Overkill Read online

  Overkill

  jack spade book 1

  Dylan Rust

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  1

  Within the darkness of a winter storm the RSC Tundra glided under the Bayonne Bridge. It sailed along the Kill Van Kull tidal toward Port Newark, one of the busiest ports on the Eastern seaboard.

  The Tundra was small for a container ship, but it didn’t need to be big for the drop off.

  It just needed to be inconspicuous enough that it could get in and out of New York harbor without being stopped by Port Authority or the Coast Guard.

  Once back on the Atlantic, the ship’s captain, Oleksii Borachev, would be able to relax.

  He’d be able to open up that flask of vodka he’d hidden in his jacket. He could feel it calling to him.His hands were shaking.

  It was his first time within United States waters.

  The Tundra entered service in 1973, but it didn’t show its age. New rotors, dials, and an updated computer system helped offset years of wear and tear. And thanks to the fact that its first home was sailing back and forth between ports on the Black Sea, where the anoxic water preserved its hull, the metal plating hadn’t rusted. While there was a slight murmur from the rudder that suggested a buildup of algae, the ship was in good condition. It wouldn’t attract any unnecessary attention, and that was all that mattered.

  The New York-New Jersey Port Industry supports more than 170,000 jobs per year and injects more than thirty-seven billion dollars in business income for the state. Over the span of one year, about three million containers come and go. That’s more than eight thousand per day.

  With three major ports and that much traffic, securely monitoring the waters was a herculean task. But New Jersey-New York Port Authority personnel were more than up for it.

  If you wanted to get in, you needed to be ready to have your papers scrutinized by seventeen clerks, each of whom had a knack for finding the smallest of inconsistencies.

  If the clerks missed something, the over two hundred zealous Port Authority personnel patrolling the Hudson wouldn’t.

  One oddity and your ship will be pulled in for inspection.

  Oleksii didn’t know that. It was part of the reason why Loscovitch Logistics brought him in. He was a foreign smuggler. He didn’t know the risk. They didn’t want anyone who knew the scope and reach of New York-New Jersey Port Authority. His ignorance was an asset.

  The Tundra passed each checkpoint without any questions from Port Authority patrol boats, exactly as had been promised.

  Loscovitch sent Oleksii the contract weeks ago and informed him that as long as he did what he was told, everything would go as planned. Oleksii liked hearing that. He liked following orders. It made things simple.

  What surprised Oleksii was just how formal Loscovitch was. Port Authority Marine Terminal Tarriffs Schedule No. 10PA had been paid and cleared; the containers had been checked by two centralized examination stations; and even the inspector general provided a personalized letter of approval for access.

  It all struck Oleksii as strange, but he didn’t really care. The formal documentation and clearance just made his job easier.

  The only thing that really upset him was the city itself.

  He was unfamiliar with the currents. The American accents on the radio chatter sounded hostile and strange. The city’s skyline was alien. The twinkling lights from the skyscrapers were ugly to him. He liked the darkness. He liked the black.

  His first officer tapped him on the shoulder. He looked out the wheelhouse’s front window. The tug approached. He’d have to give up control soon.

  His first officer pointed to his hand. It was shaking. He grabbed hold of it with the other. He’d need that vodka sooner than he thought. His nerves were getting the better of him. He grabbed the flask and took a swig.

  His first officer frowned. He gave his first officer the finger.

  As the contract stipulated, the tug was marked with New Jersey-New York Port Authority insignia. The first officer signalled to the wheelhouse crew to turn off the main engines of the Tundra and slow the large ship down. The giant engines of the Tundra shut down. An eerie silence cast itself over the ship.

  The tug began the process of dragging the Tundra into port. Its maritime pilot connected the heaving line from the Tundra to the tug’s head tractor. Once that was connected, the stern line was passed through the Tundra from the tug’s rear tractor. Finally, the stern tow line was connected to the Tundra and the drag began.

  Oleksii picked up the mic and ordered his crew back to their quarters. Their work tonight was over. The contract made it clear that they were not to help offload the containers.

  The crew was not surprised. For the entire eight day journey from Odessa, they had to keep a thirty foot gap between themselves and the containers they were carrying. To ensure that the rules were followed, security personnel from Loscovitch were aboard.

