Crime & Counterpoint (32 page)

His core tightened; her touch tortured. “Nothing. I just – it’s better if I stay away.”

“Is it the FBI? Are you in trouble again?”

It seemed like he stared at her mouth for a long time. No way could he tell the truth. Not this time.

But she jumped to her own conclusions, eyes watering already. “It’s all my fault.”

Without thinking, he took her into his arms, blue eyes lit with passion. “As long as you never cross paths with me again, you should be fine.”

“No, I won’t,” she whispered, slowly raising her eyes to meet his.

She drew a shuddering breath which he felt through his hands. Absently, he combed his fingers through the spiral ends of her hair and then clutched a fistful as he fought his steel-strong desires. “You
will
,” he said with stern confidence. “These guys want me, and as long as that’s the case, you
are
safer here. With the FBI watching you.”

He uttered a succinct curse and released her, taking a few steps back. She was too accessible, too comforting right now. Raking a hand through his hair, he sighed weightily. He had to get on with his life.

Without her.

Worried at his brusque demeanor, she came to touch his bicep tenderly. His gut dipped as he gazed into her eyes pleading with him not to push her away. But he couldn’t, just
couldn’t
be friends. Lovers or nothing at all.

Hating himself for what he was about to do, he gripped her wrist and removed her hand. It was like ripping off his own flesh.

“What you think you feel for me isn’t real,” he said, injecting as much cold austerity as he could. “I’ve saved your life a few times, but you don’t owe me anything.” The light diminished on her beautiful face. He crushed the desire to make it come back.

“I don’t” – her voice broke – “That’s not why I–”

“Stop it,” he said tersely and turned on his heel, walking out of the bathroom. He heard her following him.

“I don’t understand. What happened?”

“Nothing.” He stalked away, visage hard. “I just came to my senses.”

Fear seeped into her heart. “What?”

He glanced at her. Dark, furrowed brows shadowed his feral eyes. “Don’t look at me like I’m wounding you. I’m doing you a favor. Carter? He’s got it together. He won’t make you suffer. Besides, I’ve got nothing for you, anyway.”

She stared at him in shock and disbelief, his words of utter rejection scalding her. “Zach, please don’t,” she implored, reaching for his arm.

Viciously, he jerked it away. “That’s enough!”

“But I love you!” she blurted. Her hands flew to her mouth in mortification over the confession.

Zach just glared. He’d known as much, but it hurt to hear it. Heart breaking, he steeled himself. He had to. Turning his back on her, he grabbed his shirt, his jacket, his keys and left. Carter could break the news about the club himself. He was done doing everyone’s dirty work.

Outside the cold hit him like a thousand, stabbing icicles. He huddled into his broken, beleaguered leather jacket.

It’d only be a short trek back to reality.

Part VII

It Shouldn’t Happen to a Dream

A week later…

The streets of Lower Manhattan were packed with anticipatory New Yorkers looking forward to Christmas, now only a week away. Contrary to the darkening sky, it was barely 4:30 p.m. The dense towering vertical clouds broke ever so slightly in places, however, revealing streaks of faint indigo and pale amber. Lamps up and down Broadway flickered to life, decorated head to cement in yuletide, evergreen cheer.

From 26 Federal Plaza, an official-looking entourage pulled out into holiday traffic – three black BMW sedans and a darkly-tinted Suburban. The quartet bypassed festive, decorated buildings, which were in other seasons dull and uninspired, and happy, tightly-bundled pedestrians as they veered onto Delancey Street, heading away from the FBI field office.

The passenger they transported had become more or less a guest of the state. The tips he’d given a certain NYPD detective had not only resulted in the arrest of several drug, arms, and human traffickers but helped to erode the foundation of the Brother’s Circle operating in the city. Thus, though no one at the Bureau was all too happy about it, the out-of-court settlement decreed that Rybar Cervenka would only be deported. As a matter of fact, he had a first-class ticket. JFK to Prague. Czech Airlines. Flight 5055. Scheduled departure: 7:35. On time.

