The Crow That Wasn't
Copyright© 2026 by Harry Carton
Chapter 2: The Black Sea
Marcus blinked, the fluorescent lights of the CIA’s Brooklyn field office stinging his eyes as the memory of Ukraine dissolved like smoke. The handler—Agent Clay—was tapping a pen against his desk, the rhythm impatient.
“You spaced out again,” Clay said, not looking up from the file. His voice was flat, the kind of tone that suggested he’d seen too much weird shit to care anymore. “You do that a lot.”
Marcus flexed his fingers, half-expecting feathers. “Just thinking.”
Clay snorted. “About what, the meaning of life?” He flipped the file shut and slid it across the desk. “Anatoly Markov. Russian. Runs girls out of Brighton Beach, moves product through Jamal’s crew. Or did, before you turned Jamal into a hood ornament. I still want to know how you managed to stage the accident.”
“Every great magician has secrets he doesn’t reveal,” Marcus smiled back. “The LEOs [Local Enforcement Officers — meaning the Police] turned in an Unexplained Death finding. Case closed. That’s what you wanted, right?”
“We’re not supposed to be operating in the U.S. At least that the version of the law that I learned.” Marcus added.
“I won’t tell if you won’t. Anyway, we started on this trail overseas, so we’re just following breadcrumbs. That’s why any time we have to show a badge, it’ll say ‘FBI’ on it. And any time we get asked it’s all classified,” Clark provided the standard answer.
Marcus didn’t touch the file. He already knew Markov’s face—the sharp cheekbones, the scar running from eyebrow to jawline. Knew the way he laughed when he handed a shipment of girls off to the buyers. “He’s careful,” Marcus said. “Won’t be like Jamal.”
Clay leaned back, chair creaking. “No shit. Markov’s got layers. Cops got nothing on him. Feds got nothing. Dude’s cleaner than a fucking priest.” He smirked. “Good thing we’ve got you.”
Outside, a crow cawed—sharp, mocking. Marcus glanced at the window. The bird perched on the fire escape, tilting its head as if listening.
“You got a plan?” Clay asked.
Marcus exhaled. Markov wasn’t just careful—he was paranoid. Changed routes weekly. Never slept in the same bed twice. But he had one weakness: arrogance. And women, young women — girls, even. That made two weaknesses. The kind that made a man think he was untouchable. “He likes to watch,” Marcus said slowly. “When the girls get loaded into the trucks. Likes to see his work.”
Clay’s pen stilled. “You’re thinking Brighton Pier.”
Marcus nodded. Markov’s operation moved girls through the old fish warehouses near the pier. Midnight shipments, twice a week. Always in person. “He stands on the roof,” Marcus said. “Or in a car nearby. Like a goddamn king.” The ‘cargo’ was loaded into a shipping container, drugged. Marcus turned his head to the side. The kind of move a crow would use when he saw something that interested him. “Who’s his current girl friend, or girl friends?”
“I’ll check on that,” Clay said, turning to his laptop. “Meantime, you’ve got some after action reports to fill out.”
“My favorite thing ... pointless paperwork. To document a mission that would be forever classified.” Marcus turned on his heel and went back to his desk in the bullpen.
His mind flitted back to the long flight over the Black Sea that first night in Ukraine.
He had Abernathy dead, wrapped in his sleeping bag. He was over the sea by now.
The wind howled around Marcus as he banked over the Black Sea, the salt-spray stinging his eyes. Abernathy’s body was a dead weight in his claws—literally—and the damn sleeping bag was making it worse. “Dead weight. I got a million of ‘em. A regular Henny Youngman.” Even in a memory flashback, he laughed at his own wit.