Chasing Shadows 05: Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now

Something Wicked This Way Comes...

217 West 10th Street, New York, NY, 1988

I walked into Mailboxes & More with Nadia at my side and with my head held high this morning as the memory of Victor’s job was already slipping into the past, buried under Jack Daniels and several orders of Ming’s.

I waved at Arnie as we moved towards my dropbox, I slid the key in with anticipation crackling almost as loud as the overhead fluorescent light. As I opened the box, I saw the blue envelope with red trim — payment. The blue envelope leaned up another white envelope similar to the one that kicked off Victor in the first place.

“What is it?” Nadia asked in hushed Russian sensing my unease.

“Come,” I instructed as my eyes swept the shop scanning for anything amiss as I pulled Nadia out of the shop and waved goodbye to Arnie.

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

”¿Qué va a ser, mis amores? ¿Y quién es esta nena tan chula?/what will it be lovelies? And who's this pretty young thing?” Louis cooed at me and Nadia as I plainly shot out “dos cafecitos, puro negro, sin nada, papi./Two coffee, pure black, with nothing, papi.”

Louis poured our coffee while his eyes traced Nadia’s curves and figure.

As we tucked into our table against the wall, I sliced open the white envelope and a photo slid out of an elegant woman in a fur coat with a blonde ponytail and even from the grainy black and white photo, I could tell she was decked out in a Diamond’s District worth of jewelry. Inside was a card: name, date, time, a location:
Elaine Dorchester
Langley Hotel Bar
116 West 44th Street.
Tuesday 3PM

Nadia pulled the photo closer to her and I saw as her expression widened into something that resembled familiarity spiked with fear.

“Her?” Nadia whispered under her breath in hushed Russian.

“You know her?” I asked.

“Very Dangerous,” Nadia said her warning steady but broken.

“Should I not go?” I asked as my self preservation piqued. If Nadia was afraid, maybe this job, whatever it was might not be worth the human capital.

“No,” Nadia protested, “You go, I go with you.” She said trying to get the words out. “I be your partner.”

837 Washington St, New York, NY, 1988

Back at the apartment, Nadia was earning her keep by ordering Pizza Haven for me and all the girls. In the very short time Nadia had been staying with us, she actually fit in really nicely with the other girls. I believe I even might of heard her giggle about something with Holly the other day — truly not something I would have ever envisioned.

As the pile of steaming Haven Deluxes arrived, Nadia helped get out plates and began dishing out the slices. It occurred to me in this moment that over the blur of the last few weeks, this was the first time we had all been in the same space at the same time.

I looked across the table at one point as Katy, Holly and Nancy were sizing us up. “What?” I asked curiously although my tone may have come off somewhat harsh.

“You two are up to something..” Katy said knowingly.

“Perhaps,” I said cryptically.

“Teaming up again?” Katy asked probing.

“All I can say is…maybe,” I said giving her an inch.

“Can we help?” The girls said practically leaping in unison.

“Let them help,” Nadia urged me in Russian.

I relented and retrieved the envelope. Sliding the picture and address across the table I asked, “Elaine Dorchester…heard anything about her?”

“Bad news,” Nancy said, “She’s hooked up with some pretty nasty types. Albanian mob, at least, Soviets at worst, no offense,” Nancy said smiling at Nadia.

“And,” Nancy added, “I heard she’s lined up with some other types that make those guys look like kids in a sandbox. Bottom line, don’t get involved.”

“I appreciate it,” I said honestly, “But what will happen if people hear that The Black Russian gets spooked by some rich bitch playing dress up as Mafia Barbie?”

“Fine,” Nancy relented, “Let’s keep the reputation of The Black Russian intact but…let me provide overwatch,” Nancy said offering her backup.

“Deal,” I said smiling as I reached for the parmesan.

116 West 44th Street, New York, 1988

As Nadia and I approached the Langley Hotel on 44th Street, Nadia and I did one last radio check.

“Check, check, one two,” I said waiting for Nancy.

“Roger, Lenin, this is Fidel on overwatch, I have eyes on The Mahogany Room. Door is clear, proceed when ready.”

