Chasing Shadows 03: Born in the U.S.A.

Something dangerous is in the air

Palladium, 126 E 14th St, New York, NY, 1988

Following my close brush with my haunted shadow, I gathered the girls and ushered us quickly out of the Palladium. As we stumbled out into the stinging coldness of E. 14th Street, Liza spotted a street cart across the street slinging hot dogs. Liza looked like a magnet being pulled across the street as Holly pleaded with her, “Babe, please.”

Liza stopped and turned back to her as Holly begged, hands folded and all, “Ming’s?” Holly was, of course, referring to Ming’s Dynasty, our local favorite Chinese takeout spot. In all honesty, Ming’s was the kind of late-night, slightly too-greasy but completely addictive spot the girls and I all swear by—a place where the food always hits the spot, whether after a job, a night out, or just a craving for something salty and indulgent.

Me? I always was drawn to “Midnight Lo Mein” — a heaping pile of thick egg noodles wok-tossed in a too-good-to-be-true sauce, mixed with crispy bean sprouts, slivers of BBQ pork, and scallions. The girls swear it soaks up alcohol and regret better than anything, but I rarely have such troubles when I eat it.

Katy swears by their “Bulletproof Dumplings” — the quintessential Pork & Chive Dumplings, fried to perfection, served with Ming’s signature black vinegar-chili oil sauce. Crispy on the outside, steamy and rich inside. Rachel swears they “cure all sins” after a wild night out. I selfishly usually hoard the last one—no one fights me on it.

“C’mon babe,” Holly begged, “it will be so much better than that street dog.”

“But,” Liza pouted, “the hot dog is here and we have to take the subway all the way home.”

“Problem solved,” Holly said, fishing a few coins out of her purse and dipping into the nearest phone booth. With the door slid open, Holly said happily, “Hi, Peter? It’s me… the girls and I would love a Midnight Lo Mein, two orders dumplings, Red Dragon Ribs, Lucky Fried Rice, and two orders Drunken Lotus Rolls, extra sauce on the side, please. Perfect.”

Holly turned to us, “Anyone else want anything?” “You nailed it,” Rachel and I said practically in unison.

“Alright,” Holly said happily to the group. “Order is in, should be ready by the time we get home,” as we headed down into the subway.

837 Washington St, New York, NY, 1988

As we came to our building’s doorway, I had a secret hope that the only thing waiting for us inside was Peter from Ming’s with our order standing outside our door. I kept nervously looking behind us as we walked from the subway—my close brush with Nadia, or whoever was following me, had left me rattled, as had her promise of “Soon…” Something dangerous was in the air, and even in this cold night at 1 AM, every breath of the night air tasted like fire—each sip cold, but cutting like an assassin’s blade.

Thankfully, my paranoia melted just as soon as that Ming’s house sauce hit the sizzling bowl of noodles placed in front of me in the living room. I twirled my chopsticks in my takeout container and squirted in a packet of hot mustard, which took the flavoring from mildly tingly to nuclear, just how I liked it—and no, that’s not a Russian joke or a stab at humor. We don’t do humor like that.

I reached over to the container of dumplings, happily helping myself to two, as well as a Drunken Lotus Roll. As I dipped these in sauce and chomped, the pungent and pleasant flavors almost brought a smile to my face—we definitely don’t do smiles, either.

848 Greenwich St, New York, NY, 1988

The next morning, after drinking enough industrial-grade coffee to pressure wash away my hangover, I stepped into Mailboxes & More, a small but busy mail service storefront wedged between a laundromat and a bodega near our apartment. The fluorescent “MAILBOX RENTALS – SHIPPING – COPIES” sign in the window was flickering on one side, making it look just slightly sketchy, but that’s exactly what makes it perfect.

The tagline always screamed at me every time I entered: “Secure. Discreet. Reliable.”

It always made me wretch. It was a pithy saying, so primed full of cocky American hubris—that anything worth having was secure, discreet, or reliable. Having spent plenty of time in the sausage factory, I knew nothing was truly secure, nothing discreet couldn’t be weaponized, and reliability was a myth used to sell American excesses.

My disgust aside, Mailboxes & More served its purpose and then some. These kinds of locations were essential for someone in my line of work. The kind of place where nobody asks questions as long as the payments keep coming.

An aging ex-cabbie named Marty “Mumbles” Ricci ran the front desk and offered kindly smiles but knew keenly when to mind his business. He used to drive for some connected people back in the day, so he recognizes a professional when he sees one.

And in a city that rarely sleeps—that’s only for the dead—Mailboxes & More was open until midnight for “convenience,” meaning for people who don’t want to be seen picking up their mail during daylight.