  After Oleksii’s broadcast, the Tundra’s crew disappeared from the deck. They’d be drunk before dawn, celebrating a job well done. Oleksii wanted to be with them, but he had to remain in the wheelhouse.

  It was now just the first officer and Oleksii.

  Whatever the Tundra was dropping off, it wasn’t containers full of knockoff Nikes or Addidas.

  Outside, the storm picked up.

  Thick flakes of snow clouded the shoreline, making it impossible to see the symbols of power and progress that New York’s skyscapers represented. For a brief second, it looked like the cold, lonely waters of the Black Sea. If not for the radio chatter from the hundreds of boats in the harbor, Oleksii would have felt at ease.

  A sharp pain crawled up his lo
wer back, causing him to wince. His hand shook. He grabbed it and squeezed until the pain went away. Years of manual labor were starting to slow him down. He wouldn’t be able to keep doing the job much longer.

  His first officer gave him a look of concern.

  Oleksii gave him a look that said fuck you, mind your own business.

  The first officer turned away.

  Oleksii needed to relax. He needed to calm down. He grabbed the flask of vodka and took another swig. The medicine helped. The burn felt good. He wanted one more, but he needed his wits about him. He buttoned up his jacket, nodded to his first officer, and greeted the harsh wind of the storm outside. The fresh air would help. He didn’t feel the cold. His calloused skin protected him against the elements.

  The tug brought the Tundra in slower than most ships, but that was all part of the play. If they looked like they were in a hurry, Port Authority patrols would notice. Oleksii stood on the deck and watched as Dock 7C approached. The light from the storage warehouse appeared out of the dark.

  He took another swig of vodka.

  Wits be damned.

  The adjacent docks on either side of 7C were empty. A group of men stood along them, waiting to unload the Tundra. They wore thick pea coats and black wool caps. Despite their appearance, they didn’t look like sailors or dock crew. The way they held themselves made them look like gangsters.

  The tug pulled the Tundra into place. The group of men along the dock got to work.

  The Tundra had seventy-four containers. Each one needed to be unloaded by sunrise.

  Oleksii walked back into the wheelhouse, sat down and took another small sip of his vodka. His first officer had fallen asleep.

  Oleksii wanted to feel calm, but something was off. While the vodka had steadied his hand, his mind remained restless. Like any good captain, he didn’t like giving up control unless it was to the drink.

  He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t rest.

  All he could focus on was the sound of the crane take each container, one by one, off the deck of the ship. Every now and then one of his eyes would open. The thick steel lines of the crane flung back and forth due to the strong wind from the storm. They sounded like thunder. The men outside were not sailors or dock workers. They didn’t know what they were doing. They’re unloading skills were amateur at best.

  A few hours passed, the storm didn’t cease. Oleksii turned on the radio.

  “The worst storm in forty-nine years is ravaging New York. The governor had declared a state of emergency.”

  Oleksii laughed. A couple snowflakes and it was an emergency?

  Outside, the men were almost done. They only had one container left. Light from the sun crept above the horizon.

  The Loscovitch personnel aboard the ship attached the crane’s straps to the final container.

  The man operating the crane was young. It was his first big job. He wanted to impress the boss.

  His name was Dimitri Barkov. He was a Shestyorka, the lowest ranking member of the Grekovitch Gang. He couldn’t grow a beard and he couldn’t handle his vodka.

  To prepare for the job, he had read manuals on how to operate shipping cranes, he’d even played a few simulations on his computer, but he was not a crane operator. He was small-time drug dealer from Little Odessa in Brooklyn.

  The simulations did not prepare him for inclement weather. The storm had been horrendous. Despite his inexperience, he’d somehow managed to successfully unload seventy-three of the containers, but there’d been some close calls along the way.

  He controlled the crane aggressively.

  “One more container, that’s it,” he said. “You’ve got this Dimitri.”

  His hands were sweating. The levers and dials inside the booth were moist. He pulled back the hydraulic lever to lift up the final container.

  It rose from the Tundra’s deck. He guided it slowly from the ship to dock. He just had to lower it.

  That was the easy part.

  The wind picked up. The container swayed. The men on the ground radioed to Dimitri to slow down. Oleksii tried, but something wasn’t right. The container’s weight wasn’t balanced. It dipped down, and began to slide out of its straps. The men on the dock screamed. Dimitri tried to regain control.

