public.”
Fucking hell. Then those weren’t Volkov’s men in the park. They were mercenaries.
Is Jack really behind this?
“Client name. Now.”
He says nothing. For men like him, giving up the name of a client is a career-killer. A moment ticks by as he tries to decide which is worse—losing his career or losing his life.
He sighs, his body slumping. “Winslow,” he concedes. “Jack. Through the Ferryman. A week before the park.”
There it is. The pieces had all been there but hearing them being put together is a game changer.
Anger boils within.
Jack. He wants me and his own flesh and blood dead. But why?
“Money?” I ask.
“Crypto. Wallets like nesting dolls.” He looks at his phone in my hand as if it might save him. “Proof-of-funds came from a trust. Old. Dormant.” He shrugs. “I don’t read names. I read the ledger.”
I do read names. Jack’s funding this with his own money. And that means he’s been planning it for a long while.
“Objectives.”
“Kill you. Do it loud. Shake your people. And if we could…” His eyes dart around the room, away from mine. “If we could pull it off, we were to take the woman. Deliver her breathing.”
“Deliver her to whom?”
“Different wallet. Different voice.”
“Different client?”
“Two clients working together.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Not the Ferryman. Not Winslow. Someone else. But I don’t have a name, I swear. The Winslow prick’s the only one I’ve met in person.”
Volkov could still be a part of this then. But Jack and Volkov working together? Seems odd, doesn’t quite fit.
I get the impression I’ve squeezed Marek dry. I lean forward, pressing on his brachial plexus again. He winces with pain.
“You leave New York tonight. You tell the Ferryman you were busted. You send him this.” I lift his phone, flip it to the camera, and snap a picture of him in the chair.
I type a caption beneath: Contract burned but I don’t hit send. I set the phone just out of reach again.
I step close, his breath warm on my face. “Or you stay,” I say, softer this time, “And you limp forever. Or maybe worse, depending on what kind of mood I’m in.” I tap his shoe with two fingers. “Your choice.”
He glances at the phone. Marek knows that if he chooses to send the picture, his career as a hitman is over—at least in New York. No gun-for-hire gets burned like this without his reputation tanking.
“Send it.”
“Smart man.” I reach over and hit send. Done. Mercs are off my back—for now.
My phone vibrates. It’s Dmitri.
Jack hit the Crown Diner, now at Atlantic Terminal, buying another burner. Heading west again.
Stay on him. Do not engage.
Copy.
I lean my hip against the table, eyeing Marek.
“So, Jack initiated the hit a week before the park,” I say. “The Ferryman brokered. Two streams of money. A hit on me public enough for the papers to notice. Another order to deliver Teresa breathing.” Saying her name in this room feels wrong.
He nods once. “I told you, we don’t ask why. Part of the job. Now, can I go?”
I reach into his back pocket, take out his wallet, and flip it open.
There’s a photo of a child scowling in a school uniform, a woman’s hand just visible in the corner.
I set the wallet down where he can see it.
Marek played it smart tonight; his kid still has a father.
But now he needs to do the right thing and get the hell out of town, wife and kid in tow.
“Get in your car,” I say. “Drive to JFK. Fly out of the country. Send for your family. If I hear you’re back in New York, we’ll have a replay of tonight, but next time, it won’t end so nicely for you.”
I cut the zip ties. The snow has gone from white to gray, that awful New York winter slush. Marek hurries toward a Corolla parked nearby then he’s gone.
I step over to the building that Marek walked out of. His boys are laughing at something, oblivious to the fact that their hitman careers are likely over. Truth is, they’re lucky they’re still breathing.
These are the people responsible for the attack on Teresa and me in Central Park. And if I hadn’t sweet-talked Marek tonight, they’d still be after me. But at the end of the day, they’re not worth the hassle.
Besides, I’ve got Jack to focus on. And whoever the hell he’s working with.
I text Dmitri.
Keep a tail on Jack. But we’re done for the night.
Copy.
I stand in the alley long enough to let the cold erase any residual anger. I’m soon back in my Escalade, warm and dry.
I have a lot to think over. What I learned from Marek is more than enough to work with.
As far as Jack goes… he’s about to learn some hard goddamn lessons.