“We’re set,” I told Nadia as she pulled in close to me and we stepped into the hotel lobby gliding over the highly polished white marble. We approached the ornately carved arches that opened up into the Mahogany Room bar.

“Rozhenko here for Dorchester,” I said to the host as he scanned his book, “Ah yes,” he said, “The Vicereine, right this way,” he said as I nervously smoothed out my black skirt and fidgeted with my black leather jacket. “Right this way, ma’am,” he said leading me into the bar. By the window was a single woman with her icy blonde hair pulled into a chignon so tight a sneeze might rip open her skin.

“Vicereine?,” the host prompted as the woman swiveled her head towards us as a pair of gold hoop earrings studded with diamonds dangled from her ears and swayed as her head turned.

“Sonja Rozhenko,” she said as if saying my name were forbidden, the way it unfurled off her tongue. “The Black Russian.”

“And this?” She asked motioning to Nadia.

“Natalie Brewer,” I said, “My associate for clients of your…taste level.” I said trying to silence the tremble forming in my throat.

“So,” Elaine said broaching the gulf between us with a directness that was like a hot iron cutting though a block of ice, “How does this sort of thing work?”

My eyes scanned the bar but Elaine clocked this. “My people are keeping us safe, we can talk openly” she said as her eyes darted to the corners of the bar and I saw men in snug suits manning the entrances and exits with the distinctive outlines of guns under their coats.

“Lets start with the basics,” I said cutting to the chase.

“Who is the target for this ‘transaction’?” I asked.

“My husband,” she said bluntly. I had been hired by plenty of women who wanted to kill their spouses - why? Not my problem — it wasn’t a question that kept me up at night. But there was something about this that caused me to question everything. I had never been approached by a wife who carried her own security detail of this magnitude, I had never seen a spouse this cunning, ruthless or one that had the searing hunger she had in her eyes at this moment to see him dead. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, this wasn’t just domesticity gone wrong, what if this was a wife who suffered at the hands of a man, a man who thought he could treat her like property, a man who thought her his property. I couldn’t say if I were in her position I might not act the same. Maybe she and I were more alike than I thought.

“We live in Europe most of the time, but we’re back here in New York for a wedding,” she explained. “He’s always so protected by his cousins and their associates - they travel with him everywhere,” she explained. “But his cousins are in the wedding, and if I know them, they will be drunk and passed out under some bridesmaid somewhere so while they are otherwise ‘engaged,’ you will move in to the suite and do what you need to do.”

“Does he have guns on him typically?” Nadia asked.

“He travels with a gun,” Elaine said, “He keeps one. Always. Bedside table, second drawer.”

“There’s one other thing,” she added.

“He has… a certain taste. And you, Miss Rozhenko, happen to be precisely it,” she said scanning me up and down. “What if you made a pass at him and took him to our suite?” There was a half-second of stillness that followed—and in that silence I processed what Elaine just said as she watched me intently like she wants to see me squirm, but I refused to give her that satisfaction.

Her words landed like a slap in the face, and for a moment, my mind flickers with a brief hesitation. I’ve used my body before—hell, I’ve made a career of it—but there’s something different about this. Something cold about the way she expects me to sell myself. My breath catches in my throat, but I hold it, pulling my face back into its usual composure. This is what I do. I’ve always done it. Just another mark. Another night.

116 West 44th Street, New York, 1988

Nadia and I approached the Langley Hotel for the big Ivaonaov wedding bash. The hotel had the bustling energy of a frat party, there was a sense of wild hedonism threading through the air from the moment we stepped into the lobby.

We moved slowly and gracefully towards the Beatty Ballroom every word, every glance, every movement, slow, practiced and deliberate.

“Lenin, this is Castro,” Nancy chirped in my ear, “I’ve got the ballroom in my sights in case anything goes sideways, get in, get out and good luck, overwatch out,” she said putting my mind at ease.

We approached the doorman, looking up from his book I said plainly, “Elenor Preston.”