Cervenka checked his cell phone. Yes, they’d given it back to him. He wasn’t expecting any messages or calls, but it was just something to fill his hands.

“Looking forward to going back to the Czech Republic, Mr. Cervenka?” Special Agent Tim Newton asked, fixing his trenchcoat over his suit. “I’ve been, ya know. Traveled with the Secretary of State when I was on Secret Service detail.”

Rybar pocketed the device in the breast of his pin-striped Armani and gave the man his valuable attention. “And you were?”

“Army. Green Beret.”

Nodding gravely, Rybar turned the corners of his mouth upward. “Impressive. And how do you find the FBI?”

“Love it. It’s the best job in the world. Everywhere I go – Beijing, Sudan, Malaysia – people give me respect, you know? Like one time I went to speak at a conference with Joe Biden and some White House reps in Iraq. There he was, the Senator, and I was just barely promoted in the Bureau, but all the government notaries over there” – he wagged his head – “they just made me feel so welcome. I don’t smoke for nothing, but for them I shared that pipe” – he gesticulated with his hands – “I forgot what you call it. But they were so happy with my gesture that when it was time for me to leave they gifted me with a pipe. And dammit, I can’t remember what it’s called.” He looked at Cervenka. “Do you know?”

Cervenka merely shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Special Agent Newton pressed his lips together and looked out the window as they crossed over the East River via Williamsburg Bridge. Silence filled by the Suburban’s engine and their speed of travel. He noticed the dark sky turning cotton white. “Guess you’ll be missin’ out on our first big snow this year.” He smirked. “What do you think? My bet’s on six inches by midnight.”

Cervenka gave a noncommittal nod. “I suppose.” He glanced at the back of the other federal agent in the seat in front. He was like a silent buoy, bobbing with the SUV as they hit uneven patches in the road. Cervenka switched to studying the scenery. It was downright depressing. But things always can change.

The headlights of the numerous cars moseying along the highway sheened dully in the dusky, below-freezing atmosphere, and their taillights glowed red. It seemed to Cervenka that they traveled for a long time at a snail’s rate until finally, the throat cleared. A freak accident. Cervenka noticed all the agents in his company staring at it as they passed. He made it a point not to look, although he could feel the heat from the burning vehicle through the passenger door and see the shadows of the emergency activity.

They sped up to a comfortable sixty miles-per-hour and cruised. I-278E. The Long Island Expressway. Then, they hit the Van Wyck. JFK international airport was only several miles to the south.

“Got any plans for Christmas?” Newton piped up again, clearly bored with his thoughts and tired of twiddling his thumbs. His knees were spread wide, and he had a slight slouch which Cervenka had to interpret as disinterest in his current activity.

Rybar’s tongue smacked on the roof of his mouth. “I can’t say that I’ve thought about it. My sons are here. My wife is dead. And…” He looked up at the roof the SUV. “I have no reason to celebrate anything. Unless you call deportation from a country you’d spent half your life slaving away in a good present.”

Fortunately, Newton got the hint. “I understand. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all. People come to this country thinking they’ll get a better life. And some of them work hard for it, some of ‘em don’t. Take me, for example, my grandfather was from Portugal. And he had this woodworking business back there. You know, custom, hand-made stuff. Came here?” Scrunched his face. “Nothing. Three kids, a pregnant wife. He had to go work for some antique store. Barely puttin’ food on the table. A real nightmare.” He sighed like the thought was physically uncomfortable and scratched his forehead with a thumbnail. “That’s why my Dad always told me, and it’s what I tell my kids, you gotta be grateful. You gotta work hard and be thankful. None o’ this lazy, privileged American kid shit, ya know? Cause we got it good, and hell, I know I’m thankful.” He adjusted his suit jacket and picked himself up a little higher in the seat.

Cervenka took note, and he gained grudging respect for the man. Too bad.

Just then, they heard the radio in the front seat sound. But the words were too muffled for Rybar to hear. However, by the way Newton craned his head and then frowned, he’d gotten the gist.

