Chasing Shadows 07: Broken Wings

Unraveling Loyalties with a view to kill for.

1 World Trade Center, 107th Floor, New York, 1988

I sat at the bar of Windows on the World atop the World Trade Center as my fingers traced the edges of the martini glass sitting in front of me proudly offering up a Black Russian with little flecks of ice floating in the icy drink like shards of ice in the Volga.

Nadia sat beside me as backup for this was more than just girlfriends out for a drink — this was work. Perched atop the North Tower of the World Trade Center, Windows on the World wasn’t just a restaurant—it was an experience —this was a temple on high, both literally and figuratively a pinnacle of 1980s New York opulence, the restaurant offering breathtaking, uninterrupted panoramic views of Manhattan, the Hudson River, and beyond. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the elegant dining space, making the whole place feel as if they were floating above the city.

As we entered heading to the bar, Nadia marveled at the white tablecloths and pristine place settings lined up in perfect formation—stiff, controlled, immaculate — and we were here for anything but pristine and immaculate.

The men milling about us at the bar ranged from high-powered Wall Street brokers and socialites to tourists looking for a meal or a drink with a view. The men at the bar were sharks in Brioni suits, their drinks swirling with as much calculation as their conversations. Wall Street’s finest, old-money socialites, and thrill-seeking tourists all gathered here—some to celebrate their victories, others to plot their next conquest - or was that just us?

Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings” hummed over the stereo just as Todd, the kindly bartender, caught my gaze. His eyes said it all, Ready…I slid the envelope across the bar. Todd palmed it smoothly, vanishing it from sight. I wasn’t just trying to own this room, I was the room.

As I sat surveying the room and my gaze drifted out the windows, I let the air of the room tell me all I needed to know — the subtle rush of air from the door to the kitchen when it opened, the number of steps back to the elevator bank and the stairwell, the exact location of the cart with silverware - carving forks, knifes, and all manner of weapons — just a quick turn to the right and 15 steps away. I was ready.

And just as my pulse equalized, I heard her, “Oh my gosh, Sonja!” I whipped around to see Katy approaching in a sleek black satin wrap dress, strappy stilettos, and a Chanel clutch, her glossy waves and red lips the perfect balance of effortless glamour and quiet power. Normally I would be thrilled to see my friend and roommate but tonight? I was here to evict her, not from our apartment, but from life.

Katy slid between Nadia and me at the bar, ordering a French 75. As Katy marveled at her drink of choice, all I could see beyond my rage was Katy, a dressed up arm of The Agency, the group that The Vicereine and her “Oracle” hated enough to give me a “hitlist” of operatives to wipe out of existence. I didn’t know much about The Agency beyond their contract work, but as I got lost in thought, an idea surged—what if…Nadia and I pulled a move out of The Vicereine’s playbook? What if we confessed everything to the marked Agency operatives and instead used them as our own private army to dismantle The Vicereine and her operation ourselves?

After Miami, I understood The Vicereine more than ever—but that scared me. I’d seen people like her before. People obsessed with power, control, and fear. I’d witnessed the atrocities committed in their name. I realize I am still an assassin but I’m not completely divorced from my own code of ethics and beliefs - so, should I take advantage of this opportunity or should I follow Fabian’s advice to seek out “the most successful move is the move with highest benefit/lowest cost?”

Whatever I decided, I didn’t have to decide right now, I was working after all…introspection could come later.

As Katy sipped her drink, she peppered me with inane stories of her ‘travels’ like she was some kind of globetrotting fucking Pan Am stewardess that offered, tea, coffee, or murder. She sugarcoated her work as “retainer jobs” but I could taste The Agency and the bitter betrayal all over her. And if that wasn’t enough…I admired her jewelry and then I noticed something that caught my eye — she wasn’t wearing earrings - she had on earrings and in her right ear a very discreet earbud of sorts that only an eye like mine would see. My mind started replaying all the events leading up to this night…Katy suggested Windows on the World - one of the few venues in Manhattan where it would be impossible to mount sniper emplacements on virtue of its height. But why the earbud? Clever girl, I thought…Katy and I worked a job at the Sears Tower last year—I remembered the way we lured that mark down to street level and finished the job—no questions asked, no hesitation. We were partners in every sense of the word. Back then, I’d thought nothing could tear us apart. But tonight? Tonight, I was staring at the woman who sold me out, sold us out, and I didn’t know who she was anymore.