“Right this way, Ms. Preston,” he said ushering us into the Ballroom. The room was draped in flowers but equally draped in slimy Eastern European types. They reeked of danger, money, murder, and malice just as much as they wore a stench of gun runners — bloodthirsty arms dealers and their covens of subservient women serving as nothing more than accessories as opposed to individual human beings. The air was thick with too much cologne, too many expensive perfumes. It was the kind of air that makes your skin crawl, like the sense that you’ve stepped into a den of wolves—everything about this room, from the chandeliers to the laughter, felt like a facade. I could hear the clink of glasses, but all I could see was blood. Nadia’s eyes flickered from the men in suits to the women, and I could see her holding back a sneer. I knew she didn’t trust any of them either, but unlike me, she wasn’t hiding it.

These men treated everything and everyone as collateral, just means to an end.

And there in this swirl of chaos, I saw her, The Viceriene dressed to the nines in a champagne colored gown dripping in jewelry, which to many must look like expensive, elegant trappings of privilege, but to me? Just gilded handcuffs and chains.

Around The Vicereine swarmed a cadre of well-dressed and undoubtedly well-armed men. The funny thing is, they were so close to her they were practically a part of her, their moves almost syncopated—The Vicereine looked left, they all looked left, she scanned the room, their heads swiveled with hers. Her men seemed to be an extension of her. Their movements weren’t just in sync—they were predictable, like a well-choreographed dance. Left, right, pause, a slight tilt of her head—and they responded like clockwork, the unspoken signals passing through the air like a silent command. As she surveyed the room, I could see she was a true apex predator surveying her savannah from the corner of the ballroom. She wasn’t just waiting, she was hunting.

A guest sent a fleeting hello her direction which she acknowledged with a subtle nod. A moment later, The Viceriene and her men began moving forward as she applied her mask of cool indifference, the one she probably wore to seem unaffected and unattached. As she moved towards the guest, people parted like waves when she moved, she didn’t just command her men; she commands the entire space around her. I also noticed the way the air shifted when she walked past us. As she did so, she locked eyes with us as if she were giving us permission, permission to carry out our job, but I would move when I was good and ready, I could feel the room shifting, but I didn’t move. Not yet. There was too much at stake here, and I wasn’t about to rush in blindly. Timing was everything. I’d wait until she made her next move, and then I’d decide. I could feel my pulse quicken as The Vicereine’s gaze met mine. It wasn’t just her power that unnerved me—it was the way she moved through the room with such ease, like she was untouchable. A reminder of what I could never be.

As The Vicereine approached the woman waving at her, she turned back towards me, her body pivoting on the ball of her foot as her body rotated towards me. We locked eyes and then her gaze darted towards an archway in the corner of the ballroom where her husband, Viktor talked to a burly Eastern European man who I didn’t need X-Ray vision to tell was more strapped than a tribal warlord’s army.

I ran my hand through my hair, making my movements look lighthearted and casual, gently rubbing the skin just below my right earlobe, I managed a quick decisive nod, the kind that no prying eyes would notice and her face seemed to tell me, “proceed.”

“Let’s move in,” I told Nadia quietly. As we approached Viktor, I took two coupes of champagne off a passing serving tray, downed one myself and handed the other to Nadia telling her, “you’re very drunk, you know.”

Nadia, picking up my suggestion began laughing uncontrollably and wrapping her arms around me. She must have sensed she was laying it on thick because just as we approached Viktor she reeled in in a bit.

“Viktor Ivonovav?” I said making my voice sound light and airy.

“Da,” he said turning towards me. “And you are?” He asked looking me and Nadia up and down.

“Just an admirer,” I said flirtatiously. “My friend here thinks you’re cute,” I said motioning to Nadia who was expertly playing the semi-tipsy role.

“Say,” I broached, “You want to have some fun together with me and my friend?” I asked.

Reaching out in a moment of boldness, I grabbed his wallet through his pants and felt him tense before giving in to a sense of sensual intrigue.

“I’m sure you can afford us,” I said — now I was the one laying it on thick.

Viktor traded a devilish smirk and I knew we had him — we just had to get him up to his suite and finish him off.

