Chasing Shadows 08: Blue Monday/Burning Heart

Sonja comes face to face with danger and destiny.

1342 Myrtle Avenue, Brooklyn, NY, 1988

Nadia and I walked into El Barrio bodega on Myrtle Ave. just off the Knickerbocker St. station. The sounds of Brooklyn hummed around us as we walked across the street towards the Bodega - the trains screeching on the tracks overhead, the catcalls from the men on the corners, the tinny sounds of music and voices in Spanish carrying from radios in the windows of apartments looking out over the street.

And unto this symphony of Brooklyn sounds, Nadia and I introduced the door chime of the Bodega as we entered and the soundscape of Brooklyn faded behind us.

This bodega had that classic quintessential neighborhood feel, tucked between two apartment buildings with graffiti art on the side, a neon “Open 24 Hours” sign, and a tight-knit community vibe. It’s the kind of place that offered everything from grocery essentials to a quick snack, with the kind of low-key charm one would find in the heart of Brooklyn. The only difference? This bodega offered more than arepas and cigarettes. This was more than a local stop off for those looking for smokes, it was also a way station for those looking for something a little more off the books.

Nadia and I approached the wiry Colombian man at the register. “¿Dónde está el fantasma?/Where is The Ghost?” I asked confidently as I saw his hand reach under the counter.

“Te veo estirándote, así que te daré una opción: ¿quieres salir de aquí con manos o no?/I see you reaching and so I will give you a choice - do you want to walk out of here with hands or not?” I asked with menace lacing my voice.

“El fantasma está en la parte de atrás/The Ghost is back there,” he said relenting and pointing to the back door.

Nadia and I pressed through the door to find Luca “El Fantasma” Salazar behind his desk surrounded by a small desk, a few filing cabinets and a safe.

Looking up at me, he gasped, “La Rusa Negra/The Black Russian.” It appeared that might reputation preceded me.

Looking like a trapped animal, he pleaded, “Quienquiera que te haya enviado, puedo ayudarte/Whoever sent you, I can help you.”

Intrigued, I asked, “¿Cómo podrías ayudarme?/How could you help me?”

“Soy un hombre de muchos recursos y contactos, sé cómo moverme en las sombras. Seguramente una mujer de tu experiencia podría utilizar a alguien como yo/I'm a man of many resources and contacts, I know how to navigate the shadows. Surely a woman of your expertise could use someone like me?”

“Aprecio que lo ofrezcas, Luca, pero yo soy las sombras./I appreciate you offering, Luca, but I am the shadows,” I said coldly as I unholstered my pistol, leveled it at Luca’s head and squeezed the trigger.

As we walked past the terrified cashier, he shouted, “¡Vendrán por ti!/They’ll come for you!”

“Cuento con ello./I’m counting on it,” I said as the door chime dinged behind us.

32 Gansevoort St, New York, NY, 1988

As Nadia and I walked back to the apartment from the M train, we ducked into Star Deli for beers. Alexi greeted us proudly in full-throated Russian, “Мои друзья/My friends!”

Nadia gave Alexi a sort of half-hearted smile but Alexi gave me something more concerning, a sort of worried glance.

“Соня, мой друг, могу я рассказать тебе шёпот, который я услышала?/Sonja, my friend, can I tell you a whisper I heard?” He asked teasing me with another tale that floated in on a breeze that smelled of borscht, no doubt.

Nadia shot me an approving look as if saying, Go. I pulled Alexi to the side and asked him, “What have you heard?”

“Ты обрёл могущественного врага/You’ve made a powerful enemy, comrade.” He said with heaviness in his voice.

“Why?” I asked urgently.

“начала Кэти, потом ‘Призрак’ – это неизбежно должно было взъерошить перья, товарищ/First Katy, then 'The Ghost' - it was bound to ruffle some feathers, comrade,” Alexi said, his voice shot through with concern.

“But who?” I pressed.

“Их агентство теперь объявило на тебя контракт, каждый убийца от Нью-Йорка до Нового Орлеана будет охотиться на Чёрную Русскую/Their agency, they now have a contract on you, every assassin from New York to New Orleans is going to be open season on The Black Russian,” he said as my world crumbled.