For a split second, the thoughts started to creep in. What if I’m wrong? What if this is all just a misunderstanding?

But the truth didn’t let me linger long. I knew her. I knew what she was capable of. I knew who she had become and I knew who I had to become to survive her and to survive this.

I was afraid to break it to Katy, but her street level hired gun would never receive her radio signal. I began to tire of this whole charade so I put our best laid plans into motion — “Todd,” I said smiling and using my forefinger to rub at the corner of my eye, “Another Black Russian for me,” I said even adding a cheesy laugh to make Katy think we were having the best time between girlfriends, “And another French 75 for my friend here,” I said laying it on extra thick.

I saw Todd mixing the drinks before dropping them in front of Katy and I. Just as the drinks landed on the bar, I turned away from Katy and tapped my earpiece, “Lenin, clear street level, Fidel is going to France.”

“Copy Fidel,” Nancy said as I knew our exit route was clear.

I looked into Katy’s eyes and lifted my drink to cheers with her. I could feel her eyes on me as I raised my drink, the tension between us palpable in the air. There was a moment—just a fleeting moment—when I almost didn’t do it. I almost turned away, thought maybe I could walk out of here without crossing that line. But I knew I’d never escape the truth. She chose a side. And it wasn’t mine.

“Good to see you, Sonja,” Katy said also laying it on thick.

“So why,” I began to ask, “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” Katy stammered.

“Sell out Nadia and me?” I said just cutting the shit and putting it out there.

“Because there’s a new shark in town…” Katy said.

“The Viceriene?” I asked boldly.

Nodding, Katy said, “She’s not building an empire, Sonja. She’s burning everything down just to see who survives the fire. She has a price on her head and I came to collect. But it was nothing personal,” Katy said pleading her case, “it was just work.”

“Funny thing,” I said in return, my eyes saying more than my words could, “I don’t play by the rules, either but I always come to collect,” I said adding, “But it was just work.” Katy’s fingers trembled against the rim of her glass. She blinked, mouth parting like she was about to say something clever, but the words never came. A shudder rippled through her shoulders, then her body seized violently.

Katy wasn’t the friend who used to laugh over dirty takeout containers in our apartment, she wasn’t the one who’d helped me survive this mess of a life. For a moment, I thought about all the times she had my back. The late nights. The stupid inside jokes. The way we used to be. But that was before. Before she made her choice. Before she made mine for me. Her lips trembled as she stared at me, trying to find the words. There were no words left.I exhaled, watching the last flicker of life drain from Katy’s eyes. No triumph. No catharsis. Just silence. Katy’s lips parted like she had something to say. Something that might have changed everything. But the words never came. Her eyes flickered with recognition, a silent oh, as if she had just now understood the game had been lost long before she sat down at this bar.

“До свидания, друг/Goodbye, Friend,” I said before Nadia and I slipped away in the melee.

386 West Street, New York, NY, 1988

After successfully escaping from the World Trade Center, Nadia and I sought solace in two Arch Deluxes with shakes and fries at Arch Burger.

“You know,” Nadia said in Russian, “You really are lucky…” I assumed she meant the fact I was able to indulge in my well known love of Arch Burger whenever my heart desired - and, truth be told, Nadia was not far behind me in obsession for all things Arch Burger.

“This?” I asked motioning at all the crumpled wrappers littering our table.

“Ну да/Well obviously,” she said plainly. “But more importantly, you have friends,” Nadia said as the word “friends” sliced at me based on what we had just done.

“Had…” I said correcting her in the past tense.

Nadia scrunched her face adding, “Когда тебя предал друг, значит, он никогда им не был./If a friend betrays you, it means they were never truly your friend.” She said echoing an old Russian saying.

“Your ‘friend’ may have betrayed you but I see a whole family of friends that still love you and support you,” Nadia said and I realized she was right. “In fact,” Nadia added, “one of them is sitting in front of you.”

“And,” Nadia said, “Growing up at the school, you know it was looked down upon for us to have “friendships” or ‘Уязвимые места/vulnerabilities.’” Nadia reminded me as I remembered how much those ‘lessons’ stung.

“I never had any, I never knew what having a friend was like.” Nadia confessed. "Until now.”