As I watched Viktor, his smile widening with each glance between us, I could feel the weight of the moment press in. Every step forward felt like a game of cat and mouse, and in my head, I was already planning the next move. But with every inch we closed to him, I could see his hand hovering near his coat—just a hint of the predator beneath that smile.

Viktor lead us through the ballroom as The Vicereine looked on in approval. Just as we got to the exit to the ballroom, a team of men approached reaching into their coats — never a good sign.

“Unhand him,” one of the men said in Russian.

I stepped back in fear as the men drew guns on us. I swiveled my head back into the ball room to see another group of men drawing guns on The Vicereine and her men.

“These are the ones sent to kill you,” one of the men barked at Viktor.

“Get rid of them,” he sneered, “And get rid of that bitch, too, and make it hurt.” I knew he meant The Vicereine.

The men wrapped their hands around our arms and began forcibly leading us down a corridor towards a door to the street.

Behind us, I could hear The Vicereine screaming as she was similarly pulled towards the street.

“I loved you,” Viktor yelled at The Vicereine in some Slavic tongue.

“You can’t love anything,” The Vicereine shouted back at him.

“I will love spitting on your grave,” Viktor barked in return.

I heard my radio crackle, “Lenin, report.” I wanted to scream loud enough for Nancy to hear me but I was powerless.

The security detail threw open a door onto 6th Ave and as we exited the hotel I felt a cold rush of bitter cold air rush my senses as well as a pounding overhead rain as we were dragged out onto the sidewalk and The Vicereine along with us.

The men leveled their pistol at her head.

“Sergei,” The Vicereine pleaded but he was unmoved, he only offered a cold, “You deserve to die.”

“Stay very still,” Nancy whispered in his ear. I tried to tell Nadia with my eyes and I stood as still as possible until a shot rang out and one of the men’s blood and brain matter splattered The Vicereine’s dress. Digging into my handbag, I wrapped my hand around my pistol and whipped it around my midsection raising it to level with Sergei’s eyeline as The Vicereine trembled. “Do I tell my overwatch to do the same thing to you or do you want to live to see tomorrow?” I asked.

“Don’t let him go,” The Vicereine pleaded. “He’ll kill us.”

“What do you want to do boss?” Nancy asked over the radio.

“Take care of it,” I said as I pulled the trigger and Sergei fell on 6th Ave, his blood running into a storm drain as the icy rain tried in vain to wash away the horror of this night.

“Now what?” The Vicereine asked breathlessly.

“We run,” I said as I craned my head up and saw the signs for the Bryant Park, 42nd Street Station. The Vicereine, Nadia and I hailed the nearest taxi and barked “Bryant Park.” Coincidentally, the cabbie that picked us up was blasting Starship’s “Nothing’s Gonna Stop us Now,” and the irony was not lost on me.

As the city blurred by behind rain-streaked windows, The Vicereine muttered, “I was set up,” she said before quickly correcting herself, “You were set up.”

“How?” I asked incredulously.

“Viktor runs arms for…lets just call them a ‘large scale global organization’” The Vicereine said in hushed tones, “They use an ‘agency’ of sorts to deal with threats to their members and suppliers like Viktor,” The Vicereine continued, “The organization… they control more than just arms, Sonja. They deal in things that are far more dangerous than guns. And they have eyes everywhere. They’d never let someone like me slip through the cracks. They must have gotten tipped off I hired you. Is there anyone who knew that you had this job?” She asked as my soul screamed and my stomach hollowed itself out.

“Who would do that?” Nadia asked me in Russian.

The cold hard truth began landing on my shoulders as I said out loud, “Katy,” the words landing with a heavy weight as if saying them aloud had unleashed a dark force I didn’t quite understand or want to believe, even though I had to accept it.

The realization hit me like a freight train, and for a moment, everything froze. Katy? It felt like the world was closing in, the sheer weight of it pressing against me. I’d trusted her, and now, I had to face the bitter truth. Betrayal was something I’d always expected from the men I worked with, but never from someone I thought had my back.