Inside, the place always smelled like paper, toner, and stale coffee. The walls are lined with rows of brass PO boxes, some dented from years of use, framed by a few yellowed posters advertising fax services and overnight shipping. There’s always a busted Xerox machine in the corner with an “Out of Order” sign that never moves, no matter how many times I mention it, offhandedly.

Marty, right as rain, always keeps an old black-and-white TV behind the counter—half the time it’s playing reruns of The Honeymooners, the other half it’s tuned to the Mets game, even when they’re losing.

For me, Mailboxes & More isn’t just a PO box—it’s part of my infrastructure. It’s where I get my drops, my payments, and any coded messages from clients who prefer to stay anonymous. Doctors carry beepers. This was like a beeper that didn’t make a sound.

Mailboxes & More also offered an additional layer of protection not advertised on any of their flyers in the event something went sideways. Marty wouldn’t rat. Not because he’s noble, but because he knows how this world truly works.

I smoothly inserted the key into my lockbox and quickly turned it open to find a single crisp white envelope. I stealthily slid the envelope into my bag and felt the weight of it. Something about this job felt different, charged, dangerous—like juggling two plutonium cores by an open flame—and it felt as if the envelope weighed half a metric ton.

I stepped out of Mailboxes & More and darted across the street to Nick’s Coffee.

Nick’s Coffee, 851 Greenwich St, New York, NY, 1988

I popped into Nick’s, the decidedly frills-averse coffee shop across from Mailboxes & More. Winking at Louis, the young guy who managed the register, I ordered, “Un café negro, ya tú sabes.”

Louis smiled at me with a devilish wink and poured a perfect cup of coffee, extra black, in a small styrofoam cup. Attaching a plastic lid and sliding it across the counter to me, he winked, saying, “Un cafecito pa’ la bella dama, negrito.”

I smiled in kind, a glow in my eye showing him I appreciated his smooth, respectful words, laced with that perfect Boricua flow that made up for the crap cup of coffee.

Either way, I took up a stool at the counter. Pulling myself against the wall to create some privacy, I sliced open the envelope with my knife. A small photograph slid out.

It showed a man who could be any businessman on the street, holding a briefcase, going up the steps to a nondescript brownstone—could be any house south of Bryant Park.

The accompanying paper detailed the target: one Viktor Sokolov, living in New York as Victor Sullivan, a mild-mannered day trader.

What his buddies on the Street didn’t know? Victor loved striking Devil’s bargains—with some very powerful forces back in the Northern Beast.

On paper, Viktor Sokolov defected, and Victor Sullivan was born the day he landed in America. But if all went well with the client, Victor Sullivan would find his newfound American freedom cut drastically short.

So, I started formulating my plan: find Sullivan’s house, stake out his movements, and begin planning my best point of insertion. Move in. Take out Sullivan quickly and cleanly, with as little mess as possible—and collect my check.

114 Perry St, West Village, New York, NY, 1988

I quietly crept over the sidewalks of Perry Street following the man known as Victor Sullivan like a wraith. Perry street is quiet, tree-lined, and deceptively charming—the kind of place where people walk their dogs, sip espresso at tiny cafés, and pretend the city isn’t as ruthless as it is. It was the place a man like Victor Sullivan might also be lulled into a false sense of security - a place he might think his past could never catch up to him. But I was the past and I was quickly catching up.

The brownstones here— Sturdy, pre-war, well-kept—old money mixed with new ambition. Wrought-iron railings on the stoops, ivy creeping up brick walls, a few polished brass door knockers that gleam under the streetlights. By day, it’s the picturesque version of old New York. By night? The alleys feel just a little too dark. The brownstones too quiet. The kind of place where someone could slip in and out unnoticed—the perfect, ideal hunting grounds.

Hudson Galleria, 2500 Riverdale Center Dr, Riverdale, 1988

Today after several days tailing Victor, I pulled into the parking lot of the hulking temple of American consumerism, the Hudson Valley Galleria, just outside the city, off the Hudson River Parkway, a quick drive from the city but a whole different world, entirely.

The signs happily proclaimed the Galleria as “Where New York Comes to Shop and Free parking. Endless shopping.” But I wasn’t here for an Orange Julius or a new pair of Levi’s, I was out for blood and good old fashioned American greenbacks.

I parked my hideous eggplant-colored Datsun and followed closely behind Victor as he entered the west wing of the mall near Sterling & Co. — the epitome of Mall culture - three floors of clothes no one needed, tacky perfumes and screaming children in strollers. But this Sterling & Co. looked a bit worse for wear - it appeared to have been hollowed out and left for dead like some dying animal.

As soon as I entered the mall, I could smell the cloying sugary-sweet smell of fresh-baked cookies or pretzels or some other gluttonous American treat invading my nostrils. Not for nothing, it smelled practically delectable but I had other business.

