Vigilante (23 page)

G
ood morning, New York! Today is November 14. I’m Jackie Turner and I want to welcome you to today’s special broadcast. We’re coming to you live from the gleaming new office building constructed at the heart of Times Square. Our guest today is the man who built this amazing tower, a man who needs no introduction to the people of New York: Yuri Vasko. Welcome, Mr. Vasko.”

Vasko sat patiently in his chair opposite Jackie Turner, co-host of a local New York City morning show, with his legs crossed at the knee. The show was being filmed on location inside Vasko’s spacious new office in the brand new One Times Square building.

“Thank you for having me, Jackie,” he replied, striking a gracious, humble tone yet refusing to smile. He was also very careful to be sure that his gimp hand was visible on camera at all times. “It’s a great pleasure to be here today.”

“Well, as you at home can see, we’re inside the penthouse office of the new One Times Square building. Mr. Vasko, please tell our viewers why you bought this property and why you’ve changed it so drastically.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I think my story has been told so many times now, you’ll forgive me if I don’t relive it again. But after the tragic events that claimed the life of my wife and daughter, I turned my back on my old life and devoted myself completely to humanitarian efforts.” His expression carried just the right mix of somber regret for his past and pious humility regarding his future plans. It was a finely tuned performance, one he’d been practicing for days.

“I knew very soon after turning my life around that I would need a central location from which to operate. So I chose the most central location to New York I could think of. The whole world knows this place—they look to it on New Year’s Eve. I had no desire to destroy this glorious landmark, but I needed a building that would send a clear message—”

“Clear is right!” laughed Jackie, interrupting her guest with typical morning show–host exuberance. “I don’t know if this is obvious to our viewers at home, but One Times Square is now completely transparent, covered on all four sides with floor-to-ceiling glass. It’s a beautiful, brightly lit pillar the same size and footprint as the original building. Why the big change?”

Vasko cleared his throat, swallowing his irritation at being interrupted. He couldn’t afford to let his temper out; this was too important an occasion. “The new One Times Square is more than a building. It’s a beacon of hope and refuge. In these troubled times, I wanted New Yorkers to know that there’s someone here for them in their time of need—someone with nothing to hide.”

“You’re referring, of course, to the dramatic rise in crime in the months following the tragedy at Battery Park.”

“Indeed. It changed everything, yes? Hardly a day goes by when we do not wake up in the morning, look out the window, and see the haze of smoke rising over our city—evidence of the latest skirmish between the Organized Crime Intelligence and the criminals. New York has become a war zone, and despite the government’s relentless efforts, that does not look to change anytime soon. And as for the city’s ‘great protector,’ The Hand—well, he seems to have vanished entirely. Perhaps he realized he was in over his head.”

This was, like everything else, a veiled message. Nolan Gray hadn’t been seen or heard from in his ‘Hand’ persona since Battery Park. Whether he was even still alive was something Vasko hadn’t been able to determine despite a massive, personally funded manhunt. In his heart, Vasko knew Nolan Gray was still alive. Felt it. But the man’s absence and the deaths of so many members of the NYPD at Battery Park had created a vacuum of power that Vasko’s soldiers and enforcers had found easy to fill.

It was the greatest of ironies: Vasko had built an office space from which to rule over his criminal empire, yet from the outside, it appeared to be a haven for those who were suffering due to their oppression by that very empire. Marko had been baffled by Vasko’s insistence that the building be made of glass on all four sides—until he discovered how willing Americans were to part with their money in the name of “helping others.”

“New York needs a bright, shining light of safety and hope for the future. I have built that for them. Anyone in need is welcome to enter these walls. My new humanitarian foundation is ready and able to help in any way we can—be it foodstuffs, medical supplies, job placement, or financial aid.”

“May I ask how you lost the use of your right hand?” asked Jackie in her most compassionate tone. “That’s one aspect of your story I don’t recall ever hearing before.”

