Page 4 of The Debt

The memory faded back to the compartment in his mind that would never be forgotten. The darkness inside him pulsed with renewed purpose. Soon, the time would come that Gregor Polov would reap what he had sown. And the sudden impact of that violent moment upon him would linger just long enough for his life to end in a bright flash.

Jarek was aware of Declan watching him with an expectant face.

“No, Declan. I don’t miss Ireland.”

“Come on, Jarek. We both grew up there. You know what everyone says… you never forget your roots, your heritage, and the complexity of a cold stout.”

“You got that right.” A smirk pulled at the corners of Jarek’s mouth. “No one makes a dark, thick yard of grog like the Irish.”

A Guinness wasn’t the only thing the Irish had of their own. Although they shared a culture and language, tribal feuds contesting territory were common among the ancient Celts and Picts that lasted for generations.

Yes, we excel at revenge—cold, patient, and absolute.

Polov would learn that soon enough. Once again, his mind drifted to the past as he pressed his palms against the cold glass, staring unseeing at the prehistoric display as more memories surfaced...

Three months after the shooting, he was discharged from Atlanta General. The doctors called his recovery miraculous. He called it hell since every breath without Lisbet and Emma was agony. He used an agent to sell his medical practice and house in Dublin, knowing he’d never be able to live there again. He had nothing left of his old life except the wedding ring he still wore and Emma’s blood-stained rabbit he couldn’t bring himself to throw away.

His first contact with the underworld came through Miguel, a janitor at the hospital who had connections with former IRA members. The man had overheard Jarek muttering about the Russian Pakhan during his fevered dreams.

“You want to hurt the Bratva? Their Pakhan, Gregor Polov?” Miguel whispered to him one night as he pretended to mop the floor.

“That’s his name? Gregor Polov?” The words were barely above a whisper as he grated them through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, the one and only.” His eyes darted furtively. “I know some people in Dublin. Ex-military. They hate the Russians more than you do. They will help.”

Dublin. His hometown. The symmetry felt appropriate. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want to, but it made sense to return to a place where his vengeance would become reality as he embraced the darkness and became something lethal. A man who was able to induce fear into hardened criminals and make them check their shadows at night.

Irish gangs didn’t welcome unknowns with open arms. It was absurd to think otherwise. Members had to be vetted. They had to have a documented history. A former medical doctor who once had a thriving practice shows up with two bullet scars and dead eyes? Not a good look. But he had something they needed—a general surgeon with medical expertise, someone who could extract bullets and stitch wounds. More importantly, he had the cold, unflinching demeanor of a seasoned combat veteran that made professional killers uncomfortable.

“Ye’re diff’rent,” Connor O’Brien, the Southies Gang’s Boss, said after watching Jarek calmly treat a shotgun wound while under heavy fire from rival gangsters. “Most men, they come in hawt, wantin’ blood reit awey. But ya... yer building somethin’, ain’t ya?”

Jarek didn’t bite at first. “The morphine syrette hasn’t kicked in yet. Hold this screamin’ Mary down so I can dig the buckshot out of him before he goes into shock. Am I building something? In a manner of speaking. Before I build, I have a need to know. Knowledge is power. I need to understand how organizations like yours work. How they think. How they survive and how they can be dismantled.”

O’Brien snorted out a sharp cackle, devoid of any humor. “Whaddaya sayin” Doc? Are ya askin’ me how to go about smokin’ a Southie? And if I give up me fookin’ secrets to ya—jus’ fer laughs over a few pints—then what? Ya wouldn’t make out the front door of the pub. I’m jus’ shittin’ ya, Doc. What is it that yer lookin’ ta do?”

“I’m looking to create something bulletproof. Something stronger.” Jarek’s voice had been clinical, as if discussing a medical procedure rather than building a criminal empire. “Strong enough to reach across oceans and tear apart a Russian king.”

He started small. First, learning the street trade, understanding the genesis of territorial disputes, and studying how money was moved through shadow networks and shell companies. His medical knowledge proved invaluable, not just for treating wounds but also for understanding how to fatally inflict them. He knew which severed arteries would cause exsanguination the fastest, how to crush a windpipe with one blow and cause asphyxiation, or how a high-velocity round entering just above the bridge of the nose at the Glabella or ‘T box’ immediately severed the spinal cord to cause flaccid paralysis which eliminated any possibility of involuntary muscle spasms. The victim was dead before they hit the ground.

Within a year, he had carved out his own corner of Dublin’s underworld. Not through brute force but through cunning and guile. He treated rival gang members, building a network of favors and information. Little by little, he learned their strengths and weaknesses and discovered their secrets. After a while, having insinuated himself into their lives and gaining their trust, he was able to sow internecine warfare within the gangs.

That was when he found Declan—a broken junkie who reminded him of all he had lost. Saving him had been an act of kindness, the last reminder of the Hippocratic oath he had once sworn to uphold.

Later, Declan’s unwavering loyalty would prove invaluable. By the time O’Brien’s body was found in the River Liffey two years later, no one could prove the good doctor’s involvement. But everyone knew. He had become someone else—a man who was able to induce fear into the same hardened criminals who had become his acquaintances.

Five years later, his gang made the move to the United States and infiltrated Boston to become one of the richest and most feared of the Irish mobs.

For ten years, he had made sure his legacy became known across the States. Every criminal, every leader of every mafia group or syndicate, knew his name… The Dark One.

Now… the time had come to cull the Atlanta Bratva bastards.

Jarek flexed his fingers as he remembered the first time he had used them to take a life rather than save one. That transition had been surprisingly easy. Perhaps because he himself had died that day in Atlanta. Since then, he had become a specter, learning to haunt more effectively.

Jarek grimaced as he reached into his coat’s inner pocket. His fingers trembled as he touched the small, worn rabbit that had never left his side. Even now, nearly two decades later, parts of its fur were rust-stained despite the attempts to clean it.

Emma had named it Mr. Hops. It was a gift from her grandmother on her fourth birthday, just two months before Atlanta. The rabbit had been pristine white then, with floppy ears and a blue ribbon around its neck. Emma had insisted on taking it everywhere. “He keeps the monsters away, Daddy,” she’d explained with four-year-old logic.

But Mr. Hops couldn’t keep the real monsters away that day in Atlanta.

---