Nadia noticed me struggling, “What’s wrong?” She asked.

I told her but she assured me, “We’ll face it together.”

“The Black Russian and The Arch Russian,” Nadia said clearly trying to make me laugh by invoking the name of Arch Burger and honestly, I loved her for doing so.

“That bitch, The Vicereine,” I sneered. “She knew she could never take us out herself, so she’s letting The Agency do her dirty work.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I kicked myself—I should’ve turned The Agency on her first.

Back at the apartment, my girls—Liza, Holly, Nancy, and Nadia—draped me in love, laughter, and care, drowning the night in Ming’s takeout and endless bottles of red wine. We may be murders but we were a murders’ row of sisterhood now more than ever. Katy didn’t just hurt me, she hurt all of us, the wound still open, festering and stinging. This one would take a while to heal.

“Hey, Son,” Nancy said smiling, “Quick second?” She asked motioning towards the fire escape.

As I crawled out onto the fire escape, my skin and breath harshed by the bitter chill of fall descending fast like falcons feasting on prey in a field — Nancy lit a cigarette exhaling smoke into the cold air, muttering, ‘Hell of a head fuck, huh?” In doing so I realized we never talked yet about Katy —never actually really talked about it. The hurt, the weight of it, the true heaviness of what we had to do.

“If I had to do it all over again,” Nancy began, “I’d do it in a fucking second,” she said cloaked in bracing honesty. “You, me, the girls,” she said, “We’re like water in a lake, we’re all one thing together, and any boulder — Katy’s the boulder, here, just shatters it all— for that, she had to go. You had to do it, Sonj,” she said — the words were kind and they landed into the open wound borne on my heart but they were small comfort as I replayed Katy’s last moments on a memory reel in my mind that was latched to my conscience like a ball and chain, 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 across from me.

As we ducked back inside, I rejoined the warmness of the girls commiserating over takeout and sitting in front of a roaring fire that bathed the living room in warmth, both the warmth radiating from them and the heat of the fire. But in the middle of it all? Hovering over Katy’s betrayal was the spectre of The Agency and their agents who now had their sights trained on me.

The Agency. Their cold grip was tightening around me, pulling me into a world where trust meant nothing and survival meant everything. This wasn’t just about my personal betrayal anymore. I wasn’t in control of the game anymore. The Agency had made me their target, and for the first time, I wasn’t sure how to get out of this without dragging everyone I cared about down with me. I could feel their eyes on me now, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before every shadow I passed harbored someone waiting to pull the trigger.

So, instead, I decided to do what no one in my profession ever got to do — I decided no more, I refused, I rebelled, I tore up the hit list and threw it into my fireplace watching it burn, I was sure this move would mark me for certain death, but I didn’t care, I relished watching the list and my world sparking, catching fire and burning into ashes — dust to dust as I cradled a glass of red wine close to my chest watching the embers glow and twist.

In that way I had actually learned something from The Viceriene— No one owned The Black Russian and anyone who tried to do so? They would learn fast you cannot control a force like me. Trying to do so would be like trying to control nature itself - raw, primal, undeniable and deadly when unleashed, its fury on full display.

I swirled the wine in my glass, the glow of the embers flickering across my knuckles. This was it. No more. No masters. No debts. No orders.

Let them come.

I set my glass down, exhaling slow, steady,

Come and get me, world. I’m waiting for you.

837 Washington St, New York, NY, 1988

The TV flickered to life in the living room. I was in the kitchen, prepping the turkey, ready to slide it into the oven. It was Thanksgiving, and we were all ready to celebrate. Nancy would make the mashed potatoes, Liza—the stuffing, Holly—the pies, and I would help with the sweet potatoes with marshmallows.

Nadia, in her quest to absorb as many quintessential American traditions as possible, sat on the couch, flipping through channels—past football games—before landing on the Sterling’s Thanksgiving Day Jamboree parade from Bryant Park.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, watching as a giant balloon of a cartoon cowboy drifted past the skyline.