Vasko had to work hard not to frown. This was a part of his past he was none too eager to relive. “Well. My childhood was very difficult. I was raised by my father, and most of my memories of him are of the back of his hand. This injury was inflicted when I was eighteen years old. My father was a blacksmith by trade, and on this day, he flew into one of his rages and tried to shove me up against a red-hot handsaw he had standing up against his anvil. I stopped the fall by bracing myself with this hand—on the hot metal of the saw. That was the last time I ever saw him. As soon as I was well enough to leave the hospital, I gathered my closest friends—including the woman who would become my wife, Lilya—and fled to America.”

Jackie sat back in her chair and took a breath. Vasko could see in the woman’s body language that the tone of the live interview was about to take a turn.

“Your story is very inspiring, Mr. Vasko. Not many men would have the courage to escape, or the strength of will to endure such a difficult upbringing. But I have to ask: what do you say to the White House’s accusations that you’re secretly funding the city’s upswing in criminal activity—that this glass building and your nonprofit foundation are nothing but a façade to hide your true purpose?”

It was irritating that he’d been misinformed. Marko had assured him that this particular news network would be the one most likely to soft-pedal him, to portray him as the sympathetic, grieving family man instead of the mob boss. It was the reason he’d agreed to do this interview in the first place.

But instead of allowing his frustration to show, Vasko came the closest to smiling he had yet. “I say, ‘Look around you.’ Does this look like a house of crime or terror to you? This is a place of optimism and charity. We hide nothing within these walls. Because we have nothing to hide.”

This journalist wasn’t going to give up that easily. “So you’ve completely severed your ties, then, with organized crime?”

Vasko paused, to give the impression that he was saddened by the accusation. “The past is the past, Jackie. In Ukraine, I was born into poverty and raised by a cruel father, but these things do not make me who I am today. Today, I am a new man. A man of peace. And I think the people of this city are more interested in the present and the future. The future holds big things for us, very big things. In fact, if I may, I would like to take this opportunity to make an announcement to the people of New York.”

Jackie’s eyebrows went up. “By all means.”

“Well, I know that life has become difficult for so very many. Businesses are closing, jobs are being lost, people are being shot and killed every day in our streets. I have heard the reports that many New Yorkers are packing their belongings in order to move someplace safer, someplace that offers more opportunities. To them I say:
Please stay
. There is no other place in the world like New York City. Those of us who live here are family. And you do not abandon your family when it needs you most.”

He paused for dramatic effect, but his interviewer thought he’d stopped altogether. “You said there was an announcement?”

“Yes,” Vasko replied. “I want all of New York—and the entire world—to know that despite all that we have lost and all that we continue to suffer,
we are still here
, and we believe in what is good and right. To that end, this morning I spoke with the mayor and volunteered this building for use as the location once more of the ball drop on New Year’s Eve. So, my neighbors, tell your friends and loved ones to join us in Times Square on December thirty-first for the celebration of a lifetime. New Year’s Eve is officially on.”

T
hornton Hastings shook his head in disbelief.

He was behind his desk in the Oval Office, accompanied by OCI Director Sebastian Pryce and Chief of Staff Marcus Bailey, both of whom sat across the desk from him. This was their custom, a daily ritual the three of them had begun weeks ago, so that Hastings’ two comrades could bring him up to speed on the latest happenings in the war on crime and the state of the nation.

Right now, all three men faced the television on the side wall, watching their biggest enemy flaunt his power in their faces. Yuri Vasko was a genius—Hastings had to give him that—but he was an awfully arrogant one. Having just announced that he’d convinced the mayor of New York to go forward with its annual New Year’s Eve celebration, he would once again be heralded as “the only person doing anything to help us” by the vocal malcontents of the metropolis. This, despite the fact that every other major holiday tradition in New York—the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, the lighting of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, and so on—had been canceled due to the wildly dangerous conditions of the city streets.

