After paying the woman for his new attire, Boris promptly removed his old shirt, tossing it into a trash bin beside the cash register, and slipping on his new black one.
The older woman at the cash register blushed and turned away.
All the better as she missed seeing the 9mm tucked into his waistband.
Boris adjusted his new hat, shirt and glasses in front of a small mirror at the shops exit. Satisfied with his new disguise he once again joined the masses on the boardwalk.
Boris walked for several blocks along the boardwalk before he spotted two men pushing their way through the crowds no more than 30 meters from his position.
Definitely FBI, thought Boris, they were still wearing the suit coat in this oppressive heat. Did they all go to the same tailor?
Boris turned away from his pursuers, searching for any possible avenue of escape. He spied a narrow alley only several meters away, ducking into the narrow walkway, breaking into a trot to try and put some distance between himself and his FBI pursers.
After 50 meters, he reached the end of the walkway dumping him into an even larger alley used for trash pick-up.
Boris paused at the end of the alley before looking back to see his FBI pursuers now entering the same walkway, scrambling down towards his position in hot pursuit.
So much for his disguise.
Boris knew he couldn’t compete with FBI agents 20 or 30 years younger than himself. He gathered what strength he could muster and jumped the remaining four steps to the alley below, landing cat-like on all fours, spraining his ankle in the process. Brushing himself off, he limped across the alley to a 24-hour laundry mat. Once safely inside, he positioned himself in the doorframe knowing his pursuers would soon make their appearance.
He didn’t have to wait long as the FBI agents suddenly appeared, jumping down into the same alley in pursuit of their suspect.
Boris steadied his Glock 9mm against the door’s wooden post before squeezing off two quick shots at his pursuers.
The shots were purposely intended to miss. Boris just meant to intimidate the agents for the moment.
It had the desired effect.
Looking up from their exposed positions, the agents looked nervously to Boris as he pointed his 9mm at one then the other.
Both agents cursed aloud.
“Gentlemen, I have no desire to see harm come to either one of you,” Boris said as he walked closer to the men. “Please place your hands behind your neck and don’t make any false moves or I will be forced to shoot you.”
He moved to where the nearest agent lay, waiting for a response. “Come now, enough with being pissed at me. You’re the ones who need retraining. First rule of pursuit, never jump into an unknown area or situation without performing a recon first.” Boris reached in to remove the weapons from each of the agent’s holsters.
“Still using the plastic Beretta?I recommend the Glock for maximum firepower.” He held up his own weapon as evidence — waving it in front of their face as he shook his head. “Okay boys, now over to the dumpster.” Boris pointed to a large green metal bin only yards away overflowing with the days refuse from the restaurant it served.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. I just need you in the dumpster to provide me with a little time to escape.”
The smell of rotting food initially caused the Agents to hesitate.
Boris pointed the gun at the lead Agent.
Both quickly jumped in; settling in amongst the tomatoes, cardboard boxes and potatoes peels.
Boris held out his left hand. “Hand cuffs if you don’t mind.”
Boris used the first set of cuffs to snap each agent’s hands together before taking the second set and connecting them to a metal rod on the outside of the trash bin.
“Ya’ll have a nice day,” Boris said in the best Texas accent he could muster.
As he was turning to leave, he thought better and walked back to where the agents stood chest high in the garbage. “Gentlemen, your keys for the hand cuff please.”
Boris picked up his pace as he walked along Ocean Boulevard. He had to reach his car before the FBI back up team arrived on the scene.
With the drive to New York’s Kennedy Airport taking almost 1-½ hours, he could still make his Swiss Air flight with hours to spare if he could evade the FBI.
Boris looked over his shoulder one last time, pressing on with the final hundred yards or so to the parking lot.
He could clearly see his rental car, right where he left it but now partially illuminated by the parking lots towering lights.
Boris eyed the area around his car. No FBI. No police. His curiously peaked. He could slip in to the parking lot virtually unnoticed and be on his way in a matter of minutes.
Boris removed his hat, shirt and 9mm and tossed them under a parked car as he continued walking. He decided to keep the glasses for another day. No use wasting another $15.
To the casual observer he was someone returning from a fun-filled day at the beach, shirtless, clad in shorts and sandals, only missing the dark socks older tourists seemed to prefer. He easily navigated the parked cars until he reached his own. He fumbled for a few seconds in locating his keys.
“Mister Boris Stevensky?” said an all too familiar voice from behind him.
His hands started trembling. Boris tried to ignore the voice.
“Mr. Boris Stevensky, could you please turn around with your hands in the air,” commanded the voice. “You are surrounded Boris, and I would hate to shoot you. Now, please do as I say.”
Boris realized the predicament he was in, dropping his keys, slowly raising his hands as instructed. Three additional FBI agents surfaced from their hidden positions, guns trained on him.
“You!” Boris exclaimed as he turned to face an old nemesis from his Washington days, the voice now having a face. “I can’t believe it. Is it really Mr. Michael Forsythe standing in front of me? I thought we killed you in Germany 15 years ago during a FSB shootout?”
Boris paused for a moment reflecting on what he had just said. “Well, not me, but my old unit.”
Forsythe slowly shook his head. “No sir, as you can see I am still alive Boris.” Forsythe pulled up his shirt to reveal the scars where Russian bullets had once punctured his chest. Having operated as the FBI’s Agent in Charge of Counter Intelligence for almost 30 years, his unit had personally thwarted over 23 terrorist actions, all coded “Top Secret” and not for public disclosure.
Unfortunately for Forsythe, he had reached mandatory retirement age and was only a few months away from the big day. The final few months on the job also meant desk duty. Training his replacement and finishing loads of old case work. When word surfaced of an operation involving Boris Stevensky he couldn’t sit behind a desk and allow his field agents to nab this one. He personally flew the FBI jet that was always on 24/7 stand-by alert at Andrews Air Force Base to Ocean City, bringing 5 of his best Counter-Intel agents in tow.
He was not about to miss one last duel with the Russians, especially one involving his old KGB nemesis.
“I’m impressed that you still remember me. I’m a little grayer in the hair and a few pounds heavier, but still the same Michael Forsythe as you can see.” He walked over to Boris before frisking him. “From the embarrassment you caused our friends down the road here, I should put a bullet in your head right here and save our government the money of incarcerating you.” Once finished, he leaned over to whisper in Boris’s ear. “You’re lucky we require you alive. Our superiors want you on TV, squealing like a pig, telling us all you know about your new acquaintances.”