I laughed, shaking my head. It was ridiculous. But there was something about the sight of it—the oversized grinning cowboy bobbing weightlessly above the city—that made my stomach twist. Maybe it was the knowledge that, somewhere out there, people were already moving pieces against us. Maybe it was just a gut feeling. Either way, something about today didn’t sit right.

On the TV, I saw the spectators cramming into the barriers set up around the park and abutting 6th Ave. The camera cut between the spectators in the park area and the Dais, tucked up around the corner on W 42nd Street. As the floating characters started snaking their way through the streets of Manhattan and started coming up 6th Ave, the camera focused on the dais followed by the stirring notes of a band announcing the beginning of the parade.

“Oh shit,” Nadia exclaimed pointing at the TV.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer began, “Sterlings New York is proud to present the Grand Marshal of the Sterlings Thanksgiving Day Jamboree, Mrs. Elaine Dorchester.”

“The Vicereine,” I said in a low grave tone.

But as the camera focused on the dais, a scuffle of sorts broke out and the local news reporter was knocked out of frame as the blur of men wearing ski masks stormed in front of the mask as the camera dipped forward and away from the action, the muffled shouts of the cameraman barely audible.

Within a few seconds, the camera came back up as a man with a gun pointed into it shouting, “Keep filming!” While holding a gun trained on the reporter.

“This is Jessica Saunders, WKNY ActionNews,” the reporter said trying to sound unshaken, “The park has been overtaken by armed men,” she said steadying her voice, “No one has been Injured but they are being held in place.”

As the camera focused on her, I could see past her — the dais in the background and it was there I saw her, she wasn’t looking at the commotion, she wasn’t looking at the cameraman, she was looking at me.

The tense standoff was broken when one of the men said into the camera - “We have a message,” the man said as if reading from a script, “Sonja Rozhenko is responsible for this,” he said as I could taste The Vicereine’s venom in his words.

“Sonja,” he continued, “Show yourself or you will be responsible.”

“Responsible for what?” I asked out loud to no one in particular.

“Responsible for the blood of thousands,” the man said finishing my thought for me.

The girls and I didn’t even have to speak, didn’t even have to draw up a plan — our eyes met, we said it all and then we moved, Liza grabbed ear pieces, Nancy loaded weapons, Holly gathered ammo and our gear bags, and then we began dividing up roles: Liza, mission ops, Nancy, overwatch, Nadia and I, on-the-ground operational muscle.

As we ran out the front door onto Washington, Liza called out, “We need to get there quickly,” I declared pointing out the obvious gridlock undoubtedly leading to Bryant Park. “This way,” Liza said pointing down the street. We began running in a full out sprint up Washington towards W. 14th street and then towards Chelsea Market. After a brisk run, we turned on W. 30th towards the river and approached the West 30th Street Heliport. As we approached the pad, we spotted a Bell 206 JetRanger in the process of being serviced. Nadia and I unholstered our pistols and froze the men in place as they slinked away, tail between legs.

“We’re taking this,” I said not leaving it open for discussion.

The girls piled in behind me as I closed the throttle, opened the shutoff valve, activated the fuel boost pumps. Pressing the starter switch I felt the turbines hum to life. Checking the gauges, I slowly pumped some fuel. As soon as the gauges indicated ignition, I released the starter switch and the chopper roared to life. I pulled back on the yoke and we began to gently lift off the platform. Banking hard starboard, we took off towards the spine of Manhattan.

It’s been a minute since I’ve flown one of these. Doesn’t matter. The controls feel familiar. Like riding a bike, if a bike could rip through the sky.

I brought my giant whirring bike down to land on the roof of New York Pinnacle bank. The girls and and I dismounted from the chopper as Holly took up overwatch while the girls and I began moving through the stairwells making it to the ground floor as fast as possible.

As we got closer to street level, Nancy pressed her earpiece to her ear and her face flashed with a sort of concern. “Sonja,” she said panting as we descended quickly. “NYPD just sent out an alert, there has been another hijacking a group of armed men are taking over Herald Square Street Station.”

“Okay, one dilemma at a time,” I said trying to keep my breath and my hands steady. As I pushed open the heavy doors to the street, I saw we were behind the dais, the Vicereine proudly perched atop it. “Holly,” I called out, “Herald Square is priority, get there and stop the hijackers, I’ll deal with her” I ordered.

