Starring:
Summary: The Felon makes an offer that's too good to refuse.
Date It Happened: June 5th, 2008
The Felon And The Federales
Q Train Platform - Chinatown
For Jack, a Tracfone is an essential tool of the trade. Anonymous. Untraceable. In short, exactly what he needs. He flips his open and thumbs in a number that he normally wouldn't call. Then again, these aren't exactly normal circumstances. He's running out of friends at an alarming rate, and right now he needs a little help from officialdom. There's only one person he can trust in that circle. He's still striding briskly down the sidewalk as the phone begins to ring.
Assuming anyone can trust Felix. He's a triple agent, of sorts, even as he tries to cobble together safety and domestic tranquility for his mailorder bride and his superpowered mutant child. But he picks up the phone, promptly, with a crisp, "Ivanov here."
"Hello, Russian," Jack replies, his basso voice creaky and rough from his recent trials. "No time for smalltalk. I have something for you. Something good. I'm going to need a little face time, though. How fast can you make it to the Q station on LaFayette? I'm sick of Chinatown."
A pause, as presumably he looks at his watch. "Half hour," he says, in that accentless voice.
At least Jack won't have to wait long. Rounding one more corner puts him at the train station. "The faster the better. I'll be on the platform. Trust me, you want what I have. It won't come cheaply, though. I need your help. I'll tell you more when you get here."
That said, Jack snaps the phone shut and tosses it out onto the subway tracks. Tracfones might be anonymous, but you only get one call that's guaranteed to be a freebie.
No joking, or jibing about that. Not with his life, of late. And just as he promised, Fel is there on time. He's got his suit on, and the wary eye of a cop sure he's coming into trouble. He may have changed the badge, but the instincts remain.
Half an hour sounded like a lot less time over the phone. The longer Jack stands on the platform, the more exposed and uncomfortable he feels. Dressed in a pair of black denims that are too tight and too short, an undershirt that's hanging onto his large frame for dear life, and an oversized 'I <3 NYC' hoodie, he's no more conspicuous than the majority of the station's occupants. That's small consolation, though.
With his hood up and a pair of dark sunglasses on, he's considerably less recognizable than usual. Despite all the covering, it's clear that he's seen at least one good beating in the last 24 hours.
When Felix makes his appearance, Jack approaches him from the front with his hands held out subtly. No weapons. At least not in sight. "I'm alone," he assures quietly as he passes by. "Follow me." Then he turns toward the station's bank of lockers without slowing.
Ah, Unibomber chic. Fel doesn't hesitate, doesn't ask questions. And commentary is confined to a muttered, "You look like shit, what happened?"
"I fell down some stairs," Jack replies dryly. He already has a key in hand by the time they reach the lockers. He beelines for box 055, unlocks it, and pulls out a small black duffel bag. Considering how gently he handles it, the contents must be fragile, important, or both. Now that the storage compartment has served its purpose, he uncaringly leaves the key in the lock and the door open as he moves toward the stairs. "We're gonna need a little privacy," he assures, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have a car parked at street level. Trust me, you'll wannna see this."
This is the kind of thing that ends with you floating facedown in the Hudson, minus face and hands. Felix knows this, on a cerebral level. But that stupid, relentless mongoose instinct to RUN AND FIND OUT RIGHT NOW kicks in, and he nods, grimly. Still not a word.
Clutching his bag the way a drowning man might cling to a floating spar, Jack takes the steps up to the street two at a time. True to his word, he leads Felix directly to his car. Miraculously, he managed to find a place to park the '89 Mercury Sable less than two blocks from the subway entrance. He's silent during the walk, only huffing out pained, audible breaths.
When they reach his ride, he pops the driver's side door open and slides behind the wheel. "Get in," he calls out. "And try to hold your wad when I show you what I've got. This is a stolen car, but I still don't want your lovestains on the upholstery."
"I'm a married man, I'm used to chastity and restraint at this point," Felix deadpans this. It is completely a lie, considering this is the first year of the marriage, but who is he to kiss and tell. "Besides, you'll swallow."
"Yeah, but that costs extra," Jack deadpans right back. He takes a deep, steadying breath and unzips the duffel. The contents are nothing less than a drug dealer's wet dream mixed with a cop's favorite porno. There are baggies, balloons, and vials that are all filled to the brim. Alongside are photos, telephone records and memory sticks for video cameras.
He only gives Felix enough time for a single, lingering glance before he zips it back up. "I spent the last two months trying to track down a specific designer drug and the man producing it. I came up dry, but I did come back with this. There's enough evidence in here to launch a dozen investigations that could put a hundred bastards behind bars. It's yours if you want it, but I need a favor in return. A big favor."
Someone with as many years on the force as he has is theoretically unflappable. And it's all those years of deadpan cop cynicism that keep him from making the cartoon klaxon of shock noise. No steam out his ears, either. Just a slow widening of the blue eyes behind the glasses,as he looks up at Jack. Quite visibly impressed. "You can't have my daughter, you can't fuck my wife, you can't have the gun I carry because it was a gift from someone who's dead. Pretty much everything else I own you can take your pick of."
"Damn. I was going to shoot for your wife, but I guess I'll have to settle." Grinning humorlessly, Jack fixes his good eye on Felix's face. "No, I don't want anything you own. I want your help. I need to kill some people and I need you to let me get away with it. More than that, I need you to help me clear the cops out of a section of Little Odessa. Call in a fake homicide. Run a training exercise. Whatever works. I need room to operate for an hour."
He looks down at the bag of goodies. The bag that says that Felix Ivanov will be NYC SAC in less than five years. Looks up at Jack's face. There's no fear there, but he is very clearly torn. "Who are you going to kill?"
"A bunch of people who've chased me from here to L.A. and back. I'm sick of running." Frustrated, Jack pounds a fist on the Mercury's dashboard hard enough to crack it. "Trust me. They deserve it. I'm going to do it with or without your help. You help, you get the bag and I might live through it. You don't, I keep the bag and do what I can anyway."
Well, the Company has already bought him. How much more of a corrupt cop can he be? Fel closes his eyes, takes a deep breath with the air of a man about to dive deep into cold water, nods.
"Take it," Jack urges, pushing the bag full of evidence into Felix's lap. "I'll call you again when I'm ready to get to work. Now get outta the car. I can't be seen with a Fed or this whole thing'll come crashing down."
"I have to keep this here," Felix says, quickly. "I can't take this shit home. I've got a kid and a wife. And I can't turn it in as evidence until you've done what you're gonna do."
Jack nods wearily. "Fine," he agrees. "I'll keep it safe for now. You've gotta go, though. We can't be seen together if this is gonna work."