“What’s he really up to?” the president mused.

His two compatriots turned back around to face him. Marcus spoke first.

“Just watching him talk makes me want to punch something. It’s the usual posturing, Mr. President, another distraction to cover his illegal practices.”

Hastings glanced at Pryce. “Is that all it is?”

The heavy man leaned back in his seat. “We have no intel to suggest otherwise. But I’ll have my analysts monitor the chatter for any key words related to New Year’s Eve. If he’s planning something, we’ll know about it far in advance.”

Just this once, time might actually be on their side, Hastings mused. It was only the middle of November, which gave them about six weeks until New Year’s Eve.

His analysts
 . . . Hastings pondered. Only a few months ago, Pryce’s entire organization was comprised of just a handful of people. Now . . .

“How many agents are currently on your team, Director?” he asked.

Pryce’s expression, as always, remained unchanged. The man would be stoic, grim, and dispassionate to his dying breath. “We’re over a hundred twenty strong. Mostly field agents, but I have a dozen or so analysts I co-opted from the CIA to help with this sort of thing.”

A hundred twenty. Pretty remarkable, it was. Battery Park had been the catalyst. After the tragedy, Pryce had asked Congress for major new funding for the OCI and had gotten his request. He’d then launched a massive recruiting effort to build an army for fighting this new war that was being waged on American soil.

“And how big is Yuri Vasko’s operation?” the president asked.

“It’s impossible to be certain,” replied Pryce. “But we believe there are more than a thousand individuals working in his organization. Those are the links we’ve verified. Likely there are countless others.”

Hastings shook his head again. “How did this happen? Did
we
give Vasko this power?”

“The Hand is more to blame than anyone, sir,” said Marcus. “He created a vacuum of power that Vasko stepped in to fill.”

“By our best estimation,” Pryce noted, “Vasko now owns or holds sway over at least 55 percent of New York City’s businesses. And that doesn’t include the real estate he owns. He’s landlord to more than a third of the city. It’s all handled under the table, through front companies, of course, so people don’t know he’s the one fleecing them while also pretending to offer them aid from inside his big glass office.”

Hastings felt so helpless. This was not how he’d imagined the war on crime going. Vasko was gaining more ground with each passing day, and it seemed that every action he and his people undertook to counter Vasko only worked to the man’s advantage.

“Mr. President,” said Marcus, sitting up straight in his seat, “may I be frank?”

Hastings eyed his friend with complete attention. “Always.”

“New York is monopolizing our resources and policies, with no tangible results. There are other parts of the nation where we may be able to create a turnaround in the crime rate. I’m sorry to say it, but I believe it’s time for the OCI to move on.”

Hastings didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said, his voice soft and distant.

“Sir?” said Marcus.

“We’re not giving up on New York.”

“Sir, the city is lost,” Marcus stated flatly.

Hastings glanced at Pryce to gauge his reaction, but it was, as ever, unreadable.

“Marcus,” said Hastings, “are you suggesting we abandon the people of New York to Yuri Vasko? Admit defeat, tuck tail, and run?”

“No one wants to see that happen, sir,” replied Marcus. “But pragmatically, I believe it may be time for us to cut our losses. The rest of the country is being ignored because all of our assets are being directed at this one city. And as for the people of New York, many of them are already leaving for safer places to live. More will follow.”

Hastings looked to Pryce. “Director?”

“It is not in my nature to concede defeat. Ever.”

Marcus tried to hide his frustration that Pryce wasn’t backing him up, but Hastings could read his friend too well.

“I can’t give up on New York,” the president said, his tone decisive. “Too many people are suffering there, and we have a responsibility to help them.”

Marcus frowned and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s just too bad The Hand gave up,” he muttered.

“He didn’t.” Hastings turned to look out the big window behind his desk. “He would never,” he said quietly.

I know better than any man alive . . . Nolan Gray doesn’t know how to give up.

But where was he?