I began walking up the stairs showing my hands to her guards that lined the steps to show I was no threat.

“Ahh, Sonja…” she cooed at me breathlessly. “So nice of you to join us.”

“What are you playing at?” I asked.

“Well,” she began, “You may think I am bloodthirsty and cruel but I wanted to show you that above all, I’m fair. In fact, I believe that all actions should have fair consequences.”

“I laid out a very well thought out plan, you take out The Agency for me, I do well by you. But you made a mistake.”

“You thought your actions didn’t have consequences,” she said coldly.

“Your little list,” I seethed, “Marked me for death.”

“A small price,” she hissed, “For me to walk away with my hands clean. “You see, Viktor offered me forgiveness, a way back in for what you tried to do to him and what you did do to his men, but first? I had to kill the two of you…and I knew you’d be hard to get to so what better way to get an assassin by having her piss off a whole group of assassins?” The Vicereine explained making it all sound so god damned logical.

“So what is this?” I asked motioning to the crowd held hostage behind the barriers. “Just a little reminder of who really pulls the strings here. You remember? I am undeniable, after all.”

I had enough of this, I whipped the gun in my waistband around and leveled it at her eyes.

“Now see, Sonja,” she said flicking her tongue, “You have two choices.”

“One, you kill me and get that bloodlust The Black Russian is so good at satisfying. But I warn you, you’ll be dead before you squeeze the trigger.”

“Two, you let me go, and then you get to walk away from this the hero and alive. That is…if you survive what’s coming.”

“What’s coming?”

“Make your decision,” she ordered as I weighed my options. I did want to see her dead for what she had done but I heard Fabian’ voice telling me to weigh risk over reward and I knew if it were not today, The Vicereine’s time with me face to face would come one day, someday—but not today. I holstered my weapon and stood aside. I began walking down the stairs my back turned towards her, the crowd ahead of me. And then she spoke, “Oh, and Sonja, one last thing,” she said as I turned back to face her, “You might want to be careful taking the subway home,” she said. “Metrocard fares have just gone sky high, can you believe it? Prices are booming,” she said making her mouth into an O shape as she said “booming” putting extra effect on the words as danger flashed in my mind, The Subway, Herald Square.

Herald Square was not far, and I knew what The Vicereine was playing at, so I frantically searched the street for solutions and spotted the entry to the Bryant Park subway station. Bolting down the stairs two, three at a time, I jumped the turnstile and found the nearest MTA worker—a middle-aged man with a navy uniform and a name tag that read Randall.

“Sir? Sir?” I called out, but he ignored me. I leveled my pistol at him.

“Sir, I really need to talk to you.”

He turned. The second his eyes met mine, he froze.

“I—I don’t have any money,” he stammered.

“It’s not about money,” I huffed, frantic. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

His breath hitched in his throat.

“There’s a bomb coming this way.” The words tumbled out of me, my heart pounding.

His face paled. “A bomb?”

“We need to get that train away from this station. Fast.” I said with laced urgency.

“What train?” Randall asked.

“D train.”

His hand flew to his radio.

“Yeah, MTA Central, this is Bryant Park,” Randall said, his voice shaking. “We have a Code 19 on D Uptown.”

The radio crackled with static before a voice replied.

“Code 19?” the dispatcher repeated, panic creeping into their tone.

Randall met my eyes, looking for confirmation. I nodded.

“Affirmative.” Randall confirmed.

“This is a live emergency, possible explosive device on board. We need to divert D south before 42nd Street and switch it onto the express tracks heading for Manhattan Bridge.”

“Copy that, Bryant Park. Stand by for emergency switch command.”

“Yeah, MTA Central, this is Bryant Park Station,” Randall stammered into his radio, sweat slicking his forehead. “We have a Code 19 on the Uptown D train. Possible explosive device onboard. Do not stop the train at Bryant Park,” Randall advised.

The radio crackled with static.

“Bryant Park, confirm location of the train,” Randall asked.

