Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

“I just gots ta say dis, Mercer. What kinda swag can be worth it, man? Youse got money; we bote knows it. It’s a fuckin’ shippin’ office; even their payroll will be shit.”

“It’s none of your business, Hat. Just do your job and we’re square.” Adrenaline sang in Mercer’s veins like the heroin injection of a career junkie. “I know what I’m after.”

Mercer looked at Tish in the backseat. Her face was very white, framed by shimmering black hair. Her blue eyes were wide but trusting. Mercer looked into them, searching for a sign of weakness, but saw none. “Ready?”

“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper, but her eyes were hard.

They left the car. The dome light had been broken so there was only the soft click of the door latches to give away their exit. In seconds, they had both blended into the shadows of the steamy New York night.

One hour later, a little before one in the morning, a Camaro, its body work covered with more Bondo than paint, streaked down Eleventh Street, just off Fifth Avenue. A dog barked at the noise of the racing engine on the quiet street.

The driver was intent on the road. A slight drizzle had made it slick, but his passenger was enjoying and savoring the moment. The shotgun in his hand was cool and heavy. The wind blowing through the open window was hot and humid but fresh in his nostrils. The adrenaline in his body had heightened all of his senses.

Hat owed Mercer a great debt. The driving he could trust to a lieutenant in his organization, but he would do the shooting himself. Four doors away from the target, the driver pounded his hand against the horn and shouted like a Comanche.

Hat thrust the barrel of the Remington pump-action 12-gauge out the window. He had loaded the ammo himself and was pleased with the result when he fired. The first shot obliterated the window of one ground floor apartment, the explosion of the cartridge and the shattering glass one continuous sound.

The second shot blew in the door of another brownstone. The thick oak splintered under the charge of lead. Another shot and another window vaporized. The driver was still yelling and the horn continued to blare, but Hat heard none of it. His eyes were locked onto his next target.

He fired, pumped the gun, and pushed his body nearly out the window to fire again. The door of the Ocean Freight and Cargo Building was much stouter than others on the street, but it couldn’t withstand the shock of the double blast. The door, as if mauled by a predatory animal, dangled from its top hinge; the hardened lead shot had shredded the wood completely.

Immediately an alarm began to shriek within the brownstone, piercing the night even above the din of the Camaro’s horn. Hat shot out one more window before lowering his weapon. The driver released the horn and the car raced out of the area, anonymous after only a couple of blocks.

Two police cars reached the scene within six minutes.

The officers made a cursory search of the area and began taking statements from panic-stricken residents. Already the cops had figured that the shooting was just a joy ride by a couple of kids. Random violence in a city that was renowned for it.

Greg Russo knew that nothing that happened to OF amp;C was random. He arrived as soon as possible after the alarm company had phoned him. According to company records, he was the vice president in charge of the head office in New York, but Ocean Freight and Cargo had no company president. The Swedish group named as the directors of the corporation was nothing more than a Stockholm post office box. The only person above Russo was Ivan Kerikov, the head of Department 7, Scientific Operations, KGB.

Russo spoke to the police officers for several minutes, getting the details of the incident but not really listening to their explanations. Twenty years in the KGB had taught him to take nothing at face value.

“Again, Mr. Russo,” one of the cops was saying, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. This is like no break-in I’ve ever seen. It’s just kids, out for a night of terror. I’ll make sure that this area is heavily patrolled tonight. There won’t be any more disturbances.”

“Our company pays a great deal in city taxes, Sergeant. I expect that you will provide ample protection.” Russo spoke in a flat, accentless English.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot place men here to guard your office. If you want the name of a private security firm, I can give it to you. They could have men here in ten minutes.” The sergeant moonlighted for them on Saturdays when his wife visited her mother in Trenton.

“That is all right.” Russo acted mollified. “I’m sure that it’s just my imagination. Whoever hit this street didn’t seem to be targeting our offices. You are probably right that it was just kids.”

“Just to make you feel better, Mr. Russo, I called in a helicopter. It should be here in about a half hour. They’ll hit the back of your building with a spotlight and make sure nothing is goofy back there.”

“You did go back there yourselves, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, we did. Nothing in that courtyard but a couple of winos and a heap of trash.”

“Well, having that helicopter coming is a relief.”

A few minutes later both cop cars left. The few people out on the street, the type attracted to all police activity, slowly made their way back to their apartments, the excitement over for the night. Russo, whose real name was Gregory Brezhnicov, waited until the street was deserted before giving a signal to the driver of the van that had arrived only moments after him.

Two men dressed in black leapt from the back of the van. They marched toward Brezhnicov, thick arms held stiffly by their sides, chests puffed as if on parade. Their eyes continuously scanned the street, never resting on one object for more than a fraction of a second, but seemingly missing nothing.

No matter how long they remain in the West, Brezhnicov thought, a KGB assassination team never loses the discipline drilled into them during years of training. They were some of the best trained men in the world, capable of killing with nearly every weapon conceived as well as with their bare hands.

They stopped in front of Brezhnicov, grim-faced men with lifeless eyes.

“Search the entire building, look for anything out of place, then take up guard duties. Also check the courtyard out back. There are two derelicts there, get them out. No one enters the building until after nine in the morning. I will be the first here.” There was no reason for Brezhnicov to stay; these men were more than capable of handling any situation.

There was a slight squeak in Mercer’s miniaturized earphone before a voice came through. “Mercer, two of the baddest dudes I’ve ever seen just entered the building. Seems the bossman is heading back home.”

Mercer clicked the button on the transmitter, acknowledging the information from Hat’s son, called Cap, standing on a roof across the street.

“Get ready,” he whispered to Tish, who was lying next to him. “They should come back here first.”

A minute later, the two assassins eased out the back door of the OF amp;C building, pistols held competently. Their eyes searched the dark courtyard, checking the back windows of the buildings opposite, penetrating the shadows created by the single street lamp before resting on the two winos lying next to an overflowing Dumpster.

One guard came across the courtyard, hugging the shadows. Mercer, watching, knew this man was a true professional. The other man stayed hidden near the doorway, his gun covering his partner. Mercer tensed.

The first man approached a wino and, without warning, jerked the derelict to his feet.

Mercer winced as if physically struck. He could only imagine the strength it took to pull a man from the ground and onto his feet and make the action look effortless.