As for Victor - here he was hunting the American dream, and yet Victor is living it in the most hollow way possible. This mall is not just a place, but a symbol for what Victor has become—someone running from his past and hiding behind the shiny distractions of American culture. I still couldn’t even figure out what he was doing here so far from the safe confines of home - buying a gift for a girlfriend, wife, mistress? I didn’t know and I didn’t care but the more I learned about Victor the better I would know how to effectively end him.

As I followed him past record stores, shoe stores and toy stores, an uneasy air started to course through the mall. I passed a set of columns while following Victor and as I passed a column that momentarily shielded Victor from view, I strained to lock eyes on him and as I did, I saw the silhouette of my tormentor slicing through the throngs of shoppers, her hair was frozen in time by hairspray and brushed back drastically. She strode forward with the elegance and confidence of a show horse doing dressage on the Moscow Equestrian Club grounds — every step every movement, practiced, graceful and deceptively deadly.

Nadia wore suspenders and black combat boots with a slouchy white tank top sticking out under the straps. To any outsider? Just another cute American girl out shopping but to me?She is war. She is death. She is a walking grave.

Just as I trained my eyes on Victor, Nadia swiveled her head towards me and locked eyes with me—her gaze a silent warning and a provocative challenge. I instinctively reached towards my waist band but seeing all the walking collateral around, this was no place for a confrontation - plus we risked warning Victor and sending him deep underground.

I remembered how I reacted when I first felt Nadia in my presence that day after the subway… I remember that day turning to look at the nameless and faceless crowd behind me, clutching my chest, I whispered quietly as if speaking a terrifying secret into the darkness, “Nadia…”

I wondered in this moment what she said at the thought of my presence, was I a threat? Was she scared to see me or was she picturing the many ways in which she’d undoubtedly torture and kill me?

I’d never know for sure and I wasn’t about to find out so as soon as I could, I turned a corner making a pass at Nadia and Victor. No-I wouldn’t try to kill them but I’d certainly use that nagging need Nadia had for me to draw her off Victor’s scent. I walked by and gave her my own challenge proudly displayed across my eyes - two could play this game.

Sure enough, I could hear Nadia’s boots turn heel on the freshly cleaned floors, and with a quick peak in the glass of one of the stores, I could already tell Nadia was hot on my tail. I passed a line of stores as I approached Sterling’s.

As I passed by the faded sign, I pushed aside the plastic tarp that hung down from the exposed entrance. Inside the store, there was a still, hollow feeling - the air still and yet charged. The flickering tubes of neon gave the store a feeling of my life suddenly converging and crashing together, the darkness and flickering lights of the subway and the Palladium seemingly colliding with the atypical American touches of my apartment, mixers, sectional sofas, clothing, kitchen wares, you name it.

I passed a kitchen counter display with various knives on display and I carefully and delicately slid some of them into my sleeve while also picking up a meat tenderizer with a good heavy mallet head and a good weight to it, I could wield this as a weapon either in my hand or thrown, if needed. I wasn’t panicked, I wasn’t rushing, I was shopping, honey.

As I moved throughout the space, I could feel Nadia gaining on me and I could hear her reaching for items as well subtly and quietly arming herself with an entire kitchen’s worth of weapons.

As I toted my haul towards the exit, I caught Nadia in my rear view in the reflection of a mirror. Now could be the time to end this but I suspected if Nadia was here for me, there had to be a bigger reason that just plain old malice or a “pop in to say hi and catch up.” If I killed her now? I’d never know.

This might be one of those times when choosing not to kill my opponent might work out in my favor. Fabian used to drill into me during our tactical training that “the most successful move is the move with highest benefit/lowest cost.”

And if I killed Nadia? It’s not like that would bring me any closer to my payday with Victor. So my enemy lived to take another breath…for now.

As I exited the Galleria with my ‘purchases,’ I darted across the street towards the Hudson Valley Line, Galleria Station to hop the Midtown Express back to Manhattan proper.

As I descended the steps, I could hear Nadia’s boots tapping the cold, hard floors behind me. I approached the turnstile and swiped my MetroCard and moved towards the platform.

As I stood waiting for the M train to arrive, I spied Nadia waiting further down the platform — we were separated by everyday citizens waiting for the train but we might as well have been on opposite shores of the Volga, the divide between us echoing the river’s divide of East and West, the past and the future, one side rooted in the old world, the other rushing toward something new, neither able to truly cross.

As the roar of the M filled the station, the train rushed past gliding to a stop as the doors slid open and we stepped forward onto the train and closer to destiny.