“Change in plans?” he said. “What the fuck does that mean?”

The bouy in the second row turned to address Newton with a low, “Just a precaution. We’ll be back on track shortly. I’m sure.”

Newton again fixed his suit but the uncertain frown didn’t leave his face. He eyed Cervenka. “Just a small detour,” he related. “Got plenty of time.”

Shortly after passing the Union Turnpike, the vehicles shadowed the principle car, taking the next exit. After a few deliberate turns, they wound up in a particularly wooded area bypassing Queens Boulevard.

This was, of course, Maple Grove Cemetery.

Presently, they came to a dead end surrounded on three sides by evergreens and barren deciduous trees. Behind them, rows and rows of faceless tombstones stared watching. Bright red brake lights came on as the first vehicle slowed to a stop followed by all the others.

Night had fallen and the pregnant, sooty white clouds threatened to birth its snow. There was only one dim, long-necked street lamp, which cast long shadows of the near-black shrouds of leafy canvas and the grassy floor covered with fallen pine needles. Something was in the air – it reeked of secrets.

And just as a few snowflakes began to fall, the drivers of the three sedans got out. Ebony suit, white shirt, thin black tie, black shoes, shades over their eyes. Indistinguishable, one from the other.

Like pre-programmed soldiers, they marched toward the SUV in single-file, blending into the darkness.  

Special Agent Newton glanced nervously through the tinted glass, unable to see for the darkness. The night held particular ill-omen. “Hey! What’s goin’ on? Why the hell are we stopped here? It’s a fucking cemetery.”

Rybar kept strangely silent and left his gaze fixed on a distant point though there was nothing to be seen out of his window and even less to be seen out the others.

The special agent in front of him swayed forward and back as he tried to peer through the fogging window, using his sleeve to wipe away the glacial frost. Meanwhile, Newton practically climbed up front to bang on the glass divider between the driver’s seat and the back.

“Hey!” he yelled. “What the fuck?! I gotta be home by eight. My daughter’s got a play. Come on!”

“I don’t know!” the driver returned.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“They got out. I’m just following orders!”

“Following orders, what the fuck? You follow my orders. And I’m telling you to put this piece of metal back on the fucking road and–”

Suddenly, the driver’s side door opened. A gun barely made its appearance before two silent spits punctured straight through the head of the driver. The bullets sailed clean through his skull and starred the glass of the opposite window.

Newton backed up. “Holy shit!” He fumbled for his gun.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the special agent behind him said.

Newton turned and found a barrel aimed point blank at his face. In a cramped position, he had nowhere to go. His wide-eyed gaze darted from the rogue special agent to Cervenka.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Cervenka said calmly as the back doors opened on either side, letting in the gusts of portentous air which chilled every vertebrae on their bodies. “But I’m afraid I’m not going to make that flight after all.”

With the stateliness of a very powerful leader, Rybar Cervenka disembarked the SUV and stood on the paved cemetery ground. He took a moment to breathe in the scent of death and life and the heavy weight of forthcoming precipitation. Then, he turned to a very stunned, speechless Newton, whose hands were up and whose eyes held a kind of disbelieving acceptance that this was really happening.

“I think your six inches might be right on the money,” Rybar said, not in the least jocular. His face turned solemn. “I’m very sorry about this.”

Newton’s expression altered to fear. “What? What do you mean, sorry?”

A driver presented Cervenka with a gun, and Cervenka pointed the death-gifting instrument at the special agent.

“No, please! I just–”

Rybar pulled the trigger. He looked upon his kill with remorse afterwards, but: “It couldn’t be helped.” He handed off the hot gun. “Make sure his family is compensated.”

The doors of the Suburban and the three drivers, one ex-special agent, and an illegal alien strolled away calmly. In the next instant, a blinding flash rented the peaceful atmosphere and the Suburban and all three cars exploded, flames licking up every square inch and ravaging the bodies that mercifully no longer lived.

All five men disappeared into the night while the fire danced on.

And so ended the deportation of the Red Fisher.