Randall turned to me, his eyes wide. “Where was it last?” he asked.

I checked the clock. “Herald Square. It should be here—” I said as I felt the whoosh of air that felt like fate rapidly running to meet us. A roar of steel and wind ripped through the station.

I spun just as the D train tore through the Bryant Park station at full speed, the lights inside flashing like the strobes of war. The muzzle fire looked like fireworks trapped in a metal tube—short, brutal bursts of muzzle fire illuminating figures grappling inside. And in the middle of it all, a shock of blonde hair.

Nancy. She was in there, fighting.

The train’s wheels screamed against the tracks as it blurred past the platform, never slowing. “Jesus Christ!” Randall yelled, watching the chaos barrel through the station.

I grabbed him by the collar. “Reroute it! Now!”

Randall, breathless, pressed his radio. “MTA Central, the train just blew through Bryant at full speed — there’s gunfire inside—Requesting immediate track diversion!”

A beat of silence was followed by “Copy, Bryant Park. Diverting at Canal.” Randall relayed as fast as he could, “Can you force a switch failure at the Manhattan Bridge?” “Possible. We can attempt a forced switch at Canal to send it onto the middle track—bypass DeKalb and force a track failure before the bridge approach.”

I clenched my fists. “Do it,” Randall commanded.

Randall turned back to me. “They’re gonna try to force a switch failure at the bridge. That could jackknife the train.”

“Will it stop it?”

“If it works?” Randall swallowed. “It’ll throw out past the security fencing enclosure and it into the river.”

I stared down the empty tunnel where the train had vanished, chasing after Nancy and the bomb. She was in there, fighting for all of us.

“MTA Control to Bryant Park,” the radio crackled, “Preparing track failure, diverting all emergency units to Manhattan Bridge, stand by.”

I had to make sure she didn’t die for nothing. Feeling overwhelmed, Randall and I collapsed into each other’s arms and he hugged me tightly, I hugged him too but mostly so I didn’t collapse from exhaustion. As I hugged him and smelled the scent of his uniform: oil, grease, stale coffee, I felt almost safe for a moment until I heard the radio on his vest crackle.

“MTA Control to all units we have a Code Red on Brooklyn/Manhattan bridge, divert all trains to compensate and stand by for further instruction,” the radio said and I knew then what happened. As planned, the train jackknifed as as soon as it hit the Manhattan bridge, the snarling crunching hunk of metal broke through the support cage around the tracks and the train spilled out of the enclosure diving towards the East River.

People would later say that the explosion and shockwave could be heard and felt as far away as Park Avenue. — whatever happened on that train, I was damn proud knowing that Nancy and her sacrifice were not just seen but felt by a city that would never know what she gave to protect them.

As for The Vicereine? She may have slipped away but it was okay, I had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time we came toe to toe and I told myself the last time she’d regret ever crossing The Black Russian and living to tell about it.

As Randall and I ascended the steps to the street, Bryant Park began to clear out as everyone started to go home, the thousands of spectators finally leaving to go their own ways to be with family and friends. As they did so, my family and friends, Liza, Holly and Nadia approached me, “Sonja,” they said warmly pulling me into a hug - I was kind of getting used to this whole hugging thing.

“Girls,” I said, “This is Randall, he saved the day today.”

“Hey Randall,” Liza said with a sly grin, “Whatcha got planned for tonight? Want to spend Thanksgiving with some single young ladies? It’ll be killer, promise,” she said smiling.

That night, we huddled around the TV watching news coverage of the day’s events—the men holding the spectators hostage, the chopper landing on the roof of the bank, the train hurtling through the cage and off the bridge, even the moment of the train carriage exploding as it collided with the water.

And in the middle of it all I could see, or rather feel Nancy, her love, her smile, her warmth and, now? Her sacrifice.

“Here” Liza said passing me a container of Kung Pao from Ming’s and a beer as she leaned against my shoulder and we watched the glow of the television, that flickering reminder of what we went through and what we left behind along the way.

We may not have gotten to have the turkey, the mashed potatoes, the pies, but in the end? We had takeout from Ming’s, we had each other and that might just be enough to be thankful for, especially after a day like this.