As the train rocketed towards Manhattan, I stood gripping the pole, watching the subway tunnel swallow the train and draw it further into its maw. As we were being consumed by the city’s underbelly, the underbelly of my past revealed itself to me, the door at the end of the car opened and Nadia came strutting in, bold, brave, confident—almost as if she were presenting herself to me, practically taunting me, Come and get me.

I pulled back and pushed through the door of the car into the next carriage and kept moving. “Always keep moving,” Fabian would teach me, And so I did, I kept moving, a moving target is always harder to hit—the more movement, the more other factors like wind, obstacles, the unexpected can trip up the hunter and so I did as he instructed and kept moving until there was practically no train left to move into. Just a few minutes more to my station, I thought, Just keep it together.

A few minutes later - or maybe a lifetime it felt like — the train’s momentum shifted dramatically and I could tell we were decelerating just as my heart began to do the same. Nadia and I locked eyes as if to say, Not here.

As the train glided into W. 4th Street station, the doors hissed and opened as the announcer intoned, “M Train express, next stop, PATH Terminal with connections to Boreum Hill and Kew Gardens.”

Nadia and I stepped off the train and looked at each other as the discharging passengers quickly headed towards the turnstiles. As the platform cleared, it was as if the tension that had been surging between us came to a head. From her pocket, Nadia fished out a dagger and lunged at me snarling, “Грязный предатель/Filthy Traitor.” I had just enough time to pull the meat tenderizer from my bag holding it in front of me across my trunk to deflect Nadia’s blade as the blade up my sleeve slid out into my hand and I swiped it across Nadia’s face, cutting the edge of her cheek near where I left a scar years before.

If Nadia didn’t wear the shame of my fury already, she sure did now. I swung the tenderizer toward her head and lunged toward her ribcage with my blade, but as I did so, both of our eyes flicked to the entrance where several everyday subway riders were approaching the platform. We could hear the roar of the oncoming subway and the rush of air that always preceded a train’s arrival. Our eyes flicked to the empty platform on the opposite side of the tracks.

Nadia broke first—she began making a run for it, and I ran close behind. The two of us took a daring leap, the air seeming to freeze as we did, and time stood still. The breeze blowing against my skin told me all I needed to know about the scene unfolding around us.

Before I knew it, I could feel the crunch of my shoulder and arm colliding into the platform. The subway screamed past us on the tracks.

I scrambled to reach Nadia. I could feel her rustling for something—a gun? Another knife? I rotated my body weight sharply, drawing my leg across her midsection and knocking her off balance, pinning her to the platform with my body.

Her hand stretched toward me, reaching for anything. I pinned it to the ground and then drove my blade into her palm, twisting as I did to incapacitate her. She wouldn’t be firing a gun or using a knife with that hand—that was for damn sure.

“Ну давай, убей меня / Kill me,” Nadia spat at me.

“Зачем мне это делать? / Why would I want to do that?” I asked, in a tone that was more mocking than curious, even though I had her dead to rights.

“Всё из-за того, что я сделала с тобой / Because of what I did to you,” Nadia said, her voice carrying the weight of something—regret? Defeat?

It was then that I realized, I wasn’t talking to a hardened enemy. I was talking to a lonely, scared girl who probably showed up at that school just as bruised and broken as I was.

“Sokolov,” I hissed, letting my rage simmer. “What are you doing following him?”

“Contract,” she said, and in that moment, I realized we were so much more alike than I even knew.

“The Union,” she stammered, out of breath, “wants him dead. They sent me. You just sort of got in the way,” she conceded.

“When I found out you were on him too, I figured I’d let you lead me to him, and by scaring you, maybe you’d get it done even faster than I could,” Nadia continued. “You were always way better than me anyway,” she said, and I could feel the bead of a tear tugging at the corner of my eye.

Arch Burger, 228 W 10th St, New York, NY, 1988

Nadia Romanov sat across from me in a booth at Arch Burger as I took a hearty bite of my Mega Arch, relishing every last fucking bite.

Nadia and I both looked a bit worse for wear—Nadia had a handkerchief tightly wound around the wound in her hand, and she held an Arch Freeze to reduce the pain as she took hesitant spoonfuls of the swirled ice cream inside.

“You like this stuff?” Nadia asked curiously, eyeing the bounty I’d laid out before us.

“Like?” I asked in her native tongue. “Are you joking? I love it.”

Nadia grabbed for some fries and took a sip of a Coke and—what do you know—she actually cracked what could only be described as a genuine smile.

“Yeah,” she confessed, “I can see why,” as she happily munched on a handful of fries.

You could’ve never, in a million years, told me that my old enemy and I would come so far from our school days back in Russia. But yet here we were. To the casual outsider? Just two girlfriends enjoying a meal.

But I knew the real truth—this was something more.

This was a scene that could only be Born in the U.S.A.