  He could do nothing.

  The container fell twenty-three feet onto the concrete floor of the dock. It smashed open.

  Oleksii had been napping. The radio was still on. When he heard the crash, he turned it off and looked out the wheelhouse. It was then that he saw what the Tundra had shipped. It was what he’d feared. He took another sip of vodka and sat down.

  He might be a good captain, and a good father, but he was a smuggler who worked for bad men.

  He’d need more than one bottle of vodka to wash away those memories.

  Out on the dock, the men scrambled to pick up the contents of the container.

  The bodies of two women were splayed along the concrete. They didn’t look any older than twenty. They were both covered in blood. Their naked bodies weren’t moving.

  The men working on the dock grabbed the lifeless bodies of the women and put them in the backseat of a black SUV parked beside the warehouse.

  Dimitri panicked. He jumped out of the crane’s control booth and ran to help. He’d fucked up. How was he going to explain his mistake?

  He didn’t need to worry about that. Once the women were secured, the men on the dock knew what to do. There was nothing for Dimitri to explain.

  “I’m sorry. That bitch must have been moving around. That stupid bitch. We told them to keep still. Fuck, my brothers. I’m sorry. We told them. We told them!”

  The men didn’t respond. They just listened. When Dimitri was done, one of them pulled out a pistol, a Tokarev TT-30, and aimed it at Dimitri.

  Dimitri turned and ran.

  “Brothers,” he said while running. “Please, brothers!”

  The man fired his gun.

  He missed.

  The other men laughed.

  The man with the gun fired again.

  He missed once more.

  The laughter intensified. The man firing was supposed to be a good shot.

  One more shot.

  Dimitri dropped, blood oozed out of the open hole in his chest. He stumbled. He had fight in him. He fell off the dock and into the water.

  The men on the dock looked at each and shrugged. They walked up to the man with the TT-30 and mocked him. He told them to fuck off.

  A few men ran up to the edge of the dock. They felt they should pull Dimitri’s body in.

  The man with the gun told them not to worry about it.

  The current should take him far away from Dock 7C.

  Oleksii finished the bottle of vodka and sat back down. He saw the murder. He rubbed his brow. He would be on the Atlantic in a few hours.

  That wasn’t the first man he’d seen murdered. He knew it wouldn’t be his last.

  The men on the dock messaged him that they’d finished up. They apologized for the delay. They said there was a minor inconvenience. Oleksii said thank you. He wasn’t going to complain.

  The Tundra was pulled out of the dock by the small tug and, once it was far enough from 7C, it turned its engines back on.

  Back on Dock 7C, the men cleaned up the mess. They scrubbed the concrete clean of blood as the first glimmer of light from the new day hit the ground. One of them picked up a small pink bear and tossed it into the water. It must have fallen from the container, one of the women must’ve brought it with her.

  “Women,” he muttered. “Always wanting it to be cute and cuddly.”

  The other men laughed. They were done. They got into their black SUVs and drove off.

  2

  After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the golden age of the Russian mafia began. As the country adopted a free market, organized gangs took over the economy. Russia’s billionaire oligarchs saw it as an easy opportunity to turn their illegitimate enterprises into legitimate on
es.

  And with the influx of ex-KGB, former Spetznaz operatives, and veterans into the private workforce, where their skills and talents weren’t exactly suited to help them find work, underground organizations were able to add vital cogs and levers to their machines.

  Sergei ‘The Bear’ Grekovitch provided the framework for the transition.

  He set the template, the model.

  Every Russian gang that rose to power during the period followed the Grekovitch model.

  The Bear understood the benefit of Russia entering the global marketplace, and, as such, made sure that the men in his organization had connections to the most powerful nation in the world: The Unites States of America.

  Sergei was renowned for his foresight. He’d started the Grekovitch Gang in the eighties, during the twilight of the Soviet empire. It didn’t take a lost war in Afghanistan to prove to him that the Soviet empire was about to collapse and he made sure he didn’t go down with the ship.

  During the eighties, his gang fed information across the Berlin Wall to U.S. Intelligence offices on the other side. In return, they turned a blind eye when shipments of illegal contraband came into New York waters from one of Sergei’s container ships. Times were different then, and letting a Russian mobster set up shop and flourish inside New York City hardly seemed like a problem compared to the spread of communism.